by Pat Esden
I blew out a couple of short breaths, trying to gain control. Maybe Dad had really gone insane. Or maybe these things were something other than demons, things a priest and his tools couldn’t drive off. Maybe I was right about the exorcism failing.
Trying to mask my fear, I looked him in the eyes. “Dad?”
His eyes bore into mine. “Yes, child.”
I flinched. He didn’t even sound like himself. But, no matter what was going on, I couldn’t believe the Dad I knew wasn’t still in there somewhere. “I think I should go back to my room and lie down. Promise, I’ll come back later.”
He dipped his head. “A promise is best when skillfully worded.”
“Yeah, right,” I said as I wobbled to my feet and made for the door. Whatever was going on, I had to get Dad help. And now.
My wooziness faded with every step, and by the time I was halfway to Kate’s study, hardly a trace remained. Kate was not my favorite person, but I was certain that she wanted Dad well, if for no other reason than so we’d leave Moonhill.
I dashed down the stairs and just as the first-floor hallway came into view, I saw Kate rushing into her study.
“Wait!” I shouted, but the door slammed before she could hear me.
Hurrying my steps, I knocked once and let myself in.
I shut the door behind me and turned to face Kate.
She wasn’t there.
Man, I was getting sick of this vanishing-people thing.
On the wall opposite the fireplace were three doors. Kate had to have gone through one of them.
“Kate, are you here?” I called out, just in case one of the doors led somewhere private, like to a bathroom, which could definitely explain her rushed disappearance.
I gave her a minute to answer, then knocked and opened the first door.
It was a closet: rubber boots, jackets, sneakers, and a smock Kate probably wore when she worked in the solarium.
Behind the next door was a small storage room, its shelves loaded with trays of seedpods, pressed leaves and bark, notebooks and neatly labeled boxes.
With a frustrated huff, I tried the last door.
It was a bathroom with a sink, a toilet, and a small table with a basket of toiletries and makeup on it. A dressing mirror hung on the wall and a stall shower took up one corner. I glanced into the stall just to be sure it wasn’t a James Bond–style elevator.
Leaving the bathroom, I rubbed my neck. Shadows could vanish, weird voices could disappear, people could get in and out of my room without me seeing them, but Kate hadn’t just dematerialized.
A scratch-scratching noise caught my ear. A fat, gray cat was sharpening its claws on the high-backed settee.
“Pstttt,” I said to get its attention. It didn’t make any sense to let a cat destroy a two-hundred-year-old piece of furniture.
The cat hissed, then streaked across the room and vanished under the bookcase like the small herd of cats had done the other day.
I smiled. Maybe the shower stall wasn’t a super-spy elevator, but I’d toured enough historic homes and castles to know that bookcases sometimes hid passageways.
I shoved my hand in my jeans pocket, fingering my flashlight as I looked for a decorative carving or brass plate, a book whose cover showed more wear than the others, something that might trigger a mechanism and open a secret panel—if there was one.
A statue of a three-faced goddess stared out from one shelf: Hecate, the Three-faced Goddess, Protector of the Gateways, that’s what Zachary had said when he translated the inscription on the vault.
A sense of danger flickered inside me as I moved toward the statue. If it opened a secret panel here, then perhaps Zachary had discovered a mechanism that opened a similar panel in the mausoleum. Maybe that was what Dad was looking for. And maybe there was also a connection to the three-faced goddess in the gallery where my mother had died.
The statue was secured to the shelf. I tried twisting it clockwise.
It turned. But nothing else happened.
I tried counterclockwise.
Nothing again.
Nibbling my lip, I studied the writing around the statue’s base. It wasn’t in English, but that probably didn’t matter. It wasn’t like it would be instructions on how to open the panel.
I tried touching the letters and words, one by one in hopes of finding some kind of switch. Then I gave up and just ran both hands down the length of the statue starting at the head. As my little finger skimmed the statue’s base, something clicked, and one section of the bookcase slid behind the others, revealing a narrow door-size opening.
