[Anthology] The Paranormal 13- now With a Bonus 14th Novel!

by Dima Zales

  The footsteps overtook her in moments. As she raced forward her foot caught on something and she pitched forward.

  She smelled a mix of cloves and leather as hands caught her and lifted her into the air. Imprisoned against a broad chest, Petra kicked as a thigh pressed between her legs. He held her so that her back arched against him, his arms curved under hers, his hand on the side of her neck, one pressing her head sideways.

  He spoke quietly in her ear, his voice sending tremors down her spine. “My lady, do not move, or with one twist, I will snap your neck.”

  But Petra couldn’t move. She could barely think. She couldn’t hear her thoughts over her beating heart. His grip tightened. Stunned, she gasped, “I saw you die.”

  He dropped her to the dirt floor. “You?”

  Petra craned her neck to look at Emory’s face.

  He grabbed her wrist, hauled her to her feet, held her against the wall with one hand and lightly ran his other hand over her arms and front as if searching for something. Knowing that she should be outraged, she still found herself grinning at him. They stood so closely that she saw the outline of his hard, chiseled chin and the glint in his dark eyes.

  He stopped, as if struck by her expression, and his lips tugged upward. “What are you doing here?”

  She suspected he wanted to sound angry and menacing. Disbelieving, she couldn’t resist. She placed her hand on his belly where she’d seen the sword stab him. He didn’t flinch.

  “How?” she asked.

  He held his finger to her lips, took her wrist and led her deeper into the passage. Then he turned her question back on her. “I saw you with Black Shuck.” It sounded like an accusation.

  “Who?”

  He shook his head. “Black Shuck, the hound of hell.”

  She bit back a laugh. “The what?”

  He shook his head again as if trying to clear it. “Pray thee, keep thy peace. What are you doing here? Who are you? Who sent you?”

  “My answers haven’t changed since yesterday. I don’t know how I got here or why but… I’ve stopped wondering about myself and started thinking about you.”

  He took a step closer and leaned down so his nose nearly touched hers. “I don’t know what sort of trick or trap you are, but I won’t be fooled.”

  Her heart skipped as she stared into his eyes. “I’m not a trick. Or a trap.”

  He frowned and pushed away, but because he still held her wrist, she had no option but to follow. His eyes slid over her, and she suddenly felt grateful for the dark. “What are you wearing?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  Petra glanced down at the thin cotton nightgown. By gathering it in a fistful in her middle she created folds that made it a little less sheer. “Mary called it a chemise.”

  His lips straightened and tightened. “’Tis nearly invisible.”

  She cut a quick glance at his face and then looked down at her pale, exposed ankles. She laughed. “Do you think this is an inappropriate nightie for creeping in hidden passageways?”

  He didn’t let go of her hand but towed her after him. “I do not mind for myself, of course --”

  She tripped after him. “Of course…You do realize, you haven’t answered any of my questions.”

  “I’m not here to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “Which begs the question—why are you here? And that leads to how are you here?” Petra ground her heels into the dirt, a fair imitation of Frosty being led to the groomer. “I saw that man stab you.” Her voice shook. “I saw the sword go through you!” She ran her hand over his back and felt his muscles quiver.

  “Will you stop doing that?” He pressed forward.

  “There has to be a wound.” Dropping the folds of her chemise, she tugged at the back of his shirt and lifted it to expose the broad unblemished plane of his back. Reaching forward, she ran her hand up and under his shirt.

  He stopped and faced her. The shirt, still in her hand, twisted around his waist.

  “My lady, I do not know the customs of your Royal Oaks.” He tugged the shirt out of her fingers and tucked it into his breeches but not before she saw his rippling, tan, perfect abs. “But I can assure you, in our country, young ladies do not remove a gentleman’s clothing.”

  Embarrassment made her bolder. “Oh, are you a gentleman?” Her thoughts leaped to her stepmother’s Regency romance novels hidden in a basket in the den. By Petra’s calculations they were currently about two centuries prior to the Regency period, but a gentleman was a gentleman, right?

