Spell of the Dark Castle (Chronicles of Zofia Trickenbod Book 2)

by Lorelei Bell

  Letting a sigh slip from her lips, and rolling her eyes, she unlocked the door and opened it. “What, you and Tillie both reading from the collection of bad jokes or something?”

  “No, madam,” Biddle said.“I just thought of cheese.”

  “Right.” She aimed a disgruntled look in his general direction and asked, “What—”

  “I did as you asked. I went into every room that was not locked.”

  “Were there a lot of locked doors?”

  “Yes. Several. Those which had fireplaces I entered through the chimney. But two were too hot for me to enter.”

  “Did you enter the Nest through one of the chimneys?”

  “Yes, through the larger one. I knew you would not want to be disturbed in your bedroom, madam, as you would be getting ready for tonight's date with the count.”

  “It's not a date,” she said quickly, and strode back toward her bed.

  “It certainly sounds like one to me,” Biddle said, following her close behind. She knew he was there because of his voice following her, and a displacement of air, as well. Biddle may be invisible, but he still had a solidity about him, as he wasn't a ghost.

  “It isn't a date,” she insisted and turned to face him. “Why couldn't you enter those chimneys? I thought Ghogals could take the heat of a chimney fire.” She changed the subject.

  “No, they weren't normal fires. They were very hot. I also detected a powerful chemical odor,” he added. And into the pause said, “As would come from an athanor.”

  “An athanor?” she said, surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite sure.”

  Frowning, she strode away. “I thought you said you don't breathe.”

  “What would I need to breath for?” he replied, vexed.

  She gave a sigh of indignation. “You told me you could smell—”

  “I said no such thing,” he argued in a mildly agitated tone, almost as if he were talking to her as a father might a stupid child. “I told you I detected a powerful chemical odor.”

  “Alright. Whatever,” she said, and began pacing in thought. A very hot fire would be required in an athanor—basic equipment in a very serious alchemist's lab. Of course. It was beginning to make sense. Saint Germain had that tin of salve pretty handy. Maybe he was an alchemist. It would explain a lot of things—the electricity, the harnessing ley line powers in order to work the Portals into whatever way he needed to travel through them—taking him anywhere, such as to First World.

  “Where would he get the fuel?” she muttered her question. The athanor, if she recalled correctly, had a self-feeding fuel supply, assuring constant temperature. He would need coal, not wood, in order to keep the temperature high, and it would feed down through a shoot, feeding itself as the need arose. She knew this only because once her father had shown her his own athanor. She had to wonder what he could be creating in these furnaces. She would have Biddle relocate these rooms, once they returned to the castle, so that she could hunt for these secret labs later on. This could prove difficult, but she might be able to claim being lost, if someone discovered her. If only she could sneak inside during the night. Night would be the ideal time to search the castle. It said so in her Knight's spy section of the Knight's Code book, but she didn't need a book to tell her when the right time to spy was at night when people were normally asleep.

  “Biddle, would you be able to locate these laboratories from inside the castle?” she asked.

  “I believe you, yourself, would be able to detect them as well as I. The doors were locked, however the odor of sulfur and other vial chemicals spewed forth. I have no doubt they could be located by smell alone.”

  “Yes. I see what you mean,” she said thoughtfully. “I imagine they would not be somewhere on the main floors, but deep down, inside the menhir.” In fact, she had been thinking that's where the very machine, which controlled the Portals, could possibly be. She couldn't imagine how large the machine might be, or what it might look like. She guessed it was quite large, and the room to hold it would have to be quite large as well. Thus, she knew the workings could not be inside the castle itself, but in the very bowels of the castle.

  Padding quickly to her night stand, she picked up The Wandering Traveler, and flipped through it, back and forth, trying to find the page she recalled reading something that had intrigued her when she had first read it. Finally she found the passage she was looking for and read the paragraphs Barty had written.

