Beyond The Veil: A Paranormal & Magical Romance Boxed Set

by Multiple Authors

  She didn’t open her eyes for a long time. When she did, she was cradled in Matteo’s lap, his concerned brown eyes looking down at her in surprise. Listless, she reached up to touch his cheek, dropping it when the now warm bristled surface proved too much for her hypersensitive skin.

  Turning her head, she looked at the empty room around them. They were alone.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Matteo’s memories of what happened in the conservatory were confused, to say the least.

  Isobel had been surprised that he recalled anything at all. His memory of their wedding night was clear enough, but she attributed that to his being normal at the start. However, he hadn’t mentioned what had happened in the library at the Southmont’s ball at all.

  But now he remembered his anger and jealousy over Gideon’s flowers, how they had overwhelmed him until they were catalyzed into lust. The rest was in bits and pieces.which was more than enough.

  He was racked by guilt. He kept apologizing and casting her tormented glances whenever they happened to be alone together. It was decidedly inconvenient, considering all she wanted was to forget the incident.

  Isobel didn’t blame herself for succumbing to his demands. What she didn’t want to think about was how much she enjoyed it. Not that her body let her forget. She would be working in the library when a snippet of memory would intrude into her thoughts, overwhelming her with heat and sending a pulse of forbidden pleasure through her. The unexpected arousal was uncomfortable and embarrassing.

  She could barely look Niko in the eye and avoided Ottavio at all costs. Luckily, he spent most of his time with Matteo, who at this moment was mostly avoiding her too.

  The thought of making an excuse to dismiss the younger servant crossed her mind more than once. However, there was nothing she could think of that was sufficient grounds for dismissal, yet benign enough to avoid sending Matteo into another fit.

  Torn, she decided the only thing she could do was keep her silence.

  Avoiding the issue had at least one important benefit. By throwing herself into her research, she made real progress in formulating a ritual to purge the curse.

  In the end, Isobel had decided to combine aspects of several spells and rituals found in the books.

  There wasn’t actually much of a choice. No one account matched exactly what she had seen or was living with. Which was why the possibility she might be dealing with two distinct realities occurred to her.

  The books included a number of references to possession. While each was different, they all shared some similarities. The subject rarely remembered what they did when under the influence and often their bodies would either be very cold or very hot.

  Their actions varied widely, but as far as she could tell once that action had been carried out-be it murder, theft, or sex-then the cursed person would recover themselves.for a time.

  Eventually, the cursed would degenerate in some way and usually grow weak or mad. Then they would die, if they hadn’t been killed already. The process could take months or even years.

  Some of the stories attributed the possession to a specific spirit or demon, giving it a name. She didn’t disagree with the practice. What she’d experienced made her believe there was an intelligence behind what was happening. She had seen it herself, felt it watching her. But it wasn’t a real demon.

  After reading everything on hand, she knew that if it was a genuine demon, the death and destruction it caused would have been far greater. But there was no better name for what she had seen, so a demon it remained in her mind…or rather two demons.

  Her belief that Matteo had been cursed intentionally was now cemented as a certainty.

  Something truly terrible had been called and then cast inside him.

  Flashes of that night at Sir Clarence’s estate skittered through her mind. The demon hadn’t been able to kill her so it had been prepared to hurt her in any way it could. However, she now believed that demon was gone, burned up in the black shadow in that god-forsaken cottage. Her actions had probably destroyed it.

  It had been sheer blind luck. But in her ignorance she’d left Matteo open and exposed. The damage to his aura had been severe and without its protection, something else had found him an easy host. This other entity had different needs and desires, but it had the potential for equal destruction. Or it might if its attention finally moved away from her.

  Incubus.

  The name echoed in her mind. She’d used it before, but now really believed that was what she was dealing with. Even if it had been accidental, she had been the one to let it in. Its singular focus on her may have had a lot to do with that.

  And if the accounts she’d been studying were accurate, the fact that Matteo was starting to remember what he did when under the demon’s control wasn’t a hopeful sign as she’d initially thought.

  It was a warning that she was running out of time.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Late that afternoon, Isobel finally went back into the conservatory. She had given Nino instructions to care for the plants for the last few days because she hadn’t been able to face going back inside. Every time she had tried it felt as if she was about to burst into flames of embarrassment. He had followed her instructions without question, but his carefully controlled expression spoke volumes.

  However, it was past time she got a hold of herself. She needed to check on the plants and other stores, to see if all of the ingredients the ritual required were at hand. In reality, she knew getting the recipe right was the least of her concerns. The real work of the ritual rested almost entirely on her shoulders. But the mixture of herbs was one aspect she could control now, so that’s what she was going to do.

  Isobel spent at least an hour on her inventory. To her relief, she appeared to have most of the basic ingredients she needed. The one issue was the last component, yarrow, for purification. But the seeds she’d acquired from the apothecary had sprouted, so she busied herself with transferring the small seedlings to bigger pots.

  Footsteps signaled the approach of her husband. She looked up eagerly, despite her trepidation over having yet another uncomfortable conversation about how sorry he was.

