The Lady in the Coppergate Tower

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Sam took stock of his surroundings. A corridor circled the perimeter of the tower, and he spied an opening. He stepped inside and looked up into what seemed an eternity of gears and cogs. He felt as though he’d stepped into a giant clock. The mechanisms turned in perfect precision, enormous and loud, and he quickly realized that to scale the pieces themselves would lead to a bloody mess if he slipped.

  How had Petrescu gotten Hazel to the top? Elana and her Aunt Ursula had confirmed there was a room at the top of the tower, which meant there must be a way to deliver food and basic supplies to whoever was in that room. He skirted around the base of the machinery, eventually spying a long shaft on the wall that shot upward. Just before him, at the base, was a door, and he realized it must be a lift that led to the room at the top. To the left of the lift was another door, but it was larger, ornate, and aged.

  He assumed Hazel was in the top of the tower, but Ursula had said the original family crypt was underneath. The larger of the two doors was clearly the one leading to the crypt. He moved closer, undecided, when something glinted in the light of his torch. Several strands of golden hair were trapped in the lift door.

  He swallowed, his mouth dry, and opened the lift door. He grasped the strands and shone the light into the interior of the box. Blood had been smeared along the frame and wall. His heart beat faster as he stepped inside the lift.

  He found a lever and pulled it. The door closed as the lift began to rise. Uncertain of what he would find at the top, he braced himself and pulled his ray gun from the holster. The lift climbed higher, before eventually grinding to a stop. One heartbeat, two, and the door finally slid open.

  There on the floor was Hazel’s braid. He dropped the torch, lunged forward, and grabbed the hair, and a violent shove from the side sent him sprawling. The gun went flying, and Sam cursed his stupidity. He ought to have been steadier, ready for an attack, but the sight of Hazel’s braid had stunned him.

  He scrambled to his feet, and when he finally caught a glimpse of his attacker, he stumbled back in surprise.

  “What are you doing out of jail?” he grunted, and then coughed as Renton caught him in the ribs.

  “Your little pretty asked the same thing,” Renton snarled. “Just before I sliced off her hair.”

  Sam muscled his way free of the man’s grasp and felt a cold violence in him that he hadn’t experienced since returning from the battlefield in India. “What did you do to her?” He grasped Renton’s lapels and shoved, forcing his back against the wall near the window. “Where is she?” he shouted, shoving his forearm against the man’s neck.

  Renton’s face turned red, but then he smiled. “Took them both, I did, pretty little mirror images.” He thrust his knee up, but Sam twisted away in time that the blow hit his thigh. He still flinched backward, and it was enough that Renton could shove Sam’s arms away.

  “’Course, they’re a little different now—one with hair, and one without . . .” He grinned, and blood showed in his teeth where Sam had hit him. “Though neither one will be pretty at all when Petrescu finishes with ’em.”

  “Where are they?” Sam shouted again as Renton grabbed him and swung him around and shoved him hard into the window’s shutter.

  He strained against Renton’s grip, trying to twist and spin into a better position, looking for the gun. He finally shoved Renton back again, reversing their positions so Renton’s back was to the window. He tried to tear free and dash across the room for his gun, but Renton held tight. Sam smashed his forehead into the bridge of Renton’s nose, and as the man howled in rage, Sam angled to lift Renton’s body in an attempt to shove him out the window.

  Renton’s head and shoulders were finally out of the window, and as the other man screamed, Sam realized his own arms burned in pain. He tried to loosen his hands and pull his arms back, but Renton held tight. In his own attempt to escape the burning barrier, Renton lunged back, grabbing Sam’s arms and pulling him out with him.

  Sam went through the window with Renton, the sensations slowing to searing, hellish pain. His head was on fire, his eyes burned, and the inferno scorched and burned his body from head to foot as he plunged through the window and out into the night. They tumbled and fell, locked together, the wind trapping Sam’s scream in his throat.