  There are rumors that the largest menhir—on top of which Dark Castle was built—is quite hollow. Possibly cave-like. In fact, what I have been able to discover from listening to various villagers, is that the larger of the two menhirs sits on what may be a very impressive, giant pool of super heated water—possibly exceeding 200 degrees—perilously supported by a wafer-thin, fragile crust that rests over a subterranean hell. On days when the wind is from a certain direction (northwest), an ominous 'rotten egg' smell can be detected by the villagers, who insist that the bowels of hell are not very far from their homes, and only those who are in league with demons would even think of venturing here.

  Of course, I am not in league with demons, nor do I put much into the superstitious hearsay of the gentle, if not highly ignorant villagers. Obviously the menhir merely resides on a hot spring. Since there are ley lines here—and ley lines, as we know, sometimes travel over ground water and unusual magma chambers—my educated guess would be that Dark Castle is built directly over a dying volcanic area. Recently, I have discovered not more than a half day's travel northeast of here fumaroles ejecting steam, muddy cauldrons of pink, orange and cream where bursting bubbles toss dollops of mud onto the unwary—namely me.

  Now she understood why she had hot tap water—and it was very hot!—for her bath tonight despite the fact the electricity was out. Her conversations with Percival this morning, and later this afternoon, could be applied to what she'd learned from Biddle, as well as from Bartholomew's writings. The generators which Percival had mentioned, which helped supply the electricity of the castle, hadn't crystallized in her mind until now. Generators were big contraptions with gears and pulleys, and she would imagine were very noisy. Certainly such a contraption would be housed in a large, out-of-the-way place. Like down below, inside the menhir.

  “Biddle, any rooms you did enter reveal anything interesting about our host?” she asked as she flounced upon her small bed, checked her toes, which were still rosy from the heat of her bath, and her toenails still sported a few coats of ruby polish from First World. She had removed the nail color from her fingernails before leaving First World, thinking she could get a supply here on Euphoria. At the moment, it probably was better she left them unpolished.

  “I found one room which did not look like the rest of the castle's rooms,” Biddle reported.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “The ceilings were very tall, covered in gold-foil. I found a very large bed with a massive headboard and canopy.”

  It sounded like the master suite. “Anything else?”

  “Only a painting,” he said with casual indifference.

  She was frowning at her fingernails, wondering if she couldn't just get a good a buffing on them, they'd look a hundred percent better. Maybe Doreen would know of a good manicurist in Ravenwood.

  “Shall I tell you about it?” he asked.

  “About what?” Zofia asked, distractedly. Shifting her body, she stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes, one arm under her head.

  “The painting,” he said. “I could not help but notice a very striking resemblance between yourself and the woman in the painting.”

  Eyes snapping open, she gazed out into the room. “How's that again?”

  “I said a painting of a woman in that suite has a striking resemblance to you.”

  Pushing herself to her elbows, she leveled a stare toward Biddle's voice. “A painting? Of me?”

  “Not of you,” Biddle corrected. “How could there be a painting of you if t
he count has never met you before?” He had a way of sounding a tad exasperated while trying to sound patient.

  “Don't patronize me!” Zofia hissed and fell back onto her pillows. Her mind retraced back to when she had first caught sight of Saint Germain while dueling. That moment, when their eyes had met, had given her an odd sensation. That's what had taken his attention off the duel. It wasn't just that she had appeared in the room unannounced (and it wasn't that she was so drop-dead gorgeous either), but he had looked as though he were seeing a ghost, the way he had looked at her. He had quickly covered it up, but Zofia had noticed it. At least now she knew why Saint Germain had taken such a sudden interest in her. Did she resemble a woman he once had known? She would definitely have to see this painting herself. There were tales of doppelgängers, and even though she had never believed in the myths surrounding them, she did believe a person's double existed somewhere in the world—or in this case, other worlds. Possibly Zofia's double existed on another planet.

