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

by Lorelei Bell

  Heart beating, she stepped out of her room, gazing in every direction, and listening for footsteps along the corridors. She padded as quietly as she could to the free-standing stairs. They swept to the right and wound upward in an elegant way. Above, the lamp glow offered minimal, but useful light to examine the details of an intricately carved door at the very head of the stairs. She wondered, would this door also be locked? Since just about every door had been so far, she had to guess it would be. But what if she just sort of casually went up there and did a little hocus-pocus on the lock? As a sorceress, locks were not a problem for her. She could have easily gotten through any door she'd found locked today, but had so much to explore, she'd decided to leave the breaking and entering for another time, when she wanted the thrill to overwhelm her, and make her sick enough to barf and leave her calling card.

  Saint Germain's rooms were so close, and too tempting for her to pass up the easy access. After all, she reminded herself, she was a spy for the Knights. Where else would she find more information on him than in his own rooms?

  Heart thundering in her chest, she moved to the stairs. Eyes glancing each and every direction, ears perked, she grasped the handrail. No one was coming in any direction, and she couldn't believe how easy this was going to be, snooping into Saint Germain's personal rooms.

  A stab of guilt made her steps falter half way up. No. I'm a Knight. I'm supposed to be spying and that's what I'm going to do! her mind firmly told her.

  Once she was on the landing, shrouded in shadows, and out of plain sight, she felt for the door handle. She twisted it. Amazingly, it wasn't locked. She was almost disappointed. How curious that a man of so many guarded secrets would not keep his own rooms locked up. Then she wondered if he actually had anything worth looking for in these rooms. Valuable, or otherwise.

  Quiet as the twitching whiskers on a mouse, she opened the door and stepped inside. It was dark, but even through the gloom she sensed a large room with a high ceiling, and could almost make out the fireplace and furnishings that graced the room.

  “Luminos,” she whispered into the darkness.

  Lights blinked on. Her mouth dropped open at the opulence. The ceiling was covered in gold foil, just as Biddle had reported. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, sparkling from all the light bulbs, which she guessed could easily hold a hundred of them. A marble fireplace carved elegantly with angels and grape leaves and vines, took center stage. Vermilion velvet upholstered furniture sat angled in such a way to take advantage of the warmth of the fireplace, as well as carry on conversation with the people next to you, if there were a nice party going on. This whole room was nothing like the rest of the castle, in fact, it looked like something she once saw in an 18th century villa—well, a picture of a villa, anyway. It was as if it all had been transported from First World to here intact. How could he have done it? The chandelier alone could not have been just put together here—especially since it used electricity. Perhaps the fireplace could have been built here, but the dome—no, not a dome, but a pyramid of gold. She felt as though she had walked into a cathedral, and reverently took it all in. It seemed that Saint Germain had brought bits and pieces of his life with him when he'd traveled to this world.

  Then her eyes fell to the painting in an oval frame above the mantle. The painting was as Biddle had described. If she didn't know any better, she'd have thought someone had painted her likeness in secret and had hung it here. The woman in the painting wore a lovely gown of white, frothy at the hem, sleeves, and throat, and lots of jewels. She was obviously a woman of wealth, from the looks of the gown, jewelry and her austere stare. A sleek white dog rested at her feet. The background was nothing too special, but the trees looked just a tad too frilly, the sky a bit too over done with the building clouds, as though the artist who created the painting wanted to show off he knew how to paint a sky. But the painting of the woman was very well done, and she did resemble Zofia down to the almost undetectable cleft in her chin—something she'd gotten from her father's side. It was startling seeing your own doppelgänger in a painting.

  Once she got over the shock of seeing her own image in a portrait which she did not commission, she stepped a little closer to inspect it. She had to hold up a little lamp nearby to examine the date and the artist's signature at the bottom right hand corner. November 17, 1768 Francis Racoczi.

  Francis? Racoczi?

