by Amy Marie
Distracting myself, I glance at the clock. It’s no use – I’ve lost track of what time of day it would be without windows. It’s rather gloomy with the prospect of no light in this place.
Darcy said he wouldn’t be back until evening, which is strange. I make a mental note to ask him about it, along with my endless list of other questions.
Getting up to get my blood flowing, I pace the room and do some exercises to pass the time. I snack on some of the leftover food on the tray, and tidy myself up with fresh water from the ewer.
It’s a relief to find that the change of clothes left for me are simple and relaxed, with a pair of shorts and a fitted bright yellow t-shirt. I blush at the underwear and try not to think about how they were chosen for me.
It’s amazing – everything is sized perfectly and fits like a glove.
Feeling refreshed, I grab the stack of books and carry them over to the bed. A quick sort through them helps me decide which one will be most helpful in occupying my time.
I shuffle through the first few books in the stack: The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, The Age of Reason – no light reading here. I push on towards the bottom of the pile and come up with a good old-fashioned children’s fairy tale to give me a mental escape from this dark room.
The story titled Belle et la Bête by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont has always been one of my favorite fairy tales. This book is an old English translation edition of the French children’s tale that was abridged from the original.
I examine the aged leather-bound book. The fragile spine is intricately decorated with a floral imprint that is well worn from years of avid reading. In fact, it appears so old, I’m amazed that it’s staying intact. The book itself is really quite beautiful.
Out of sheer curiosity, I gently flip open the worn cover to the title page, and skip over the French titles to the part that is translated to English in an effort to find out its publication date. Suddenly the last line of French catches my eye: Première édition. M. DCC. L. VII.
First Edition?
It only takes me a moment looking at the arrangement of letters to figure out the Roman numeral. If my knowledge of numerals is correct, I’m holding a first edition publishing of Beauty and the Beast from 1757.
I gently set down the book and back away. A first edition copy of that book would be worth a fortune. It seems a crime to find it in a place that can be compared to a fancier version of a prison cell.
A closer examination of the other books proves them all to be similarly described. First edition books published in the mid 1700’s. I look around the room with new eyes: the candles, the tea set, the furnishings, and the books. It’s all basic to me, but decently luxurious at the time these books were published.
There are definitely some new questions I have for Darcy. I set the priceless books gently aside and calmly take a seat on the bed with my eyes fixed on the clock. I pass the time, patiently waiting for my door to unlock as I arm my mind with an assault of questions for the dark stranger.
Like clockwork, after the small hand pushes past the eighth hour, there is a soft click from the other side of the door. This time though, it’s followed by a soft knock.
Opening the door to the dark hazel eyes, I nod and accept an offered basket of fresh clothing and toiletries, setting them on the bed with a quick thank you. I turn back and push past him to exit the room, eager for another look around the space.
Aware that Darcy is watching my every move, I feign interest over each detail of the four walls in the great room. I express curiosity at the other three corner rooms, all the while scanning for signs of an exit.
I look through a second room similar to mine in one corner; a kitchen area, complete with everything one would need in a second corner; and a third corner room that is set up as a storage room housing supplies of all kinds. I note that any exit from this underground fortress is well hidden from my eyes.
My eyes fall on a large copper tub in the storage room longingly. I haven’t seen any sign of a shower down here. Sighing, I turn my attention back to the great room, internally grateful that there’s at least plumbing and a flushing toilet in the water closet.
This reminder of the lack of modernization brings back to mind all of my questions for Darcy, so I make my way back to the sitting area and patiently wait for him to join me.
After going through the same routine of refreshments – this time hot beef and vegetable stew with bread is provided – Darcy levels his gaze at me as if anticipating the inquiry.
There are so many questions in my head, it’s hard for me to focus on where to begin. So instead, I state the obvious, “You’ve hidden the exit from me.”
Darcy looks to the ground to hide a small smile. His reaction has me wondering if that was not what he expected to hear out of my mouth first, or if it was exactly what he had anticipated.
After a moment, he nods and says, “I have arranged for you to have free reign of these accommodations without the risk of flight. In hopes it will help you to feel less suffocated. It is the most I am able to offer without risking your safety for the time being.”
“How long do you plan on holding me against my will?” I ask.
“Against your will, not long. But I do hope you will choose to stay in safety. As we get into more detail of the situation, you will be free to choose what to do next.”
“Then tell me!” I snap, frustrated already.
“I have told you, it cannot simply be stated. It must be shown to you. How long it takes will depend on you. Sufficient arrangements have been made with your school, your work, and your family, letting them know that you are safe, but unable to attend or contact them for the time being.”
“How could you have possibly managed that?” I ask, unable to fathom how he could’ve simply smoothed my disappearance over.
“It has been managed.”
