Barnes trotted over and flicked the body with his index finger in a gesture that resembled a kick. Then he scuttled over to the discarded mitten and claimed it for himself.
Hannah bent down and picked up hand and his trophy. “Well done, and thank you for your bravery.” She placed a kiss on the backs of his knuckles.
Hannah stayed clear as her husband threw the shadow toward another dark shape that drank the light from the acorn.
“One last thing,” Wycliff said. He padded close to the remains and bowed his head. His fur stood to attention and the red tips glowed brighter. A flash burst from him and jumped to the body. Hellfire encircled it and orange flames leapt high.
The hellhound shook itself and the fur fell away to reveal Wycliff. He held out a hand to Hannah. “There is nothing more we can do here. Let’s leave before the curious are drawn by the flames and the smell.”
After returning to the carriage, they collected Miss Knightley and drove her home. Wycliff walked her to her front door, then Frank took them back to Westbourne Green. They found the Miles household awake and lights blazing in the windows. Seraphina had been alerted through Hannah’s ring. They gathered in the library, where a pot of hot chocolate waited.
“You found him, then?” Seraphina asked as she poured chocolate into the cups.
“It was Taylor, the Runner. I thought him useful in the investigation, but he was probably sticking close to control what I knew.” Wycliff took a seat next to Hannah. “His hellhound was a terrier wearing an illusion.”
“What did you do with him?” Sir Hugh asked as he settled into an armchair.
Wycliff huffed. “Dispensed justice. He will not seize another Afflicted.”
“Did you notice his hand? He had an odd blue mark here.” Hannah rubbed a spot between her thumb and forefinger.
“A mark?” Wycliff pulled his notebook from a pocket and flipped through the pages. “Like this one?”
Hannah pressed to his side and studied the drawing. “Yes. That’s it.”
“Peters had the same tattoo on his left hand. That cannot be a coincidence. It might be some secret society,” Wycliff said.
“Might I see that?” Seraphina asked.
Wycliff turned the notebook toward her, and she sucked in a breath. “Here is the evidence you sought. That squiggle is a monogram of the initials J and T. James Tomlin. He marks everything he owns, so Taylor and Peters must have been in his employ. I knew he disliked me, but I never imagined his hatred ran so deep he would extinguish others to reach me.”
Wycliff tossed the notebook to the side table. “Now that we have confirmed the identity of the mage behind this, what do we do about him? We have only delayed his plans, not stopped them. He will find another like Taylor to do his dirty work.”
“Or worse. He will inflame the mob. We cannot protect all the Afflicted,” Sir Hugh said.
Hannah remained silent for a long time, her fingers curled around the mug in her hands. “We may not be able to stop Lord Tomlin, but we can remove potential victims from his reach. It is time for us to walk the dark path.”
“Hannah—” Wycliff rasped.
She placed her mug on the table before her and held up a hand to stop his protest. “We must journey to the underworld. All of this could be halted if we come back with a cure. Or, at the very least, with some answers.”
“Or we could come back with nothing.” He softened his tone. “Or fail to return at all.”
Sir Hugh cleared his throat. “Should you fail in your mission, I will lose my entire family and the very reason for my existence.” Here he paused and reached out to take Seraphina’s gloved hand in his larger one. “I have held my silence, as I know it is not my journey to take. But sometimes, despite the risks and odds being piled against you, you must take that step regardless. My only comfort is that the three of you will be together.”
Tears moistened Hannah’s eyes. Her father would lose them all, but still saw the benefits to their dangerous journey. She faced Wycliff and raised a hand to his cheek. “We do this together.”
He let out a ragged sigh. “Together,” he whispered.
“Catch a few hours’ sleep. We do not know what awaits us.” The words drifted from Seraphina with a soft tone.
Hannah couldn’t argue with her mother’s suggestion. Even though she would journey with Wycliff, part of her wanted a few more hours with him while her soul still resided in her body, and her heart pumped in her chest.
The couple slept late that morning. Or didn’t sleep. Once they had exhausted themselves physically, Hannah lay with her head on Wycliff’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. He stroked her hair and told her tales of the rapscallion’s childhood at Mireworth, as rain fell outside.
Some hours later, the family gathered in the library, the weather reflecting their mood. Storm clouds rolled across the countryside and darkness had fallen prematurely. Sheba and Barnes sat on the rug by the fire. Timmy huddled in a corner, his arms wrapped around his slight frame. Hannah chose the settee, while Wycliff stalked to the fireplace.