  “If I weren’t a gentleman, I wouldn’t be worried about your sheer shift.”

  “Good point,” she said. As he stood before her, glowering, she took the opportunity to touch his belly again.

  He roared and grabbed her other hand, so that he now held both hands.

  She laughed.

  He gave her hands a shake, rattling her to the teeth. “This is not a lark!”

  She sobered slightly. “I’m just so relieved you are alive.”

  The frown between his eyebrows eased. “As I am you.” He released her and turned away. She trailed after him.

  “You must stop touching me,” he said over his shoulder.

  She sniffed, offended. “As if I wanted to.”

  He lifted his chin. “Apparently, you do.”

  She trotted by his side. “I just wanted to see where the sword went in.”

  He sent her a swift glance. “You thought you saw something. You were mistaken.”

  Moving through the gloom with grace and speed, he seemed remarkably healthy and fit. He also seemed to know where he was going. “There was a lot of noise, a lot of confusion. You were kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?” She gathered her nightgown in her fists so she could keep up. She wished he’d slow down so she could see his face. She knew he was lying.

  “Did you think you flew to the manor?”

  She opened her mouth. She didn’t remember traveling or arriving at the manor. “Someone put something over my head. If you weren’t lying on the ground dying as I’d thought, did you see who it was?”

  “If you remember, I had problems of my own.”

  She grabbed his arm, and he looked down at her face and then at her exposed legs. “Me too. Black Muck and all those hell hounds.”

  He brushed her off, turned his back and walked away. “It’s Shuck,” he said over his shoulder.

  His indifference stung. Staring after his retreating back, she dropped her nightgown and said, “Well, shuck you.”

  He paused, as if he understood her near-obscenity and the anger and frustration that’d brought it on. “Go to bed, my lady. You’ve no business here.”

  “I don’t know where to go,” she said in a small voice.

  “Left, then right, follow the passageway until you reach the orangery.”

  Orangery? What the shuck is an orangery? She remained rooted as he turned a corner. A minute later she heard the low murmur of voices coming from further down the passage. A light glowed in the distance.

  She really couldn’t go back the way she came. Return to the library and face Garret and Chambers? She didn’t want to return to her room with more questions than when she’d started out. Not knowing what else to do, she went after Emory, but at a distance, hoping he would lead her out of the passageway.

  The path sloped downward, and the deeper they went the more putrid the air. The rank smell made her think of bats. The light grew brighter and Petra recognized the deep voice that had belonged to the second man at Anne’s. She turned a corner and bit back a gasp. She ducked, afraid that Emory had seen or heard her, but after a moment, she peeked to watch Emory, a large man in a friar’s frock and a heavily bleeding gypsy.

  The gypsy lay on a cot, wrapped in what appeared to be gory rags. The passageway opened up to a slightly wider hall lined with a cell made of cut stone with iron doors. The cell where the gypsy lay had a thick chain draped through the bars. A padlock dangled from the links and a key protruded from its
hole.

  Emory bent over the gypsy, pressing down the wounded man’s shoulders while the friar cut away the rags that had presumably once been the gypsy’s clothes. The gypsy moaned and writhed. The friar muttered something.

  The friar took a clean cloth from the bag lying beside the cot and folded it. With Emory’s help, he rolled the gypsy onto his side and wrapped the cloth around the man’s middle.

  The wound in his belly seemed to match the one in his back, like the sword wound she’d seen on Emory. The gypsy groaned and let out a string of curses Petra didn’t recognize but completely understood. Sweat rolled down his pain-contorted face.

  The bandage secure, Emory and the friar gently returned the gypsy to his back and Emory mopped the man’s face. No longer pinned, the gypsy contorted on the cot. The friar stood still, eyes closed and head bowed. After a moment he raised his eyes to the ceiling as if asking a question. Then the friar and Emory exchanged places, but instead of holding the gypsy’s shoulders, the friar put his hands on the gypsy’s head and uttered what sounded like a prayer. He took a tiny vile from his pocket, unplugged its cork and poured a drop of slow moving liquid onto the gypsy’s head. Immediately the man quieted.