  She put her teeth to her lower lip and gnawed gently in thought. Saint Germain was probably his alias—or vice versa. Franz, of course is another form of Francis, and as for the last name, Racoczi, it was very likely was his true birth name, or variation thereof. Perhaps he hid his true identity by using his real name. Francis Racoczi and Count Saint Germain were one and the same. They had to be. Why would he give his first name to her? Franz. Francis. He probably hated the name Francis, or just preferred Franz to Francis.

  She set the lamp down and stepped back to take the whole painting in once more. Then her eyes drifted to another painting of another woman, a blonde. It was a head portrait, the subject caught in a light casual air. With a lovely smile, holding roses in her hand, her gold and dusky blue costume had a lot of material. The painting showed a lot of chest, but no cleavage. She wasn't sure if that was a trend or the time, or if this particular artist merely made it his trademark. The name of the artist was Boucher, not Racoczi. However, the styles were similar. She glanced back and forth from one painting to the other and found that Racoczi's painting had an extraordinary brilliancy, however. It was hard to put her finger on what it was that made the painting so vibrant.

  What else had Saint Germain mastered while being alive all these centuries? He was, more or less, like any of the older, wiser sorcerers and wizards; master at many things, including various languages, and musical instruments.

  Whatever the case, Saint Germain had two paintings of two different women in his parlor. She only knew that the one which looked most like her had to be his dead wife. Whoever the other woman was, she must have been very close to him, otherwise, why would he have a portrait of her?

  She gazed around the room. There were no portraits, large or small, of Saint Germain. This didn't surprise her, for some reason. Possibly he couldn't sit long enough for a portrait to be made, or, perhaps, if one existed, he simply didn't own it.

  Voices filtered to her ears, and made Zofia stop and turn toward the door. She'd left it partially open. Startled into action, she sped toward the door to listen. Surely, Saint Germain couldn't be coming up to his room now? She heard no footfalls on the steps, but shut the door nearly all the way, keeping her ear to the crack in order to hear what was being said.

  Saint Germain's voice was anxious. He was speaking to Percival, she knew this by his “Yes, master” this and “no, master” that.

  “Have you found him?”

  “No, master,” Percival said.

  “Is Zofia in her room?” Saint Germain asked then.

  “I served her last meal, sir. Certainly she must be asleep by now?”

  “I need to know. Rouse her, at once.” Saint Germain sounded excited.

  There came a rap, and of course it would not be answered, because she was not in her room.

  “No answer, sir,” Percival said.

  “Try the door.”

  He did, apparently. “Madam? Madam? Please excuse this intrusion, but…” Percival's voice trailed off, and then came back clearly. “She is not in her room, yet all the lights are on.”

  “You are certain?” Saint Germain said.

  “I am very certain, unless she is hiding under the bed.” (Zofia stifled a snicker with a fist to her mouth.)

  “Don't be preposterous!” Saint Germain sounded angry then. He shouted her name, then. Zofia gnawed on her lip now, in two minds what to do; show herself at the top of the stairs where she had been snooping, or continue to hide until they left, and then go and find them. She couldn't show herself and let him know she had snooped around in his room. That w
ould be stupid.

  “I don't understand it, sir,” Percival said. “Could she have taken a walk perhaps?”

  “Let us just hope we find her before Jacques does. Come!” Saint Germain said.

  The mention of Jacques finding her, alluding to the fact that it would be disastrous if he did, now really worried and confused Zofia.

  “You check the east end, I will take the west and we will meet in the middle!” were Saint Germain's last trailing words to Percival.

  Zofia let out the breath she had been holding. Certainly, Saint Germain didn't think she would have gone up to his rooms. He trusted her a little too much. He believed her to be an innocent. Someone he could trust. She felt really terrible, but her guilt had to be put on off to the side. Something about Jacques finding her sounded like it would wind up being a terrible thing. The best course she could take would be to return to her suite, claim she had been lost in the cavernous corridors, came back, and they'd simply missed her by mere seconds.