  The side of the tower sped past him, and then he landed atop Renton’s body on the spiked thorns below. The searing pain of the thorns tearing into his skin began to fade as he lost all feeling, all rational thought.

  The last sensation he registered was the soft braid of long, curling hair—hair that glinted in the sunlight and felt like spun silk in his hands—that fell from the window above and landed on the back of his neck like a caress.

  His breath left his body in a long, ragged sigh.

  Hazel looked over the bones in the crypt. Clothing that had once been rich now lay in tatters over a skeleton that wore a talisman and several rings.

  “I find it oddly satisfying to see him in such a state.” Dravor looked at the remains dispassionately. “It will be far more satisfying to subject him to my will, however. I have uses for him elsewhere.”

  Hazel swallowed and looked up at Dravor. “You mean to remove him from the crypt? For what purpose?”

  “To serve me.”

  Silence followed his pronouncement.

  “He will be nothing more than a zombie,” Hazel said when she found her voice. “And should he prove . . . difficult . . .” She swallowed. “I imagine your plans would be complicated if the Impaler were again turned loose on the world.”

  Dravor regarded her with the look of feigned sympathy she’d come to hate. “He’ll be under my control, my dear, not his own. Have you not read extensively on the zombie condition?”

  “I have read enough to know there is more that we don’t know about the condition than what we do.”

  “Because the world has never seen a zombie raised by a truly gifted Resurrectionist.” He extended his hands. “Or two, as the case may be.”

  “Why not let the body be at rest once the incantation is complete?” Hazel finally said. “That is a variable that may escape your control.”

  “Because he killed my mother!” Dravor’s roar echoed through the chamber, and both women jumped at the suddenness of it. “I thought that ending his life would bring me satisfaction, but it has not!”

  Hazel tugged subtly on Marit’s hand, and they moved to the foot of the coffin. It was logically a better vantage point, but she couldn’t decide if she and Marit would be better served to run at the first opportunity, or if they could possibly do more good if they remained. Perhaps they could learn how to reverse the process and be certain the dead man remained where he belonged.

  Hazel glanced at Marit and back at Dravor. “We have never done this.” She gestured to her sister. “You’ve bound my sister as surely as if she were tied and gagged, and I have no reference to draw on, no idea how to proceed.”

  “I have seen you heal, Hazel. You meditate, and the power flows from you. It is rather a sight to behold.” Dravor smiled. “We will learn as we go, the three of us.”

  Hazel stared. “I was exhausted after Sally’s surgery. Suppose this kills us?”

  “You will be all the more motivated to master the art of Resurrection quickly, then.”

  Hazel released a breath, a laugh, and put her hand to her temple. Madness. It was madness, and she and Marit would be held captive to it until it destroyed them.

  Dravor indicated the coffin. “Enough delays, no more arguments from you. I never dreamed parenting would be so trying. Join hands.” He waved his hands and crossed them. “The other hands, with the chains.”

  They hesitated.

  “Now.” His voice was cold.

  Hazel thought of Sam. Was he even alive? The sooner they finished this business in the crypt, the sooner she could protect the ones she loved from Dravor’
s evil.

  She glanced at her sister, whose eyes were glossy with unshed tears. Hazel traded her hand, their chains touched, and the warmth spread. Turning her attention to the body in the coffin, she visualized, reluctantly, a healthy form.

  She held the image, and narrowed her focus. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and pain radiated from her head. Her own ignorance of the process both frightened and frustrated her, and she concentrated on her mental image more firmly, shutting out everything around her.

  Nothing happened. Nothing!

  If she couldn’t figure something out, Dravor would either kill them or keep them locked together indefinitely. She felt her nose run and wiped it, anxious to see her hand come away smeared red with blood.

  Marit, she thought, and imagined sending the message to her sister. This isn’t working. Focus with me. Imagine the body well and whole.

  Marit squeezed her fingers in reply, and Hazel felt both a sense of comfort and a surge of energy.