  Except it wasn’t him. It was Ottavio, and he was closing the doors leading back into the house.

  Perfect. This was just what she needed. But perhaps something was wrong.

  “Is everything all right?” she called out in her heavily accented Italian. “Does his lordship need me?”

  Ottavio waited until he was just a few feet away then shook his head. “It sleeps,” he said, his voice coarse unlike the other Italians she was surrounded with.

  Chagrined, she didn’t look up at him directly until he came to stand next to her. Glancing up at his face, she stilled. The way he was smiling at her was far too familiar.

  The presentiment of danger struck her a second too late. He grabbed her by the arms, making her drop the clay pot she was holding. Dragging her to him effortlessly, his mouth came down on hers before she could move.

  Isobel twisted her head violently away.

  “What are you doing? Stop!” she yelled, trying to push him away.

  But he was too strong. He was one of the largest men she’d ever seen, taller and broader than Matteo and at least sixteen stone. His bulk blocked out sight of the door, enveloping her like a blanket of sweaty flesh. Disgusted, she struggled, throwing all of her weight to the side in an effort to break his hold.

  “Be quiet,” he hissed before wrapping an arm around her waist. The other began to tug at her bodice. None of her efforts to get loose made the slightest difference. He bent to whisper in her ear. “I know you want me. I saw it in your eyes when the beast was fucking you. You wanted me to watch. Don’t worry, I can satisfy you much better than him. You deserve a real man…”

  He pressed her against his body, grinding his pelvis into her. He was already hard, his body heat smothering her.

  Isobel gulped air, her heart pounding violently. “No
! I don’t want this, and I didn’t want you to watch,” Isobel cried. “If I had said anything Matteo would have killed you. And he’s not a beast!

  It’s not his fault. Now let go of me!”

  Ottavio stared at her angrily and didn’t let go. Instead, he grabbed her hair, nearly pulling it out of the roots as he yanked her toward him.

  “Strega puttana, you can’t believe that. It’s a monster, and it should be destroyed. And it will be soon, and then where will you be? The Conte will get rid of you as soon as he’s gone! Nothing save an heir will help you…and we both know that’s not going to happen.”

  Isobel went white. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The brute sneered. “I know all about your little potion, the one you drink every morning. You won’t risk giving the monster a babe. And I don’t blame you. But only a babe will save you from Aldo. So don’t be a fool. I’ll put a babe in you and you’ll let me, maledetta strega.”

  He yanked on her hair again, pulling her face in close to lick her neck and ear.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered tearfully, her heart sinking in her chest.

  How did he know all of that? She’d always thought Ottavio was slow because he rarely spoke, but if he’d managed to learn all of those things then she’d severely underestimated him. What if he told Matteo? Or the Count? If she lost his son in the purge, he wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of her.

  Too focused on supernatural dangers, she’d overlooked the human ones. But that didn’t mean she was going to submit to Ottavio. There was no way in hell.

  “I will not let you blackmail me!” She twisted in his grasp, bringing up a hand to rake his face with her nails.

  He swore and let go of her, his face purple with anger. She’d only managed to get a few steps away before he rushed forward. He struck out with one meaty fist.

  It was a glancing blow, not landing with his full weight, but it was more than enough. The stroke sent her crashing to the ground, her lip bleeding.

  Isobel landing on her back, hitting the ground with enough force to knock her breathless.

  Ottavio towered over her. “Maiala lercia! Do you think you’re better than me? You’re only here because you’re a witch-but you were a servant just like me,” he shouted.

  Isobel cringed, crawling backward.

  His beady eyes glinted with malevolence. “I’ll show you, you’re no better,” he growled as if to himself as he tore open his breeches.

  She only caught a glimpse of his red angry staff before he was on top of her, crushing her down into the floor of the conservatory. He was tearing at her clothes and forcing open her legs.

  It was just like before. A black flood of memory rose up, throwing up images she’d buried in the deepest recesses of her mind. She sobbed aloud, only to be struck in the mouth, his rough large hand covering her nose and mouth as he tried to move between her kicking legs.

  Isobel couldn’t breath. Panic tainted her vision black at the edges, so she did the only thing she could think of.

  She used her power again. Just like before…but completely different.

  There was no other living inside of Ottavio. There was just him-his small mean soul. With a white-hot anger and a considerable amount of fear, she reached out with her ability.

  This time it was easier to take hold of it, but she couldn’t just push him away. His soul was anchored too strongly. She tore at it, squeezing with all her strength. When that didn’t loosen his hold she passed raw power through him like a bolt of lighting.

  Above her, Ottavio stopped moving. He gave one sharp jerk, a whole-body convulsion before looking down at her in disbelief, his expression growing waxy and wooden.

  They stayed frozen in that violent tableau for what felt like an eternity, but it must have only been a second before an inhuman roar filled the air. The heavy body of her assaulter was removed and swung up in the air like a rag doll.

  Isobel scrambled back, eyes wide in horrified disbelief. Her hand stung as it landed on something sharp, but she barely registered the pain.

