If he wanted Isobel, it always came, eager to touch her too. Even now that he was starting to remember the experiences, to feel them as his own, it was like he was spinning out of control—a mere observer of the play. So he'd stopped asking Isobel for his husbandly rights. It wasn't fair to her when the demon already demanded so much.
His wife leaned over him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. She never did that.
“What's wrong?” he asked, sitting up.
The tiniest smirk betrayed her before her countenance sobered.
“It's time, Matteo.”
“Oh.” His head suddenly felt like it was filling with air. He gave himself a hard shake before following her out of bed. Regaining his equilibrium, he put on his boots. “I had no idea that you were so close to being ready.”
“I thought it better to surprise you, in case...”
She didn't need to finish.
Nodding, he followed her out of the room. Once in the hallway, she gestured for him to head down the stairs. On the other side of the windows the light was already fading, which meant he'd slept most of the day away. Again.
At the foyer, he hesitated. Had she prepared the ritual in the library or the conservatory? It made more sense to use the conservatory since the ritual was supposed to use fire, but he hated going in there now, and Isobel must despise it.
“Where are we going?” he asked when Isobel led him past the entrance to the library and down the hallway to the kitchen.
There was no one there. They didn't have many staff, but the few they did have always congregated in the kitchen. If nothing else, Cook was a fixture there. But the kitchen was still and dark, the hearth cold. He found it disquieting.
“I gave the entire staff the night off,” she said belatedly before opening the back door.
A blast of icy wind greeted them. It was bitingly cold outside, and Isobel was only wearing a light dress.
“I think you need your pelisse. Have you chosen the woods as our venue?”
“No, and don't worry. It's not far.” She pointed at the external greenhouse.
Of course, he should have realized. They had never used it, but he'd been assured by his agent that it was in good working order. Since the conservatory had been more convenient for their use, he'd never even bothered to go inside. As far as he knew no one else did either. Isobel had chosen well.
The inside of the greenhouse was a large rectangular space. Old work benches and tables lined the walls, leaving a cleared area in the center. Grooves in the dirt showed that Isobel must have recently moved the tables herself. Other miscellaneous garden tools and supplies were stacked in the corner nearest the door.
The cleared space wasn't empty. A large circle, bisected in half, had been drawn in white in the dirt. It was surrounded by a few crates filled with small boxes and little bottles. A larger dark brown glass bottle stoppered with cork and wax was set in front of the boxes. On the other side of the circle rested a small stack of kindling. There was an unlit lantern next to it.
“You've been busy. I'm sorry you had to do all of this on your own,” he observed.
“It wasn't all that much work,” she said dismissively, but the tension in her posture was obvious.
Now that they were in the greenhouse she was moving stiffly, the line of her shoulders unnaturally straight. He wanted to reassure her, but his own anxiety was eating at him.
Watching with interest, his eyes tracked her as she reached into the crate for a small box and began pouring more white powder on the circle's diameter. It glittered oddly.
“I thought that was chalk, but it's something else isn't it? Some sort of mineral? Powdered quartz or some other semi-precious stone?”
Isobel smiled as she lit the lamp, the light casting a golden glow on her face. She had never looked more beautiful. But then again, he thought that every time he saw her.
“It's salt, actually.”
That wasn't what he'd been expecting. “Salt?”
“A substance of vastly underestimated properties.”
He snorted slightly. “A bit like governesses.”
Her eyes glowed in the lamplight, but she didn't reply. “You should take off your shirt for this. I think direct contact with your skin will help,” she said with a duck of her head and a trace of apology in her voice.
Feeling a bit more like his old self, he gave her a teasing smile.
“If you wanted to see my bare chest, there's no need to make excuses,” he said as he pulled off his waistcoat and thick cotton shirt. “All you ever need to do is ask.”
She didn't smile back. “Unfortunately, direct contact with your skin means a greater likelihood of sustaining burns. In this case, they would be to your chest, just here,” she said, placing her hand high on her stomach.
“Why there? Wouldn't over my head be a more likely choice?”
Isobel fiddled with a piece of kindling. “I've no wish to burn your face off, my lord. I've grown quite fond of it. And the choice is significant. It's something my grandmother taught me that I've been able to confirm with my reading. There are centers of power in the body, sort of like openings. A trained practitioner can access some of these with their healing if they're skilled enough or...”
“Or open a gateway to curse someone,” he said heavily.
She nodded. “Their number varies depending on the culture of the person writing the account. On average there are seven. I had initially thought to choose the one just below,” she said, moving her hand down her stomach with a tightening of her cheeks. “It's the one usually associated with sexual release, but after doing more reading, I decided the one above it would suit us better.”
She turned away hastily to organize a few things around the circle, a series of flat white stones. Once they were in position, she grabbed another box with a fine grey powder and drew lines between the stones.
“Are you sure? The one associated with...being amorous certainly sounds like a fine candidate,” he said awkwardly.
Turning back toward him, she nodded quickly. “I thought so too at first, but the one above is tied to your personal will, and yours has been overpowered by this other being. I believe it will serve us better. Besides, we don't want to damage you…lower. I'm still hoping to have a family someday.”
