The Glass Butterfly
By A.G. Howard
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 A.G. Howard. All rights reserved. Printed and bound in U.S.A.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to the publisher: Golden Orb Press.
For more information on A.G. Howard and her books, visit her website: www.aghoward.com
Table of Contents
Part I: Nostalgia and Nightmares Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part II: The Substance of Consequence Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Epilogue
Chapter One
Province of Ulster, Northern Ireland
May, 1907
Breaking into a wealthy estate should never be this easy. No night watchmen posted, no dogs sniffing around … it was as if the grand countess wanted her enclosed garden to get robbed. Butterfly consortiums were all the rage back in London. A symbol of wealth and prestige second only to Orchid collecting. Perhaps such a hobby wasn’t quite so prestigious here in Ireland.
Or it could be that she’s relying upon the ghosts to protect her.
Nick Thornton had heard rumors aplenty from the townspeople of Carnlough of the haunted castle in the hills. Peering through the iron bars where it rose in the distance from a well-kempt courtyard of shrubs, vines, and lattices, he could see how such talk began. The estate was isolated—ghoulish even, especially on such a foggy night. Unfamiliar sounds added to the eerie atmosphere. A constant hum of katydids and the occasional call of some night bird or frog grew faint each time the cool wind rattled the trees with a keening whine.
His gaze settled on the castle’s turret where mist draped the tip like an otherworldly nest hoarding an un-hatched batch of specters. A sane man would be unnerved by the sight. But it called to him, in more ways than one. He had grown up in a fortress of stone similar to this, and was, after all born of a ghost story, as was his twin brother and little sister. Also, he’d long since bid sanity farewell, having seen much ghastlier vistas when he used to dance with opium every night.
He looked over his shoulder to assure his faithful companion—a one-eared pit bull terrier—still waited quietly behind him. Careful not to disturb the large brass bell hanging from the top of the gate, Nick wedged his carving knife between the fence’s iron frame and the lock. He would’ve preferred a diamond pick or short hook for this particular mechanism, but he’d sold his entire set of picklocks piece by piece to fund a ferry trip across the Celtic. So now he had to resort to more primitive methods.
Utilizing the shy patch of moonlight that illumined his gloved hands and the turn-style latch, he jiggled the blade to force the metal bar into its socket, bypassing the locking component. The gate swung open with a creak.
The sound uncoiled through his spine—a tangible warning. He tucked his knife away then sunk several steps back into the shadowy firs of the surrounding forest that filled the air with a crisp evergreen scent. Piney needles poked through his coat’s collar. He brushed the branch aside. A familiar whimper sounded as his dog pushed between his knees. Nick caught the eager pit bull by the scruff as he tried to lunge and muscled him back from the courtyard’s entrance.
“Easy there, Johnny Boy,” he whispered and untangled his legs from around the dog’s ribcage. He knelt down, rubbing Johnny’s one good ear. “You know the rules. We wait to assure no one heard us. You’re as rusty as those gate hinges, old chap.”
As if in apology, the dog licked Nick’s nose and panted, lips curled upward.
Nick grinned back—a genuine smile. Not the one he’d been sporting over the past two years. Not one of concession to assuage his disappointed father. But an expression of hope: an emotion that had eluded him ever since.
Despair knotted in his throat before he could finish the thought. He swallowed and the lump metastasized in his chest, an ache so intense he had to force himself to breathe. Adjusting his hat, he absently touched the earring in his left ear—a diamond stud—the deficient remains of a wedding ring.
He had to reach Mina. To beg forgiveness for his unforgivable sin. It was the only way to live again.
His thoughts strayed to his belongings hidden in the forest … the pocket-sized almanac on spiritual folklore from around the world. He’d stolen it from an eclectic bookstore in London almost a year ago. Thus far, the pages’ contents hadn’t helped in his quest.
If things went well tonight, that would soon change.
He scanned the shadowy courtyard. Seeing no movement other than snaky wisps of fog, he eased within the gate. Johnny Boy loped a few steps ahead, nose to the pebbled path and ear perked.
Catching the dog’s attention with a tongue cluck, Nick hedged toward a glass enclosure to the right. Sporadic glimpses of moonlight reflected off the panes, capturing his image. Seeing himself dressed in thief’s garb brought back memories. None of them good.
A black coachman hat hid his plaited shoulder-length blonde hair; black trousers hugged his thighs; and an ebony rifle-frock coat swung open to reveal the dark shirt buttoned-up to the edge of his golden beard. The coat’s hem skimmed his shins when it should have grazed his ankles. Nick had broad shoulders and stood taller than most. Such strapping lads. His deaf mother used to sign the words with pride—about him and his twin, Julian. A pride that was all too short lived in Nick’s case.