Seraphina wheeled herself to one side. “Amongst my readings, I have found a clue which I think explains how the Afflicted remain animated. The Egyptians believed that when the physical body, or khat, becomes a corpse, it creates a link between the soul and earthly remains. There are two forms of the soul, known as the ba and ka, but I won’t bore you with the differences between the two. What is pertinent is that the ba form can journey between the afterlife and the corpse. However, the ka form has to reunite with the body each night in order to sustain it, otherwise it deteriorates.”
Hannah leaned forward as she grasped the meaning in her mother’s story. “Sustain it? Do you think the Afflicted suffer rot because their ka has not returned to the corpse?”
Seraphina nodded. “It seems a likely explanation. I suspect the ba is tethered to the physical remains, which is what Wycliff can perceive as the hound, and keeps us animated. We don’t know how Dupré formed this curse, but I believe he corrupted an ancient Egyptian rite. What if his twisted magic has trapped the ka somewhere? If it cannot return to our remains to give us sustenance, we decay on our feet.”
“But even if this ka returned to the Afflicted’s body, wouldn’t you still be dead?” Wycliff asked.
“Yes. It is not a cure, but might alleviate the worst of our symptoms if we discover a group of trapped ka in the underworld.” Seraphina wheeled closer to Hannah. “And the demand for pickled cauliflower might decrease.”
“The time for questions is over. Let us seek answers.” Hannah tightened her grip on her hands to steel herself. While most of her was not afraid, a tiny sliver of doubt murmured, What if…? She shut out the voice. Now was the time for boldness.
“How long will this take?” Wycliff asked. He stood by the fire, leaning against the mantel, his arms crossed and his hands clenched around his upper arms. Fire and pain burned in his dark eyes and Hannah couldn’t look at him directly, or tears would well up in her own.
“Hours, at most. Hannah was close to death when Sera first performed the ritual. Our girl will not live to see out the day,” Sir Hugh answered.
“Now, Mother, and let the storm break free.” Hannah reached out and took her mother’s hand. Seraphina loved storms and often turned her face to the rain, letting it soak her veil to drench her skin. Hannah thought it would be a marvellous way to die, out in the rain under a lightning-lit sky. Or had the powerful mage summoned the storm so the very sky would mourn the death of her daughter?
“Stretch out, please, Hannah.” Seraphina gestured to the settee.
Hannah turned upon the cushions and lay down. Wycliff broke away from the wall and hovered near her head. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed.
“Don’t touch her, Wycliff, not yet,” Seraphina warned.
He nodded, but stayed silent.
Hannah closed her eyes as her mother rested one hand on her head. The other she placed over her daughter’s heart.
She murmured the reversal spell to free Hannah from the time lock that held her frozen. The familiar hand tightened around her heart, but this time when her mother uttered the last word, the pressure remained. Her blood turned to lead in her veins and sluggishly pulsed through her body.
“It is done,” Seraphina said as she removed her hands.
The words drifted to Hannah through water, her mind having difficulty processing what they meant. Her entire body ached and breath came short in her lungs. Her body fought against the intruder, now released from its prison and rampaging through her. Panic surged up her throat. She didn’t want to die, but she must.
“How do you feel, Hannah?” her father asked.
She opened her eyes, Wycliff now beside her. He wrapped his arms around her and helped her to sit up. She wet her lips, which had become dry. “I…ache.”
“I’ll not leave you,” he murmured. “What do you wish to do?”
She didn’t know. Thoughts wouldn’t form properly. Like a puzzle broken apart, nothing would fit together to create a sentence. The image of a chicken appeared in her mind with its unblinking stare. Were they tucked up safe from the storm? Perhaps she should check.
Hannah rested one hand on the arm of the settee and leaned on it to stand. The floor undulated under her feet as though she walked across the surface of a turbulent river. The fist squeezed tighter around her heart and the organ fought for each beat. Hannah sucked in a breath as her vision swam and black dots danced before her eyes.
“Wycliff?” Only one certainty remained firm in her dying mind. She needed her husband’s arms around her.
20
Wycliff couldn’t look as the mage removed her spell and pushed Hannah toward death. He loved his wife with a fierce passion that would endure beyond death, but he didn’t have the strength to see it unfold. He closed his eyes and his chest tightened as he swallowed unshed tears. He would be Hannah’s strength, her rock in her last moments. Then he would be the first to greet her soul when it separated from her form. But the pain of losing her shredded him.
“It is done,” Seraphina said.
Only then could he open his eyes and be at her side, helping her to sit up. Hannah sat immobile, her head bowed. Her father enquired how she felt, but she shook away the question and muttered something about the chickens. Using the arm of the sofa, she levered herself up like an invalid. Then she turned, a lost look in her eyes, a sheen of sweat on her brow.