Losing my patience, I start spouting off questions. “Why do you only unlock my door at night? And why are we underground? There’s no sign of daylight here and it’s driving me crazy!” Before he has a chance to respond, I continue rambling, “What is this place? And why does everything here seem to be like I’m living hundreds of years ago?” I throw my arms up gesturing at every antiquated detail from the furnishings to the décor.
Darcy sits back and looks at me with a challenged glare. “I unlock your door at night because that is when I am available to answer your questions. We are underground because this is where it is safe. This place is my refuge, most basically my home. I decorate my home the way I see fit.”
Every answer that he gives me is frustratingly sufficient in answering my questions without truly answering them.
He must’ve been a politician in another life.
I stare at him coolly. “How do you expect me to understand the truth you are so longing to tell me, if you evade it yourself?”
He sighs holding his hands up in surrender, “You are right. I apologize.”
“Who are you?” I ask. “Where are you from, and how do you know Talbot? And what do either of you have to do with me?”
It’s exasperating to have a stranger look at you as if they know you too well. Darcy is looking at me in that exact manner as he says, “Please understand, I will never lie to you, but there are some things that it might take a little longer for me to explain to you. Some things must have proper time to be told and sometimes shown, they cannot simply be stated.”
At my nod, he continues, “As I have told you, my name is Darcy Donovan Hughes. The question is not where I am from, but when. I know Talbot because he killed my dear friend, and I believe he killed the woman I loved. He hunted me and cursed my existence, and his very purpose is to destroy anything in and around my life. What either of us have to do with you is yet to be determined.”
Letting his words sink in, one word forms a question in the forefront of my mind.
“When?” I ask.
“I was born November 11, 1744.”
Chapter 1
2
When the grip on reality is lost, everything spins.
My head is doing just that.
He’s a lunatic!
I’m now convinced that I’ve been kidnapped and am being held hostage by a madman.
My face must be conveying my thoughts clearly, because Darcy rushes to explain, “I know you have been having dreams, and deep down you know that what I am telling you is true.”
Freezing up, I wonder how he could possibly know about my dreams. The thought of my most recent dream involving the two of us turns me every shade of red.
Grasping for any kind of reasonable explanation, I think back to my conversation with Uncle Mike and what ended up being revealed about Talbot, and his Revolutionary origins.
As much as a part of me wants to try to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, there just doesn’t seem to be a way that I can accept this information as true. I’m fighting my mind which wants to reject it all.
Darcy interrupts my musings, “Have you ever had a memory from a dream that you felt was real, no matter how unbelievable it may seem? The dreams and the memories… they are there for a reason. If you just looked at me and remembered, you would know what I am saying is true.”
His words ring true in my head. I stare at the ground to avoid him. “When I look at you, I do remember you. But I was not born in the eighteenth century. This doesn’t make sense to me.”
The rational part of my brain can’t even begin to entertain this situation. I try to logically put together any kind of explanation, but come up short.
I work on making a mental list of what I know: He was born in the mid 1700’s, everything around us is antique, his speech and his mannerisms match an old-world era, he has a connection to a revolutionary British officer, he only appears at night…
My thoughts halt.
Visions of ghosts and vampires overrun my mind. “What are you, some kind of monster?”
He flinches at that. “I am cursed.”
“Please explain that, before I give in to my ridiculous urge to stab you with a wooden stake, or shoot you with a silver bullet,” I say, making a poor attempt at humor in my discomfort.
He gives a wry smile and shakes his head. “I wish you understood the humor in that.”
I continue to stare at him until he finally sighs and relents to tell his story.
“As I told you, I was born in 1744. Originally from Scotland, my father was killed in the ’45 Rising and my mother and I fled to America in the aftermath of that war. Not long after, my mother passed, and my uncle raised me. He trained me in his area of expertise of written calligraphy to copy manuscripts for a local seminary.
“When I attended University, I met a good friend who knew the art of printing. Due to our mutual interests and skills, we decided to partner in business shortly after my uncle died.
“Upon recovering his deceased father’s estate, Gabe and I were able to put together a respectable and profitable printing business in Boston. The injustices of the time led us to begin to get involved into local politics, and we began moonlighting for the rebel cause.”
This story has been told to me before, but from a different angle.
Gabe. Gabriel Grafton.
My thoughts are frighteningly full of thrill as I trace a full connection from Uncle Mike’s research, to Talbot, to this man, and somehow to my dreams.
My breath catches in shock. I dreamed of Darcy’s connection with Gabriel Grafton before I knew of it.
How could I have done that?
The desire to voice that question builds up inside of me, but I remain silent, refusing to describe my dream to the man who played the intimate leading role in it.
Darcy continues, “At that time, the neighboring estate was housing a British officer, Brigadier General Marcus Talbot. He was a man who had a devious way of handling his duties. But there was something more evil about him. When he carried out his heinous acts, there was no emotion in him. No anger, no fear, no hate even. It was just emptiness, and that was even more frightening.”