  To her horror and fascination, the bones began to twitch and quiver. The biological matter beneath it gathered and spread, becoming sinew and muscle, tissue and organs, that knit and fused together over the skeletal structure.

  Marit’s grip on Hazel’s hand tightened.

  Hazel glanced at Dravor, whose face glowed in satisfaction as he watched his father reappear. Energy passed through her and around her, obliterating reality. She lost all sense of time and place. It might have been moments or hours, but suddenly, to her amazement and horror, a fully-formed man lay in the box. His eyes slowly blinked open.

  Dravor reached down and clipped a few strands of his father’s hair and placed them in his jacket pocket.

  “That will insure obedience?” Hazel murmured.

  “Possibly.” Dravor watched, fascinated, as the zombie slowly rose to a seated position.

  Hazel looked at the risen man, and her heart stuttered at the blankness in his eyes. This creature lacked a soul.

  “Hazel!”

  She snapped her attention back to Dravor, who glowered at her in rage.

  “Focus!”

  The zombie swayed in the coffin and clutched the side for balance. Hazel’s distraction had weakened the process, and Marit was unable to sustain the animation alone.

  Dravor barked something in Romanian. The creature blinked, and responded in a monotone that grew in inflection and speed. Conversation between father and son began to flow, and to Hazel’s amazement and dismay, the zombie soon became more animated, its voice surer, its gaze sharpening.

  The zombie turned its attention to Hazel and Marit, whose hands were clasped so tightly Hazel figured she’d be sore afterward. It said something to Dravor, still looking at the twins, and its mouth turned up in a smile that had Hazel feeling cold despite the warmth of the spell she and Marit cast.

  Marit blew out a soft breath and retreated half a step, pulling Hazel with her. The horrid satisfaction on the zombie’s face made Hazel feel ill. It seemed more fascinated by the twins’ abilities than anything Dravor had to say.

  Dravor must have realized it, because he shouted at the zombie, but the creature’s attention remained focused on the women. It said something to Dravor, the awful smile spreading, and braced its hands on the side of the stone coffin. It shoved itself upward and slowly began climbing out.

  Hazel and Marit retreated until their backs made contact with the wall.

  “We must release,” Hazel said and lifted their clasped hands. “We must stop this!”

  “No!” Dravor moved toward them, watching the zombie.

  “You are not controlling it!” she shouted.

  The zombie’s feet touched the ground, and it rose to its full height, watching Dravor and the twins with dark, soulless eyes.

  “One such as the Impaler will be impossible to manage,” Hazel said, her voice shaking.

  “I have a lock of his hair!” Dravor protested.

  Not adequate. For one who was docile in life, perhaps, but not this one. Marit’s voice sounded in Hazel’s head, and despite her fear, Hazel felt a surge of hope. We must reverse it, sister. Before it is too late.

  Hazel slowly began to release her hold on the mental image of a strong, whole man. The zombie stumbled against the coffin and caught itself with its arm.

  Dravor yelled, his calm and rational behavior vanishing. He rushed to the twins and grasped their joined hands. A spark flew from where he touched the metal chains the twins wore, and he withdrew quickly with a curse, examining his palm. With quiet fury, he said, “He has not yet spoken the full incantation! Do not release him until I instruct it.”

  Hazel eyed the zombie, who had again stood straight. Something was different, progressing. It seemed to be gathering strength as it slowly approached them.

  “The longer we hold him, the stronger he grows on his own,” Hazel said to Dravor. “He will destroy us all, including you.”

  The zombie was nearly upon them.

  Hazel made a decision and wrenched herself apart from Marit. The glow that had grown between them immediately faded, like a torch switched off, and the crackling sound in the air subsided. Echoing howls of rage from both zombie and mage bounced off the stone walls, and Hazel clamped her hands over her ears.