Holy cow, I’d done it!
Adrenaline shot through me as I took my flashlight out. If I found Kate, I’d tell her about Dad, of course. But I also needed an explanation for how I’d found the hidden passageway. I could say I saw it closing behind her.
I flicked on the flashlight. The passageway was probably lit with flaming torches or something, but better safe than sorry.
Calling up all my bravery, I stepped out of the study and into a room no larger than a port-a-potty with dead smelly air. My mouth dropped open. Disappointment and shock surged through me. Whatever else I’d been expecting, this wasn’t it. In one corner, there was a trashcan and a jumbo bag of cat litter. Between there and where I stood, every inch of the floor was covered with plastic litter boxes.
I wrinkled my nose to block out the cat-urine smell. Even if there was a second secret panel within the room, no way could anyone get to it without tripping.
Backing out of the secret room, I put my flashlight away. Then, I felt around the statue’s base. Relief coursed through me when I heard a click and the missing section of the bookcase glided back into position. Okay, so that was a huge dead end.
Dejected, I glanced over the fireplace at the frolicking-cat painting. It seemed even more absurd now than the last time I saw it.
Just as I was about to turn away, my eyes zeroed in on a detail in the painting.
Holy shit! All six of the cats had raindrop-shaped bobbles hanging from their collars.
I slid my hand into my pocket and fingered the piece of sea glass I’d almost forgotten was in there. The bobbles were identical to it. But it didn’t make sense why a bobble off a cat’s collar would be in with Mother’s ashes.
Barely able to breathe, I lowered my gaze from the painting to the fireplace’s cluttered mantel. Five containers sat on it; two were porcelain ginger jars, and three were brass and looked exactly like the jar that had held Mother’s ashes. All of them were sealed with wax, just like Mother’s jar.
I studied the painting. Undoubtedly, the jars on the mantel held the cremains of the cats in the painting, someone’s beloved pets. But there were six cats and only five sealed containers on the mantel. Where was the sixth container?
Numbness swept through me. Dad had told me a million times how he would have bought a rosewood box for Mother’s ashes. But by the time he was told of her death and had traveled back to Moonhill, her ashes had been put in a brass jar that was then sealed with beeswax.
I squeezed my eyes shut as realization dawned on me. I knew where the sixth container was. It was sitting in the Shakespeare garden. Where I’d left it after Dad had made me pour what I’d believed was Mother’s ashes into the ocean. But they hadn’t been Mother’s. The cremains had belonged to a cat.
“You are a clever one.” Grandfather’s voice came from behind me.
I swung around, my hands fisting. Not only had they betrayed and lied to Dad in the worst way possible, they had also let him believe he had his wife’s ashes with him all these years.
Grandfather winked at me. “I’m sure the cats gave away the location, but how did you find the lever?”
With a hard, fortifying breath, I swallowed my anger. Grandfather had seen me close the secret panel, but he hadn’t noticed me looking at the painting. And as much as I wanted to scream at him and demand answers about Mother, it was smarter to think things through before I revealed wh
at I knew. Besides, Dad needed help, and that couldn’t wait.
“I was looking for Kate. Something’s wrong with Dad,” I said.
Grandfather’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “What happened?”
I studied him for a second, then began telling him what had gone on in Dad’s room, including the shadows I’d seen in there before the exorcism and the more recent voices.
Fear flashed in Grandfather’s eyes, sending a fresh wave of panic through me. He pulled out his phone. “This isn’t good, not good at all,” he said. “I’m going to make a call, then go up to your father’s room. I need you to find Selena and Zachary. Stay with them, but don’t tell them anything. Understand?”
My anger about Mother and how they’d kept secrets from Dad flooded back. I wasn’t going to be left in the dark. Not this time.
I folded my arms across my chest. “What the hell is going on?”