  Suddenly weary, and unable to fight it any more, she definitely needed another nap before she went out with Saint Germain since it sounded like it was to be a late supper.

  She fell asleep almost right away and slept soundly, and dreamlessly.

  Chapter 19

  The storm had abated when Biddle woke Zofia in time to dress for her dinner date with Saint Germain.

  She had set out the green dress and now slipped it on over her chemise and belted it with a silver-coined belt, hoping the silver would deter any vampires—like Myron—who might be hanging out at the inn. She also went with the amber and silver necklace to ring her throat. She was happy to see that the vampire bites were nearly healed. Just the faintest marks remained. And the sore on her lip was now reduced in size and not nearly as red and sore, thanks to Saint Germain's slave. It had smelled of hyssop and menthol, she decided, and didn't mind the minty taste, and swabbed some on again. It tingled. The tingle meant it was working.

  She was just finishing up slathering kohl around her eyes when there was a knock at the front door. The door wasn't locked, apparently, because she was halfway out of her seat when she heard a loud, echoing boom.

  “Zofia?” Saint Germain called out from the entrance. “Are you ready for dinner?”

  “Yes,” she hailed back. “I'll be there in just a moment.” She rushed around her bedroom, looking for her cloak, certain it must have gotten colder by now. She couldn't find it in her bedroom, but remembering she'd come in sopping wet, maybe it was out in the front room along with her shoes. Funny she didn't remember taking it off. And the more she thought about it, she was quite certain she never had it on when she'd returned.

  “I must be loosing my mind, Biddle,” she muttered. “I can't find my cloak.”

  “If I find it, I will let you know,” he said low.

  “My mind, or my cloak?”

  “Either, madam.”

  “Anything would be an improvement,” she said as she left the room to join Saint Germain. She would have to tell him she may have left her cloak at the castle. She was such a scatter-brained woman these days, but perhaps he would forgive this since the lights had all gone out and there was a rush—for some reason—for her to leave and come back here. That had also caused her multiple questions, but she would hardly get any answers on these either.

  “Are you ready, my dear?” Saint Germain asked, his voice had edged a little closer. In fact, she knew he was right outside her door, in the entryway next to the fireplace—where her shoes and stockings were drying out.

  “Not quite. I seemed to have forgotten my wrap at the castle,” she admitted as she stepped down into the main room.

  “Never fear, I have brought it for you,” he said, sauntering toward her, her missing cloak draped over one arm, a smirk on his lips.

  “Thank you,” she gushed, taking in the cloak and then his face. He didn't look too put out about it, but held it open for her.

  She turned and allowed him to slip it over her shoulders, felt his hands bring it around, and then caress her shoulders, just enough that sent an intimate message to her.

  “You quite take the breath away,” he said, his voice deep and sensuous in her ear. It brought a rise of excited chill bumps to her, as his hands slid down her arms just at that moment. “I dare say, I'll be busy keeping the other men away from you, won't I?”

  “Thank you, but I hardly think so.”

  “You think so little of yourself?” he asked, looking rather dismayed.

  “I'm sure your intent was on complementing me, sir. I'll take it as such.” She wasn't sure how much of his words were meant as a complement, and how much was just the usual things a man liked to tell a woman because they believe their egos needed stroking. He chuckled at her, taking her response in stride.

  She now took him in. He was an impeccable dresser. Elegant and flawless. He looked as though he'd stepped out of the eighteenth century First World, dressed in a black velvet brocade cape, which fell even to the floor, a huge diamond pin closed it. Black velvet knee breeches came to just below the knees and silver garters held up black hose. Black brocade shoes were buckled in pure silver and studded with diamonds. The only white on him was the froth of pure white lace at his neck and wrists. She noticed a ruby nested at his throat, shimmering wildly in the various candlelight. His hair—not one out of place—was slicked back, revealing his heart-shaped face. If she didn't know any better, she'd have sworn he was about to take her to the opera, or a wonderful symphony conducted by Mozart himself.