The last was said in a lighthearted tone, but it made his throat tighten. “I'd like that, too.”
It was hard to stifle the rush of warm optimism that was running through him now. His wife was a brilliant woman, who possessed a great deal of raw talent and power. If anyone could get him through this, it was her. And he would spend the rest of his life thanking her for it.
“You sit here, but don't disturb the salt. We can't break the circle,” she instructed, gesturing to it with a sweep of her hand.
Sucking in a deep breath, he stepped carefully over the line of salt and lowered himself into a seated position. Isobel did the same, taking extra care with her skirts. She reached for the brown bottle.
“You have to drink this.” She handed him the bottle, her face pale. “Don't do so until I say, and then brace yourself because it will cause a lot of pain. You must take care to bear it as best you can. The circle must not be disturbed, so you mustn't move, at least not overmuch.”
He nodded and took the brown bottle.
“Not yet,” she admonished with a finger before reaching out for a large piece of wood from the kindling.
Next she placed her hand on the lantern and closed her eyes. It sounded like she was whispering, soft words he couldn't make out but sounded vaguely like Latin. With a spill of bright sparks, the length of wood began to smoke and then flared into a blazing orange flame.
He swore. It was the damnedest thing he'd ever seen. Peeking from behind her lashes, Isobel squinted at the torch before relaxing and smiling at him.
“I've been practicing,” she said with a nod at the flame. “It won’t go out until it’s over. It’s charmed.”
“Impressive, bella mia,” he said, slightly out o
f breath.
“Don't compliment me yet.” She sighed, almost vibrating with tension.
“It's going to be all right, mi amore.”
“I'm supposed to be telling you that.”
Time seemed to stand still for a moment. She gave him another anxious glance, then nodded at the bottle.
He looked down at it, breaking the seal of the wax stopper with a twist. The smell of the liquid inside was overpowering, a strange mixture of metal, earth, and cloves. Coughing slightly, he raised the bottle in a toast before downing the contents in a quick pull.
For a long moment nothing happened. He parted his lips to ask Isobel if something had gone wrong. The blinding wave of pain took him by surprise. It rolled through his abdomen, burning like acid as it went. In seconds the pain radiated to his extremities.
It was as if he was already on fire. Every single part of his body was crying out. He could feel a fierce shaking and knew he was having convulsions. Opening his eyes with effort, he checked the line of salt around him to make sure he hadn't broken the barrier.
He'd managed—only just—to stay in his half of the circle. Catching a glimpse of his love through watery eyes, he saw her face was deathly white.
“Matteo, I'm going to begin now. Please try to hold on!”
She was barely beginning now?
Marshaling all his strength, he nodded, his neck rigid. The movement was a mistake. It was as if his head was going to snap off. He didn't attempt it again, focusing his concentration was on staying as still as possible. Then his beautiful wife made everything a thousand times worse.
Heat. Excruciating. Unbearable. All of it was focused on his torso, the space directly above his stomach. He looked down, expecting to see a mass of blistering burning flesh—or a gaping hole—where his chest used to be. But his skin was intact. Terribly red, but otherwise normal.
Isobel was holding the torch against his middle, but the flame wasn't touching him. And it should have been.
There was a hairsbreadth of space between him at the fire. But the flame was kept from direct contact with his skin by an invisible wall. It shaped the fire into a near perfect circle. As he trembled and jerked closer to her, the unseen barrier adjusted, following his movements.
There was something else too. A crawling sensation in his veins, like mercury running through them. It circled through his body like a rat trying to escape a flood.
It was the demon.
Aware of soft murmuring, he squinted at Isobel. She was saying something, more Latin words. He didn't try to understand what they were. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gritted his teeth, trying not to crush them with the force he was exerting, trying to keep his body from flying apart.
Through all the chaos, a new sensation became apparent. It was as if something was pulling at his core, drawing on him like a sucking leech.
And then all hell broke loose.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What the hell is this?” Aldo Garibaldi roared.
Isobel's head flew up, her concentration breaking. The fire made contact with Matteo's skin. His skin blistered and the hair on his chest begin to burn. Pulling the torch back, she turned to the Conte.
“No! Stay where you are!” she yelled, fighting the urge to jump up to slap him. “You'll ruin everything.”
The Conte walked closer to the circle. “What are you doing?”
“What you wanted me to do,” she hissed. “Stay there. Don't move and be quiet!”
Aldo's face contorted at the sight of Matteo, who'd crumpled over on his side. “You will release my son. You're killing him!”
Bloody stupid idiot.
“I'm trying to save him,” she said in shocked disbelief as the Conte raged at her. “And don't you dare breach this circle!” She scrambled to her knees to grab a second piece of kindling, brandishing it in the count's direction.
“I know you're trying to kill him. Nino told me everything.”
What fresh hell was this? “He was wrong. Now shut up and stay away.”
“Don't tell—”
“Father, stay away.”
Isobel gasped, turning back to her husband. Matteo's voice was low and raspy, strained beyond all reason. She didn't know how he had managed to speak. His body was being wracked by deep bone-shaking tremors and his face was nearly purple.
Tears running freely down her cheeks, she reached out to touch him again.