  The thing holding Ottavio by the neck wasn’t Matteo or the shade hiding behind him, peeking at her lustfully. This was the demon, unfiltered and in control.

  The blackness of its aura covered her husband from head to toe, darker than midnight. Its eyes were holes cut into another world, a place that she would have nightmares about for years to come. And it was howling, its face contorted into a rabid mask, one so thin it couldn’t hide what it truly was.

  The heavy thud of Ottavio’s body hitting the floor made her flinch. The demon fell on him, still screaming with that awful rending sound. It grabbed the larger man’s head, lifted it, and slammed it back into the ground over and over.

  Her screams joined the demon’s as it pounded the dead servant’s head into pulp. There was blood everywhere and bits of skull and brain smeared all around them like a halo. Isobel shut her eyes, screaming and sobbing, trying to block out the noise by putting her hands over her ears.

  Everything went quiet abruptly. Isobel opened her eyes to see Matteo in a fighting stance standing in front of her protectively.

  Behind him near the door of the conservatory was Nino. He was holding a hunting rifle on the demon. His face was grey and he was shaking, but the gun he held was steady enough.

  “Don’t, my lord,” she whispered.

  The demon cocked his ear in her direction but didn’t turn to face her.

  “This is your fault!” Nino shouted in English, catching her full attention. He wasn’t talking to her, however. “This is what happens when you treat your woman like a whore, taking her with no regard to the eyes watching. You make other men covet her. And because you treat her like a whore, others think they can too.”

  The demon growled something unintelligible. It almost sounded like wife.

  When he made a move toward Nino, she cried out to him to wait. “Matteo, please help me,” she said, holding out a hand to him.

  To her surprise, it was covered in blood. She’d cut it open on a broken pottery shard from the pot Ottavio made her drop.

  It glanced her way, but when it saw the blood its face changed, softening. It rushed forward, grabbing her hand. When the blood made contact with his skin he rocked back, letting go. There was something like mist in her eyes for a moment, obscuring her view of his face but when she blinked it was gone. And then Matteo was there, looking down at her and himself in dismay.

  “Isobel, are you all right?” he asked hoarsely, reaching down for her.

  Isobel scooted away from him. It was instinctive. His face fell, and she looked away.

  “Signora. I believe that cut will require a needle and thread. I can sew you up.”

  It was Nino. He had come up behind them when the demon departed, but he still held the hunting piece protectively in front of him. He did, however, keep the barrel pointed down.

  She glanced at the cut. It wasn’t flowing freely anymore, but cleaning would surely open it again.

  Pushing herself up with her other hand, she stood and nodded at Nino, studiously avoiding looking at Matteo or the carnage behind him.

  Once she had regained her feet, she swayed slightly. Both Matteo and Nino rushed to help her, but she waved them away. She didn’t want anyone to touch her right now.

  “I’m all right,” she said in a low voice.

  Nino extended his arm, gesturing to the door. She followed him out, leaving Matteo alone to clean up the mess.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Isobel’s eye twitched as the needle passed through the flesh of her palm. She had washed it out herself, then poured strong spirits over the cut.

  It had hurt like hell. The cut was quite deep. After Nino finished sewing it closed, she would bind her hand with a poultice of her grandmother’s design. But first she needed to get through the stitching.

  They were in the library, sitting at the table nearest the sideboard where they kept the spirits.

  “It might help if you dran
k some of that brandy, instead of just using it as an antiseptic,” Nino murmured.

  Her lip twitched involuntarily. It actually sounded like a great idea. Pouring with her free hand, she raised the glass, but her hand was shaking so badly she spilled most of it on her bodice.

  She looked down at the torn morning dress. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to burn this anyway.”

  Nino paused to hand her a towel. Isobel looked at it, confused.

  “For your lip. It’s bleeding again too.”

  “Oh,” she said softly, taking the cloth and holding it to her mouth.

  Nino ducked his head. “Signora, I want to apologize. About Ottavio. I should have done something.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I think it was, actually.” He looked away. “He’d been talking, complaining. This job wasn’t what he expected. The Conte hired him for his strength and size. Everyone assumed he was stupid, and he hated it. He was accustomed to getting his fill of female attention too, but here in England he couldn’t even speak to them. I should have realized he’d start looking your way and…circumstances being what they are, he got ideas.”

  Isobel shook her head. “It still wasn’t your fault. There are a dozen things I could have said and done to prevent this as well. One of them might have worked-or none of them.”

  Nino sniffed, but he nodded, anyway. “I think this should do it,” he said, tying a knot at the end of the thread.

  He did fine work. The stitching was neat and narrow.

  “How often have you done this?”

  “A few times,” he said, cleaning up the sewing materials from the table. “Would you like some comfrey?”

  Surprised, she looked up. “I was not aware that you knew anything about healing plants.”

  “I’ve been paying attention,” he said dismissively.

  She picked up the glass again and took a large sip. The brandy burned her throat, and her eyes watered.

  “Actually I made a salve that will work better. It’s in the conservatory with the other supplies,”