  The friar and Emory looked at each other and then the friar looked up and directly into Petra’s eyes. Startled, she ducked back around the corner, embarrassed to have been caught spying on such a private moment of…What had she seen? A faith healing? What had been in that bottle?

  Petra leaned against the wall, listening. An iron door swung shut with a creak and clank. Footsteps padded away. Clearly, the friar had seen her; Emory probably suspected she hadn’t left, but neither approached. The candle light blew out, leaving Petra in the dark.

  She heard the gypsy’s labored breathing. Must and mildew mingled with the smell of his blood, leaving a metallic taste in her mouth. Confident that the friar and Emory had gone, she went to the wounded man.

  Eyes closed, lips slack with sleep, his face gleamed with sweat. He looked oddly at peace, despite the bandage wrapped tightly around his torso. She thought she recognized the rings on his fingers and knew she’d seen him earlier in the camp. She had a dozen questions for him, but she didn’t want to wake him and she wasn’t even sure if he spoke English. Besides, he looked like he needed rest more than she needed answers.

  Petra headed in what she hoped was the direction of her room.

  Emory followed Rohan through the door that led to the chapel’s basement. Dungeons and chapels seemed unlikely bedfellows, but they shared a roof and a plot of land. Thumbscrews beneath the alter, chains beneath the choir loft, a scold’s bridle beneath the confessional, and a meeting of zealots in the rectory.

  Rohan’s wide body filled the narrow stairwell and Emory tagged after him. Hearing a noise behind him, he looked over his shoulder and saw rats scurrying in shadowy corners. He smiled, wondering if Petra suffered from squeamishness, if she would turn back, return to her warm bed in the manor. Falstaff’s manor.

  He knew what he had to do; Petra or no. The time approached. They emerged through a side door that opened to a cloister. Damp night air filled Emory’s lungs and he inhaled deeply, feeling a renewed sense of purpose.

  Rohan, as if reading his thoughts, took note of the moon’s position in the sky and said, “They will be here within the hour. I can do this on my own.”

  Emory cast a swift glance at his friend and saw a rare steely determination. Normally Rohan had the disposition of a sunny day, but at the moment he looked stern.

  “I’m going with you,” Emory told him.

  Rohan cocked his head, motioning for Emory to follow him around the corner. The dark windows of the rectory looked upon them, promising their secrets. Although the rectory looked asleep, Emory knew that Father Priestly must be awake, preparing for the night’s tryst. Chambers and perhaps others would soon join him. From the shelter of a lilac bush beneath the front window, Emory and Rohan would listen to the men’s plans.

  “I’m afraid you are needed elsewhere,” Rohan said, his voice a whisper.

  Emory shook his head, uncomprehending, until Rohan pointed at the side chapel door creaking open. Breath caught in Emory’s throat.

  Petra stood in the moonlight, framed by the inky black of the doorway. The moonlight pierced her chemise, revealing every one of her curves. Her hair fell about her shoulders and shone like the color of stars. She moved through the cloister and stopped at the well, staring into it as if lost in thought.

  What was she doing here? How had she escaped the curse of Black Shuck? How had she managed to twist her way into his life? Because he’d thought she would die, he’d allowed himself kindness. Knowing she would be but a brief interlude, he’d let down his guard.

  Emory flinched beneath his friend’s scrutiny. “Who is she?”

  “Who is she to you?” Rohan asked.

  Emroy flushed. “Is she your doing?”

  Rohan shook his head, the smile returning to his eyes. “She is your problem, not mine.”

  Emory folded his arms across his chest. “No, she is not.”

  “We can’t allow her to stay. We risk exposure.”

  Exposure. Unable to tear his eyes away from the shimmery chemise, exposure seemed the appropriate word. Emory let out a small groan and hung his head. Damn heaven. Damn hell.

  12

  Everyone in Elizabethan England was expected to receive basic religious training. By law, every minister held services on alternate Sundays and on holy days. All children over the age of six had to attend. Parents who didn’t send their children might be prosecuted in church courts. Court or church with corrupt priests in charge? Tough call.