“Matteo my love, please hold on,” she cried, sitting back down. “We can still do this. Don't move!”
“No, you can't!”
Dizzily, Isobel twisted her head to the door. The last had been yelled by someone else. Another man had intruded on her ritual. He had to step closer to the lantern light for her to recognize him. And the gun he was holding.
“Nino, what the bloody hell is going on?” the Conte yelled. “You said she was going to kill my son, that she was planning on running away with all of his money. My money.”
Nino advanced, completely ignoring the count. The gun was pointed directly at her. “You weren't supposed to get this far. You weren't supposed to be here at all,” he said hoarsely.
“Please let me finish, Nino. I can save him,” she pleaded.
He leaned forward, his face contorting in anger. “I know that, but you're not going to. You're going to let him die.”
Isobel's heart sank.
“What the hell are you saying?” the Conte asked in a strangled voice.
The true horror of it all was finally becoming clear. “He's saying he did this,” she whispered. “He's responsible for the curse.”
It was a guess, but one Nino didn’t contradict. He approached the circle instead, frowning down at it.
Isobel gasped. “Don't even think it!”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I won't break the circle. I know the demon will escape then. No other innocent will be harmed. There's been enough death already. But you're not going to finish. Stand, right now, and walk away. You can escape. No one will blame you.” He swung the gun at the Conte and Matteo respectively. “These two will stay here and die.”
A small move from Aldo distracted Nino, who swung the rifle at him in response.
“I don't understand,” Aldo said, bewildered. “Why are you doing this? You've been a loyal servant throughout this whole ordeal.”
Nino laughed. “I've been a loyal servant far longer than that actually.” His face was lit with an unwholesome excitement, as if he'd been waiting for this confrontation. “And you didn't even recognize me, the senior game warden from your Tivoli country estate. But why would you? You prefer indoor pursuits, don't you?”
“What the hell does that mean?” Aldo said.
Hefting the gun higher, Nino threw him a look full of hatred. “It means I know what you did to my daughter, you bastard! You and your friends.”
“What daughter? I don't know what you're talking about!”
Nino gave a choking laugh. “The sad part is that I believe you. You've ruined and murdered so many girls over the years. Why would my Gina stand out in your memory?”
“I've never killed anyone, let alone a woman!”
“Then where is she, figlio di cane?”
The Conte shrugged helplessly. “I don't know! I have no idea who you're talking about.”
Shaking with rage, Nino raised the gun again, his finger beginning to squeeze the trigger.
“Stop!” Isobel yelled. “At least tell him when your daughter disappeared. And what she looked like! Maybe he'll remember.”
Nino paused, turning to look at her. “It was three summers ago. She was a beautiful girl with rosy cheeks and light golden brown hair. Gina favored her mother.”
Behind him, the count's expression changed. He did remember the girl. But the guilt on his face told her knowing the full story would only make things worse.
“Nino, please explain something to me,” she said. “If you think the Conte is responsible, why are you punishing Matteo? Or do you think he harmed you
r Gina as well?”
“Matteo wasn't even home that summer,” the Conte interjected. “He was traveling the continent with his friends.”
Nino said nothing.
“Is that true, Nino? If it is, why are you doing this?” She gestured at her fallen husband who was still writhing and panting for air in quick tortured breaths.
“He took my only child...so I'm going to take his.”
“But why this way? This curse, the way he was before I met him—all of those deaths. There were so many innocents lost. He couldn't stop. Why harm so many others, vulnerable women just like your daughter?”
A flash of pain passed over Nino's face. “What did I care after my Gina was gone?” he cried.
Isobel stilled. He was lying.
“There weren't supposed to be any innocents, were there? The first demon didn't kill indiscriminately, did it? It was supposed to kill Aldo and any of his peers.”
“I don’t understand,” Aldo rasped.
She swung around to face him. "Matteo’s first bad spell happened unexpectedly. You said you were going to have a gathering that weekend—a party. And the first victim was one of your friends.”
Mouth dropping open, Aldo nodded and Nino made a choking sound.
“I should have known better than to ask for what I did,” Nino said. “It was stupid of me not to realize that the Conte would gladly sacrifice those beneath him to feed the demon's bloodlust. The best I could do was seek employment as one of Matteo's minders and wait till he self-destructed. At least the Conte would have to watch his paragon of a son, his pride and joy, deteriorate into madness. It was only a matter of time. I knew how the curse worked, what the signs of the demon's emergence would be.”
It made a twisted sort of sense, and she found herself acknowledging his story with a nod.
“And so it was safe enough for you to be near Matteo, watching and waiting to make sure your plan succeeded. But you didn't cast the curse did you? You said you asked for it...”
Nino acknowledged her words with a tilt of his head. “It took every cent I had, and months of waiting for the witch to do the work. He came all the way from Sicily, but it was worth it. In the end, he even gave me a discount. Aldo Garibaldi has destroyed many lives with his rapacious business practices, overcharging tenants and pushing people off their land. It was only a matter of time to find a connection the witch would care about. He was happy to help. I never expected the Conte would find another with enough skill and power to undo it all.”
Legends of the Damned: A Collection of Edgy Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 103