  Certain they were gone, Zofia peered down the stairs and then eased herself out of the room. After incanting the lights off, she closed the door, tip toed her way down the stairs, wondering what it was that Jacques might do, if he did find her, and why. Whatever it meant, the quicker she got to her room and locked it, the better.

  The last two risers were before her. Her door was ten feet away to her right. She was about to step down to the marble floor when a sound froze her. It sounded like a low growl, which then became a hoarse laugh. It came from behind the stairs, just behind the statuary, beneath where she stood, on the other side of the stairs. She turned to look. Something crept out. It was man-size. At first she couldn't accept what she was seeing, and her skin pricked. It was neither a man, nor precisely any sort of animal, but it was hunched over; the hands grotesquely formed into claws. The feet also seemed to be oddly shaped, shoeless, and yet the body—which was man-like—was clothed. The shirt was torn, revealing a heavy chest covered in thick brown fur. The head was misshapen. She could see large, pointed ears on the side of the head, and instead of a face, a muzzle formed the mouth and nose.

  A half-growl, half-wheezy utterance filled the atrium. The thing turned his face toward her. Large yellow eyes caught the glint of light from above, like two tractor beams, and held her in limbo. She knew from the wavy hair, which now appeared greasy, and hung down over his eyes, that this had to be Jacques. He'd undergone a metamorphoses into something not quite animal, but no longer human. More hairy in the jaw and arms than a normal man might be, his face—muzzle—split with a mouth filled with long, white, sharp teeth.

  Stifling a surprised gasp, Zofia could only stare fixedly. Jacques was a wolfman?

  “Zofia,” the thing which once had been Jacques said in a hissing, growling voice. “Zofia, come closer,” he said. “Let me see you.”

  Zofia felt the adrenaline to flee or fight take over. She had barely enough time to decide what to do, because Jacques—the same man who had served her oysters on the half-shell only last night—was becoming something hideously dangerous before her eyes, and she had maybe a heartbeat or two to take refuge to save herself, because she knew, as quick as she was, he would be ten times quicker.

  She could hear the bones in Jacques' body crackle as the change continued to transform him even then. He groaned and squeezed his eyes against the new form his body was taking on, as though it were painful—and it probably was. His back hunched more, and she watched in fascination as the reshaping of his legs from man to mammal became more defined under the pantaloons. He remained upright throughout this metamorphoses. She had never known any werewolves, or wolfmen of course, but she knew one important thing about them when they turned—they wanted to hunt and ravage something and it didn't matter to them if the food stood on four legs, or just two. They didn't differentiate between food, foe or friend, either. That was why werewolves were not allowed in the Provence. They were simply too dangerous.

  Jacques' new form stopped at this midway point, becoming no more than a wolfman. She wasn't sure if he actually became a wolf, or not, but whatever he became, this was plenty scary and she really didn't want to stick around for the final stage, whatever it might be.

  Green-yellow eyes stared up at her. There was a definite canine look to his face, now; the muzzle more elongated with very large canine teeth. He had taken on a threatening, if not hideous look. His posture, too, had a positively evil poise to it, as if he were ready to strike at any given moment.

  The small hairs on the back of Zofia's arms and neck spiked. There was that split second where she could feel the air around herself dredged in danger. Poised with one foot on the riser, just above the other, her muscles coiled to bolt, or Transvect—whichever would get her to her door faster.

  Then, he lunged at her. Mouth gaping wide, lips curled back over those terrible teeth, both hind feet left the stone floor as he leaped the several feet over the small pool for her.

  Transvecting across the room, she felt his claws rip her dress. Her breath caught when she felt him pull her down. She twirled in mid-air, brought her hand up, pointed, and shouted, “LOCOMOTE!” Jacques zoomed backward, and slammed into the stone wall next to the door that was supposedly his room. He may have just come from it while everyone was looking for her (and maybe Saint Germain should have checked it first), then slid half-unconscious to the floor.