  “You don't look so bad yourself,” she complemented.

  Dark eyes sparkling as he watched her slip on a pair of gloves. She wondered what he was thinking about. Was he reminded of the woman in the painting as he looked at her? Had he loved her? Had they had such a night like this, and had he said similar things to her as well?

  “How is it that you forgot your wrap?” he asked, hand outstretched to escort her down the hall through the curtain, toward the exit.

  “Storm came in, the lights went out. I simply forgot it in my haste to leave the castle, and then got caught in the rain, earlier,” she explained.

  “Did you? What an oversight. I must speak to Percival about this,” he said, sounding aggravated as he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm and led her down the hall.

  “No,” she said. “I mean, Percival led me back to the bridge,” she explained. She didn't wish ill will toward the old manservant. It wasn't his fault she'd forgotten her wrap. “He said you were checking on your generators.” She did her best to make the word sound foreign to her. She hoped this would get him to speak freely about this and other things.

  “Yes,” Saint Germain said. “I thought it would be best for him to escort you back to your rooms. It would do no good you sitting in the dark. I have very few candles, as I rarely need them.”

  “Well, the rain was coming at me sideways as I ran across the bridge,” she found herself laughing about it now. “I was drenched head to toe when I got in!”

  He chuckled along with her. He had a nice, rumble-in-the-chest type of laugh. Deep, rich and infectious.

  Patting the hand which was around his arm, he said, “I had not foreseen the storm, nor that the rain was coming like a hurricane, please forgive me.”

  She gaped up at him as they strode out into the cold night. “Why would you apologize for the weather? You couldn't have predicted it.”

  “Ah,” he said, again patting her hand, “but I can. At least, if I would have checked with Kokarr. I would have known ahead of time about the storm. But I was very busy today and couldn't speak with him.”

  “Kokarr? Who is that?”

  “The dominant male Eagle Man.”

  Stopping, she gazed dumbfoundedly at him. “You speak to the Bird People? You speak their language?” The Bird People's language was difficult to master. In fact she was certain only the Immortals had cracked their language and could communicate with them.

  “Yes, as a matter of fa
ct, I do.”

  “How very impressive,” she said as they reached the iron gate. It was open wide for them as they stepped through, and toward the steps which wound down around the monolith. Everything was still wet, and the air smelled rain-fresh.

  “Perhaps I shall have you meet Kokarr some time,” he said as they took the steps. “The Eagle People are prone to become excited when someone new and unknown enters their domain.”

  “Domain?” she said, catching a glimpse of him in one of the many torch lights which burnt and cast an amber glow over the rough stone of the monolith. His eyes sparkled back at her.

  “Yes. They consider the castle their legitimate domain,” he explained. “It would be well that I am with you at the time, so that Kokarr knows and understands you are no threat to me, or him, or his people.”

  “As if!” she laughed, and then coughed to cover up her mistake. She was going to have a time trying not to use the colloquial phrases of modern First World around the people of her own world. “I'd be happy to meet Kokarr,” she quickly inserted. Not really, but it would not be good that the head of this clan of Bird People thought she was a threat. They were as large as humans, had huge wingspans, huge beaks, and very deadly talons. They were not known for being overly friendly, either. As a matter of fact, it was not unusual to hear that someone, now and then, lost a small child to them. It wasn't wise to be near a nesting pair, that was for certain. Anything that moved was fair game for their young ones.

  “Yes. I think it would be a good idea to have you meet him as soon as possible. Perhaps tomorrow.” They went down several more steps. Zofia took in the glowing street lamps of the village down below. There were a few people riding in wagons or on horseback, or walking down the thoroughfare. The moons were not up as yet, or at least they hadn't poked out of the clouds, anyway.

  “Tell me about yourself, my dear. We had very little time together today, and I regret this, but my work keeps me very busy.”

  “Where should I start?” she said.

  “Birth is the usual starting spot,” he chided.