He stalled at the greenhouse door, pleased to find the entrance unlocked. Just as he’d hoped, the dowager was unaware of the invaluable treasure harbored within. If she knew of the spiritual quality of her butterflies, she’d no doubt have them under lock and key. She was a superstitious woman, judging by the stories surrounding her estate. A fact substantiated by the haunted romance novel she’d dreamed up. He’d read passages himself, as his sister Emilia had been the coauthor.
Nick left home, almost three years back while they were still writing. Surely the duo had finished by now. He hoped the ending was a happy one. At least happier than his own tragic tale.
Kneeling to cup Johnny Boy’s muzzle, he met the dog’s soulful gaze. “Stay here and watch my back. Warn me if anyone’s coming.”
Snorting, the dog turned around and planted his haunches in front of the door, ear at
attention and eyes trailing the length of the courtyard.
Nick’s heart warmed. Johnny always managed to awaken a burst of fondness when no other human could evoke anything but shame and regret. Granted, the dog wasn’t technically a person, but he was the closest thing to a friend in this foreign land. And he was more human than some people Nick had known in his life.
Stepping into the greenhouse, Nick sealed the entrance behind him. He removed his gloves and tucked them in his pocket, reaching in the darkness for the slick glass he couldn’t see but knew would be there. Duel doors were standard in butterfly conservatories and enclosed gardens—one to enter, then the other to provide passage after the first one shut—to prevent escape of any insects or birds.
His family had a greenhouse much like this one, though larger, at their Manor of Diversions—a holiday escape replete with hot water springs, shops, and amusement rides. A butterfly garden had been his father’s most recent addition to their estate, though Nick never saw its completion. Another change he’d missed out on in his absence, though more forgivable than missing his beloved sister Emilia’s sixteenth birthday, and the birth of his nephew to Willow and his twin.
There was no way he could’ve faced that healthy, perfect infant, after what had become of his own.
Clenching his jaw against a goring sensation in his chest, Nick slipped through the second door and secured it, the familiar tang of dewy plants and humid soil welcoming him with a bittersweet nostalgia. He glanced over his shoulder through the transparent entrance. Though difficult to make out much detail, the silhouette of Johnny Boy’s intent vigil bolstered his resolve.
He hadn’t planned to come here unannounced. He’d first thought to introduce himself. His name would’ve been recognized. No doubt he would’ve been cordially received and put up for the night. His family had been buying pupas via post for three years, which had evolved into his sister’s writing correspondences with the reclusive dowager.
However, after rethinking, Nick opted to sneak in quietly for some reconnaissance, and leave out his family entirely. He’d done enough damage to the Thornton name in London … had no intention of repeating those mistakes here in Ireland.
It wasn’t the dowager he was here to see anyway. He intended to gain audience with the visionary lepidopterist who worked for her: Professor Jasper Blackwood.
Unlikely the scientist would be in his garden this late in the evening. However, if the special breed of tropical butterflies were here, Nick would present himself at the castle door under an alias to see how much the professor knew. According to Nick’s stolen almanac, the insects had the ability to connect with spirits and cross into the afterlife. So ironic, that his only hope for peace and redemption depended upon these creatures with fragile glasslike wings…
Taking tentative steps forward in the darkness, he used random spills of moonlight to piece together a view. Fog and clouds drifted above the glass roof, causing the ground to appear to move. He planted his feet apart to steady himself. Dust motes swirled in the soft beams, draping the flowers and foliage in purple-blue shadows. The gloomy artistry could’ve been a landscape wrought in one of his drug-induced states.
Leaves rustled at the far end of the glass house. A dark sweep of movement caught Nick’s attention. His pulse jumped. Before he could react, there was a sharp crack. The sensation of something wrapping below his kneecap sliced through his trousers.
His flesh peeled back to expose a glimpse of bone as his knee tugged out from under him with a harsh jerk. Losing his balance, he hit the ground and banged the back of his head. Warm liquid oozed from his leg and saturated his torn trousers. A potent odor laced the air. He felt dazed … dizzy and disoriented. Losing his grip on reality, he drifted into the past—his clothes soaked with blood that was not his own.
Johnny Boy’s bark dragged him to the present again. The dog threw himself against the glass, desperate to get in. Gasping air to clear his mind, Nick attempted to stand on his good leg. The lasso beneath his left knee tightened, gored deeper into the wound, and held him down. His fingers curled around the leather binding. He gritted his teeth, head pounding and nausea twisting his gut.
The leathery rope grew taut at his touch. Someone held the other end.
Cursing, Nick searched out his knife with one hand and jerked the cord with the other. He misjudged the lightness of his captor. The assailant flew into him, crashing atop his body with a grunt as if caught off guard by the strength of his pull. As they wrestled, a faint citrusy-spice filled the air.
Situating his free foot against a mound of dirt, Nick flipped to straddle his attacker, breaking the man’s hold on the whip in the same move.