  Before she saw him land, Zofia turned and Transvected up the stairs and slammed Saint Germain's door shut. Finding a heavy bolt, she slid it hard into place. Her heart rate was definitely doing double time as she racked her brain over what she should do. She now realized that she shouldn't have returned up here, but down the hall, or to her room—anywhere but here, where she was trapped in Saint Germain's room and would have to explain why she was there, when they found her.

  One thing at a time, Zofia, she coached herself, and took a deep breath as she leaned against the door.

  First, she magicked the lights on again, and noticed there was another room to her left, up a few steps. Saint Germain's bedroom, no doubt. She would go there only if the werewolf gained entry. She pushed out all the other stupid thoughts of what she should have done, and had to concentrate on what she needed to do, should Jacques come to and sniff her out.

  A sudden crash, sounding like a boulder had hit the door at her back, made her shriek and jump. Finding she had jumped to the middle of the room and now faced the door, she realized the werewolf was conscious and ready for action.

  A terrible ripping sound came from the other side. She imagined that he was clawing the door. It was a thick, heavy door. It would take time, but he would keep at it, if he wanted her badly enough.

  She turned and faced the painting of herself, searching for a weapon, or anything she might use to distract him. Instead, she saw a length of velvet hanging near the fireplace. A bell pull. Would Percival hear it? Would anyone hear it? Usually, the bell was hooked to the bell pull in a nearby room, or one of the servant's quarters. Why Saint Germain would go with something so antiquated in his electricity-supplied house, she didn't understand for the moment, but something told her to pull it. She did.

  The door cracked from another one of the wolfman's blows. A few moments of that, he would be through it. She scanned her surroundings again, noticed the beautiful lamps arranged around the room. No good. Thrown at him, they wouldn't stop him. And the fireplace poker wasn't even a thought—as if she could skewer him. Her eyes moved up to the high dome. It had to reach twenty feet at the apex. She wondered how high a werewolf could jump. She wasn't much on using physical weapons, as she was using her own Powers to get out of a jam. Transvecting might place her out of danger, but if it came to it, she would have to zap him good, or use her Umbrella spell to hold him off until someone came.

  And then what? What if they never came? Stop it, just stop it.

  There was a lull. That made her suspicious. She knew it would be too easy to presume that the werewolf had given up. He could be hiding for her, wai
ting for her to come out. That wasn't going to happen.

  Seconds turned to minutes. She stared at the door, waiting.

  The door suddenly exploded into splinters as the werewolf catapulted himself through it like it was made of paper, and landed just inside the room.

  He growled. Drool stringing from his gaped, fang-lined mouth.

  In a wide stance, Zofia waited, knees wanting to turn to water.

  The werewolf leaped.

  “Umbrella!”

  A thunderous noise rent the room. The werewolf dropped like a stone at her feet. She hadn't used any other incantation, other than her protection spell. What had happened?

  She smelled gun powder. Oh, no.

  Glancing up she found Saint Germain standing in the doorway, a gun in his hands. The barrel still smoking slightly.

  “OH! You didn't shoot him!” Zofia cried, hands going to her mouth in horror. Her heart throbbed with the thought of Saint Germain having to kill poor little Jacques. He didn't have to do that. Tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn't help it. She hadn't known any of them that long, and yet she had felt a fondness toward the small Arpiesian.

  “I had to,” Saint Germain said stiffly as he opened the gun up and hung it over his arm that way. “It was the only way.”

  “But—” the sob caught in her throat as she looked down at Jacques' still form. Tears flooded her eyes and she had to wipe them with the heal of her hand.

  He was still in the half-man, half-wolf form. She could see the drool seeping from his mouth on the gold, black and red Oriental rug upon which he was sprawled. But no blood. Then his nose twitched, and the lips retract slightly into a snarl, the eyes seeming to watch her steadily.