Grandfather raised a stern finger, silencing me. “Annie, your father’s situation is more complicated than it appeared. But if you hadn’t told me what you found out, then it most likely would have become impossible. As it is we may have a chance. But you must do as I say. Immediately—and without question.”
I could tell by his resolute stance and the firm look in his eyes that there was no way I was going to get anything from him right now. I also believed he was right—there was no time to waste on fighting. On top of that, he’d just given me a huge clue without realizing it.
After the exorcism was over and the priest had left, Kate had said, “All I’m grateful for is that it’s over, and that it had nothing to do with the ring.”
“That certainly would have complicated the situation, perhaps even made it impossible,” Grandfather had replied.
The words Grandfather had used then and now were too similar for it to be a coincidence. He was certain the poison ring and whatever was going on with Dad were connected. All I had to do was figure out what was so worrisome about the ring myself, then I’d know the real truth.
I stepped toward the door but looked back. “You’ll tell me as soon as you know what’s going on, right?”
“Yes, of course. Now, get going.” Grandfather waved me off with a flicker of a smile that didn’t match the worry lines fanning out from his eyes.
In return, I forged my own smile, then opened the study door and sprinted down the hallway. Hopefully, Grandfather wouldn’t check to make sure I was with Selena and Zachary because I had no intention of trying to find them. I was going to my room.
I had an old e-mail I needed to find and a new one I had to send.
CHAPTER 15
Darkness has a hold on me, but it shall not take me
to the grave or wrench the fight from my rebel heart.
I will have freedom. And, I will have revenge as well.
—A Hold on Me. By Anonymous
To avoid going through the gallery, I took the back stairs up to my room. I was surprised and relieved to find the toilet paper still in the doorjamb. But, to ensure that my privacy continued, I braced a chair against the door. The last thing I needed was someone barging in and asking what I was up to.
I sat down at the desk and dug my phone out of my bag.
It only took a second to get into my sent e-mail folder and find the information I’d given to the woman who’d bought the poison ring, complete with a sketch of the ring’s inscription.
I studied the inscription’s jagged letters. If only I’d tried to translate them. But at the time, selling the ring fast so I could get money and pay the overdue bills was the only thing on my mind. I’d never dreamed it was anything other than a forgery or at best a newer reproduction—certainly not ancient, or for that matter cursed or whatever.
Resting my elbows on the desktop, I blew out a breath. Telling Grandfather and Kate that I’d thought the ring was a forgery had been the right thing to do. But man, they had to think I was a piece of work, after hearing how I lied and cheated a customer without compunction. Though, now, it appeared the only person I’d cheated was myself. The good thing was—no customer in their right mind would complain to the police about buying a ring for far less than its real value.
My gaze went back to the phone. I’d told Grandfather I thought the inscription was a weird form of Sabaean, an ancient form of Arabic. Unfortunately, I had no more ability to translate that now than I had back then.
I grinned. However, I knew someone who could: Taj.
And, considering how shitty he’d been to me, it seemed like he owed me one. It was a good thing I’d totally forgotten about taking or posting revenge photos on the Internet. That would have ruined any chance of playing on his guilt—that was, if he had any.
After attaching the sketch of the ring’s inscription, I composed a short note about needing the translation as soon as possible because I had a buyer and that I’d phone him in a couple of hours. Okay, that wasn’t much time, but the message wasn’t very long, and the sooner I heard back from Taj, the better. If I’d had a choice, I’d have avoided having anything to do with him, like I had back when I’d sold the ring to the woman. Who’d have ever believed, after all the things Dad had taught me about spotting fakes, about bluffing and reading body language, that I’d get taken in by a guy-friend with floppy hair and a wallet full of rubbers.
My fingers tightened on the phone. There was a chance Taj might think I’d made up the inscription and was pretending I needed help as an excuse to get in touch with him. He might even laugh at me.
I rubbed my neck, thinking. I could include photos of the ring, too. But the inscription was on the inside of the ring, barely visible at all. No. I didn’t need to complicate things. I just needed the damn translation.