Propped on his elbow, Nick caught the lapel of his opponent’s tweed jacket. He slanted his knife beneath their jaw line, puckering the skin. The man gasped for breath and stopped fighting, frozen. Sweat beaded on Nick’s forehead. Fuzziness swarmed him as his wounded leg shot pulses of fire up through his kneecap.
“What the hell’re y’doing? Y’drugged mmmeee …” Nick slurred. He couldn’t make out his opponent’s face for the darkness and his blurred vision, but the man felt slight—his bone structure delicate beneath his clothes and hat. It must be the professor …
The bind on Nick’s leg tightened as his attacker caught hold again and whispered breathlessly, “At long last we meet, Dark Raven.”
Unsure if he’d heard the cryptic words clearly, Nick grappled for his waning concentration.
His opponent leapt into action. One hand slapped away Nick’s knife as another covered his nose and mouth with a linen handkerchief. A scent akin to rubbing alcohol gushed into his lungs.
Ether.
Gulping shallow breaths, Nick struggled to turn his chin, but the more he fought, the more he inhaled. His whiskery chin snagged on the fabric and he rolled off to escape the hanky, but it was too late. His pain numbed and he fell to his back, floating … floating in his mind toward the strands of moonlight washing over his face.
Fingertips as soft as petals smoothed his temple—encouraging him to fade away.
Against his will, Nick’s eyes fluttered shut.
As the hanky slid free from his nose, he heard his attacker whisper: “No. Not you. How could it be you?”
Then a black, snowy emptiness seeped into Nick’s head, muffling the sound of crashing glass and Johnny Boy’s agonized yelps.
Chapter Two
“What were you thinking, Dove? Executing a reconnaissance alone. You’re shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.”
“Posh. I’m fine. And I haven’t a scratch.” Felicity Lonsdale brushed past her groundskeeper and strode toward her room at the end of the candlelit passage. Clooney was a dear old friend, more like a father than a servant, with a tendency to over-worry. She couldn’t admit to him why she was shaking … why her heart thundered like a storm had broken loose in her chest.
“We’ve got our Dark Raven,” she managed. “Tis all that matters.” Peeling off her hat, she shook her long hair from its pins and added, “Do we know how he got here?”
“The stable hands heard a horse nickering in the forest. They’re searching for it now. I’ll have them put it in our stables.”
“Fair enough. So, are our intruders settled into their bed?”
Clooney rubbed a knuckle along his wiry white beard and moustache. “Aye. Binata is tending them.”
Felicity smiled at that. The Nigerian nanny’s authoritative manner and maternal instincts would keep the man and his dog in line, should they start feeling spry enough to cause trouble. “Will they be all right?” She loosened the cravat from around her neck. Her boots scuffed along the marble floors.
“The hound is whimpering,” Clooney answered, “none too happy with the seam I made in his throat. I removed the shards, but one came nigh to severing his windpipe. The valerian and passion flower oil you had on the whip worked well enough to slow down the man. So, I used some on the dog to help with his pain.”
“Never hav
e I seen a more faithful pet,” Felicity said, her heart softening despite herself. “Bursting through the glass to save his master.”
She’d always been grateful for Clooney’s past walk as a physician. There had been countless times he’d saved the life of someone she cared for, herself included. It also gave her great relief that the castle had an abundance of bedchambers. Since her captives were on the fourth floor, she and her nieces could sleep through the night in their second story rooms without hearing the dog’s whimpers. She didn’t want anything waking up her girls and scaring them.
“And our Raven?” she asked. Remembering how gruesome her captive’s leg had looked as she staved off the bleeding, Felicity winced. She hadn’t meant to injure him to that degree. She’d been driven by anger and righteous fury; had thought he was … someone else entirely. “How is he?”
“Still asleep. I stitched his ripped skin. Your whip damaged some muscle, too. Oh, and he has some bruised ribs and a bump on his noggin. Pretty busted up for a ghost.”
Clooney smiled, but Felicity couldn’t bring herself to share his levity. She straightened a painting—red velvety butterflies on a black background—as they passed through the corridor. She couldn’t seem to assuage the guilt turning in her abdomen. “He must be in a lot of pain.”
“That ether you gave him is keeping him oblivious. But he’ll be feeling it in the morn. Hope you’re right about him being Donal Landrigan’s sidekick. Otherwise…” The groundskeeper’s thin body stiffened as he walked alongside her, boney shoulders hunched beneath a plaid gardening shirt.
He tucked a hand in the trouser pocket where he always kept his pipe. He rarely lit up due to his allergy to tobacco smoke. Chewing on the stem was often enough of a comfort to him. But judging by the scent of smoke emanating off his clothes and the moisture glistening in his bloodshot eyes, he’d given in to temptation earlier. He was obviously worried for her and the girls.
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