  The zombie fell to the floor, and the reanimation process reversed itself as quickly as it had happened. Skin, muscles, and organs dissolved away and disintegrated into bones and dust. The last of the echoes faded, and the room fell quiet. Dread built in Hazel’s stomach as she felt Dravor’s eyes on her.

  “Bring him back,” he bit out on a low growl. He grabbed their hands and forced them together, but even when their bracelets connected, nothing happened. “Bring him back!”

  “It won’t work.” Hazel’s voice trembled, but was firm. “You can’t force us to do something we haven’t studied.”

  Dravor dug his fingernails into their combined hands, and Hazel sensed the rage coursing through him. His goal may have been thwarted, but he was still lethal. He could kill either one of them in an instant.

  “You’ve killed me.” His voice was a quiet whip of fury.

  He is already dead, Marit’s voice rang in Hazel’s mind. Her eyes were clear, the calm before the storm. He is living on borrowed time—time that is not his own.

  Marit’s clarity added to Hazel’s anxiety. Please, do not attack me, Marit. Please. I cannot fight both you and the count.

  Dravor looked over his shoulder at the remains of his father, now far beyond reanimation. “Five centuries I have waited for this.” His tone was so low Hazel almost didn’t hear him. Still looking at his father’s skeleton, he grabbed Hazel by the throat with one hand and Marit with the other and slammed them up against the wall at their backs.

  She and Marit kicked and struggled, but he did not budge an inch. He tightened his hands, cutting off all air.

  Hazel clutched at Dravor’s hand with her free hand, clawing and tearing, to no avail. Spots gathered before her eyes, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Marit begin to slump.

  Hazel’s vision tunneled, the edges of her periphery dimming to a black circle that grew smaller as Marit’s voice echoed again in her head.

  He is already dead . . .

  Hazel grabbed for Marit’s hand, twisting with her last remaining strength to touch their chains together. She closed her eyes, feeling her consciousness fluttering, but envisioned Dravor as a living, breathing, five-hundred-year-old man.

  They could not kill, but they could heal. They could give life.

  Hazel felt warmth on her wrist, her chain connected to her sister’s, and her thoughts were peaceful.

  As suddenly as he had struck, Dravor dropped his hands, and the women collapsed to the ground.

  Hazel choked and gasped but clung to Marit. She looked at Dravor, who examined his hands in horror and then looked at her.

 
“What have you done?” His voice was gravelly, dry.

  “Brought you back to life,” Hazel choked.

  “You have ended me! Reverse it!” His form thinned, his cheeks growing gaunt. His coloring turned an awful shade of gray as his lips pulled back, revealing discolored teeth that began to fall out. He lunged at Hazel and Marit, his eyes large and furious even as his face decayed around him. His bony hand clutched at her clothing.

  He uttered one final shriek that echoed horribly around the cold chamber as his form completely dissolved into the dust he would have been had he died centuries earlier.

  Hazel collapsed against the wall, still wheezing for air, and Marit, coughing and choking, managed a laugh. It was different, though, not the crazed, confused laughter Hazel had heard so often over the last several hours.

  Marit’s laugh was bright and strong, though mixed with tears and coughs.

  Hazel glanced up at her to see clear eyes, free of the spells that had caused her thoughts to tumble and her reasoning to disappear.

  Hazel managed a laugh of her own and laid her head on Marit’s shoulder. They sat together for a long moment, simply breathing.

  Eventually, Marit rose slowly and extended her hand to Hazel. When they stood facing each other, Marit closed her eyes and gathered Hazel into a hug. “I knew you would come for me.”

  Hazel returned the embrace, finally feeling the missing piece of her life slip into place. She couldn’t wait to introduce her to Sam.

  She pulled back with a gasp. “Sam! Oh, no, no . . .” She turned and ran across the crypt, hearing Marit following, and tore up the stairs to the ground level and base of the tower.

  “Dravor said he was here—” Hazel said, her thoughts filled with panic.

  She had taken a step toward the lift when a shout sounded from outside. She tipped her head and listened. “Eugene?”