I lifted my chin and hit send. Once I had my information, it didn’t matter what Taj thought. I’d simply hang up on him and that would be the end of that.
I’d barely had time enough to go into the bathroom and wash up when my phone rang.
Queasiness twisted in my stomach as I answered it. “Hello?”
“Is the inscription on a ring?” Taj asked.
I pressed my lips together. I didn’t want to chitchat with him, but he could have at least said hello before firing a question. “Yeah, an old ring,” I answered.
“Tell me it doesn’t look like a poison ring.”
“Why does that matter?”
Taj lowered his voice to a hushed tone. “Annie, you need to get rid of it. Forget you ever saw it.”
My legs wobbled and I slumped into the desk chair, holding the phone tighter. “What does the inscription say?”
“Don’t worry about that—Shit, my supervisor’s coming. He saw me working on the translation. I didn’t tell him about your e-mail.”
“What does it say? Please.”
“No. Don’t ask me about it again. Never. Get rid of it. Before you wind up in jail. It was stolen from the Met, Annie.” He hung up.
For a long moment, I stared at the phone, fear blanketing me like a shroud on a stiffening corpse. Dad was slick, but he wasn’t a thief. It was just as likely Taj’s nosy supervisor or one of his horny friends stole it. But he was one hundred percent wrong if he thought it was Dad or me.
Oh, God. I hadn’t stolen it—but I had sold it.
Sold stolen property . . . Shit. The police. My future. Dad.
Overwhelmed, I dropped my phone back into my bag and rubbed my neck, struggling to figure out what my next move should be. One thing was for sure, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t waste time thinking about my future—or lack thereof. David was hunting down the ring. When he got back, Grandfather could use his pull with the old boy network to get me off. Maybe, hopefully. Right now, I needed to focus on Dad.
Taking a deep breath, I got up and paced across the room. I really didn’t want to wait until Grandfather or Kate told me what they thought was wrong with him, and hope like hell I could tell if they were lying or not.
An idea hit me. I grabbed my bag and flew out the door. There was s
omeone else who knew some Arabic and could help me, someone who I’d already planned on talking to: Chase.
Granted, the letter had looked like a weird cross between ancient Sabaean and the modern Arabic in his graphic version of the Arabian Nights. But maybe there was enough similarity for him to be able to translate it, or at least get the general idea of what the inscription was about.
I moved fast down the stairs, shortcutted through the solarium. In less than a minute, I was backing the Mercedes out of the garage.
When I reached the front gate, I parked, sprinted to Chase’s cottage, and knocked on the front door.
The cottage probably had one bedroom upstairs. The small windows and the thick lintel over the door told me it was old, maybe even eighteenth century. A boot scraper and a pair of muddy sneakers sat beside the door, but the cottage lacked any girly touches like window boxes or lace curtains. Definitely, a single guy’s place.
The bleat of a lamb echoed out from the hillside. I glanced toward the sound and spotted a line of black sheep tripping over each other to get into a shedlike barn. Maybe it was feeding time and Chase was up there passing out supper.
Holding my bag against my chest, I jogged between the puddles and up a path to the shed. As I approached, I could hear Chase’s voice coming from inside.
I paused, waiting to hear if he was talking to the sheep or a person, or something else. But all I could hear now was the trickle of water and the jostling movement of the animals.
I eased the shed door open and softly closed it behind me. If I could sneak up and watch Chase undetected for a moment, maybe I could learn more about him. After all, I was putting a lot of trust in him.
One step at a time, I moved away from the door and toward the sound of the sheep. Over the smell of wet wool and hay, I whiffed another scent—the thick, rich odor of fresh blood.
My stomach heaved, bile crawling up my throat. I wanted to leave, to turn and run. But I moved forward, past an old cupboard and grain bins to where a pile of hay bales blocked my view of the rest of the barn. A fly settled in my hair. I waved it off, then leaned forward and peered out.