  —Petra’s notes

  Had Rohan been speaking? If so, very little had registered. He’d been completely absorbed by Petra’s appearance. Nothing could be accomplished if he allowed her to stay. Sighing, he cast Rohan a pained glance and left the rectory’s shadow.

  She didn’t hear his approach. She seemed to be whispering while staring into the well’s depth. Perhaps she was making a wish. Her shoulders were slumped, her head bowed, her arms and hands dangled at her side. Even from behind she looked profoundly unhappy.

  Emory crept from the shadows and into the moonlight. Four stone paths dissected the cloister and met at the well. Emory stayed on the grass, his gaze never leaving her.

  The moon bathed her in a glow. He was close enough to know she smelled of lavender. Looking up, she caught sight of the manor’s turrets and her face cleared. Picking up her chemise by the handfuls, she started toward the manor. He trailed after her, past the rectory, past the chapel to a path through the woods to the place where the manor’s iron fence had a few missing bars. He wondered how she knew of the short cut.

  Across the grounds, the small flicker of a lantern approached. Emory wondered if Petra also saw it and knew the potential danger. He had to warn her. He wouldn’t let her stumble into a disastrous meeting.

  Emory ducked beneath the low branches of a pine tree, his heart racing. Through the boughs he watched the lantern flash toward where, until moments ago, Petra had walked.

  Where had she gone? He held his breath as he searched. Pines, alders, wild brambles, no Petra. Never had he felt so vulnerable. The lantern passed, but Emory stayed in the shelter of the pine.

  No voices, no questions. She must have passed Chambers without notice. How had he lost her? He cursed as he headed across the broad lawn toward the manor. Stone-built, the manor had turrets, annexes, towers, and wings.

  It embarrassed Emory that despite the size and scope of the place, he knew exactly which window belonged to Petra. He had watched from the woods as a gatekeeper had carried Petra to the manor, as a young footman received her into his arms, as young Falstaff had directed the staff and a parade of candlelight had made its way to a window in the northwest corner. Hours later, as he stood in the shelter of the woods in the early morning light, he had seen Petra standing at the same window.

  He knew where she b
elonged.

  Upon reaching the manor, he began the long, slow scale of the wall. One foot up and then another, each hand and foothold searched for and then found in the stone. Midway, he stopped to catch his breath. From his perch he saw the rolling river that led to the village, the sharp point of the chapel’s steeple. He hoped Petra had beaten him to her room. He told himself that he only needed to be sure that she had returned safely. He did not intend to hang from a sill waiting for her.

  He wondered how Rohan fared and whether they would be able to stop Chambers. If Chambers discovered Rohan’s interference, Chambers would have him killed. How many deaths had Rohan endured? Anger and another emotion he couldn’t identify flared through him. He reached Petra’s windowsill seconds later.

  The room was empty. He debated only a moment and then swung over the ledge.

  The fire in the grate burned orange. If Petra returned he’d have nowhere to hide and no excuse for being in her bedchamber. If she called out, if he were discovered, conventions would force an immediate marriage. Still, he stood in the center of the room, because he couldn’t leave, even though he knew he couldn’t stay.

  Someone had taken the quilt off her bed and a trail of dirty, Petra sized foot prints led out the door.

  He smiled because even though he did not know Petra well, he knew her well enough to know that she would give her quilt to the wounded Roma.

  Petra woke the next morning when Mary arrived carrying a tray of food. Sitting up on her elbows, Petra pushed the hair out of her eyes.

  “Good morning, miss,” Mary nearly sang.

  Petra grumbled a sleepy reply. “Is breakfast in bed typical?” The day before she’d found it awkward to balance her tray. She hated the thought of spilling something sticky on her sheets.

  “Oh, no, miss. Breakfast trays are only for when the master is away.” Mary lowered her voice to a whisper. “Lord Garret likes his lie-a-bed.” Mary winked as if Petra would find this interesting.

  “And the Earl, does he like to lie-whatever too?”