When Darcy describes Talbot, I understand exactly what he means. The lack of emotion gives him an inhuman quality. It was what set me off in warning when I first saw him.
I’m trembling at the description and recollections of Talbot.
Darcy notices my reaction and softens his voice as he moves on, “But the neighbor also had a beautiful daughter. She was very kind and pure, and practically a sister to Gabe. She and I eventually grew to be close as well, though it took some time.” He gives a sad smile at the recollection of the girl.
“Talbot was vying for her hand in an arrangement with her father, we originally thought for some sort of personal or political gain. But when Gabe and I tried to save her from that fate and reveal his true crimes, he set us up and had Gabe killed. Though I think he was already looking for an excuse to come after us for some time anyway.”
He glances away, and I wonder if he’s referring to the conspiracy that Uncle Mike had described involving the secret text. I decide to let him finish before I ask about it.
“But you escaped?” I ask.
“I did, with the neighbor girl. We went into hiding at the local seminary with the help of some friends of my late uncle. But after a time, Talbot set the bait by using her father’s life to draw her out of hiding. And then he took her. I never found out what happened to her. But he eventually came after me, and after losing the only two people left that I cared about, I faced him.”
“What happened?” I ask, engrossed in his story.
He reaches to a concealed sheath on his belt that I had not noticed before, and pulls out a beautiful golden-hilt dagger.
My heart stops for a moment in fear. Seeing my reaction, he puts his hands up in good faith, and sets the dagger down on the table between us.
The weapon has an intricate woven design wrapped around its golden grip. The pattern comes to an end at the bloom of a single golden rose decorating the pommel. The design is so captivating, I automatically reach out to touch the rose, but Darcy stops me.
“No! It is just… I am not sure how, but it could have to do with the curse. I do not want you to be harmed.”
At my questioning look, he continues his story, “We fought like we both had nothing to lose. I was full of every emotion, and he was full of none. Finally, when I thought I had fatally wounded him, he pulled out this blade and stabbed me. He chanted strange words and then pulled the blade out using my hand to stab himself. After that, I must have lost consciousness.”
I look at the dagger in fear. I can almost picture the battle in the morning mist.
Have I dreamt of something similar?
“When I woke, I was in blinding pain in the sunlight, and my wound had healed and left no scar. The dagger lay beside me and Talbot was nowhere to be found. I crawled my way to some shade and hid until nighttime, when the pain eased and I could move about freely.”
That explains the lack of windows.
“For the longest time, I could find no trace of Talbot. But I noticed over the years that any injuries I would ever sustain would not permanently wound, and would immediately heal. The only lasting pain I ever felt was when I went into the sunlight, and I would be immobilized in agony. I also noticed over time that I was not aging, and came to conclude that I had been cursed.”
I look from the dagger to Darcy, and back and forth, over and over again as I try to sort out this information. How does one process things that have only been described in fairy tales?
“Are you alive?” I ask.
“I wish I knew,” is his grave response. “My heart beats, I eat, I sleep, and I breathe. But I have unfortunately tried every way to die over hundreds of years, and have been unsuccessful.”
“What happened after, with Talbot?”
“It was nearly two hundred years before I found him again. And even then, I had just caught a glimpse of him. I was too late to stop him from murdering a young woman. When I realized what had happened, I vowed
I would never give him another chance. The next time I saw him, was after I followed you, and he showed up at your apartment.”
“What is he?” I’d been thinking that my fear of Talbot couldn’t grow any stronger, but this conversation has proven me wrong.
“He is a destructor. The purest of evil, ceaseless to destroy until there is nothing left,” Darcy says this while staring into the fire.
I find myself unable to understand this logic and try to focus on possible motives. Remembering the conspiracy, I ask, “Why did he come after you and Gabriel? And why does he come after me now?”
“This is getting into the area of information that I cannot simply explain to you. But I can tell you he came after all of us because there is something that connects us, something that I will try to show you, though it may take some time.”
With a huff, I ask, “What if I don’t believe you? You could just as easily be a crazed kidnapper.”
He looks at me sideways with arrogance.
“Even if I did not know better, your expressions are quite easy to read. I can tell that part of you knows there is truth here. And not that you need it…but here,” he looks down as he grabs the dagger and slices it across his forearm in an attempt to provide me proof.
I gasp at the bloody gash that opens along the path the blade draws across his skin, but my heart literally skips a beat as the wound closes back up nearly as quickly as the blade cuts. It happens so fast; it’s like a magic trick. My mind is rejecting the miracle I just witnessed.
No, not miracle. Curse.
I fight every instinct not to grab the dagger and give him a stab myself to see it again, but remembering his hesitations about the curse, I stop.
I gape openly at Darcy and wonder if all of this could really be happening.
“You keep saying you know me,” I say softly, taking in his familiar features again, “but how?”
His hesitation warns me that I’ve wandered into the area that he won’t openly discuss.