“Wycliff?” Her tone was soft, with a worried edge.
He caught her as her knees buckled, and swept her into his arms. Her eyelids fluttered shut. One trembling hand went to his chest.
“Should it happen this fast?” He held Hannah to his chest as he stared at her parents. He thought he had hours to prepare, to steel himself against what would come, but she had slipped away within minutes.
“The curse has fought my magic for two years and, I fear, laid an ambush for this day.” Seraphina wheeled her chair around the settee.
“The glade,” Hannah murmured against his shirt. “I want to die in the glade.”
The words punched him in the gut, and he nearly fell. I want to die in the glade. He bit back the cry of anguish that roared in his veins. He wouldn’t lose her, he reminded himself. This was temporary only, so that she might walk beside him on the journey to come. He would restore her to life. And if he could not…then he would dwell in the underworld with her. Whatever happened, they would be together.
“The glade, then,” he whispered and kissed her forehead. Her body warmed in his embrace as a fever burned through her, yet at the same time chills wracked her limbs.
“Let the storm free,” Seraphina murmured as she held out her arms to Sir Hugh.
The older man glanced at Wycliff, his eyes bright with tears. The large surgeon let free his grief for his dying daughter. His gaze fixed on Hannah, slumped in Wycliff’s arms. Not only would he lose his daughter this night, but his wife would also journey beside her.
Wycliff carried his precious burden through the house, down the rear stairs, and into the forest. Percy the peacock emitted his shrill cry and shadowed his footsteps, the harem of peahens following. Sheba, carrying Barnes with two fingers twisted in her collar, shot ahead to lead the way. Snatches of wind tugged at Wycliff’s hair and clothing, but the trees bowed out of his way.
Timmy hurried from the library to join them, jumping over ferns in his path. While Wycliff cradled his wife, Timmy fetched the blankets and pillows from the hidden storage box and laid them out by the water. A grim darkness spread over the city even as time nudged toward midday, so the lad activated the few lanterns scattered around the glade. The soft yellow light encircled Hannah and Wycliff.
Wycliff knelt and lowered Hannah to the blanket, positioning a pillow under her head. She stirred and opened her eyes for a moment. She touched his arm and then it fell away. Sweat slicked her skin and her lungs drew air in shallow gasps.
With nothing more he could do, Wycliff fussed with the blanket, smoothing out the edges. He listened to her ragged breathing that seemed to match the irregular burble of the water. He cradled her to him and waited. Timmy sat on the grass, clutching the spaniel to his chest. Barnes perched on the lad’s knee.
Sir Hugh carried Seraphina out to the peaceful glade and set her down in her flower-covered bower. Roses bloomed with a buttery glow around her as the mage murmured soft words. The temperature warmed and the wind fell away, and while they could watch the storm above, only a few tepid droplets dampened their skin. The creatures of the forest joined their vigil. Birds clustered along tree branches. Hedgehogs gathered at the base of a tree. Fireflies darted about. Percy and the peahens bedded down close to Hannah’s feet.
Wycliff took Hannah’s hand in his and couldn’t tear his attention from her face. He wanted to command her to fight the curse, but knew she would not. The next step required her to die. She would give her life in an attempt to save the other Afflicted. Overhead, the storm broke. Thunder crashed and a single flash of lightning cracked across the clouds. Hannah drew one deep breath…and sighed. Her life ebbed away as the rain pelted the earth.
Minute after minute, Wycliff waited for her to inhale again. Yet she remained still in his arms.
Timmy crept forward and sat beside Wycliff. The lad’s shoulders shook as silent tears rolled down his face.
“Now, Timmy,” Wycliff said as he stroked Hannah’s hair back from her face.
The lad reached out and placed one hand on the side of her neck. After a long silence, he sobbed, “She’s gone.”
Wycliff curled over Hannah, a keen rising in his chest. He thought he had known pain when a hellhound latched on to his throat and simultaneously tore and cauterised his flesh. But that agony paled compared to the white-hot barbs that pierced his heart now. Tears cast the world in a mist. He loved her beyond death.
Thunder shook the trees in answer to Wycliff’s cries. Wind howled through the branches, but only the faintest breeze touched them under the magical umbrella. With an effort, he remembered their task. To take the journey ahead, he first had to let Hannah go. He lowered her to the blanket and placed a kiss on her still warm lips.
Then he let Timmy take charge. The lad spread another blanket over her immobile body and knelt beside her to begin his vigil.
Wycliff rose and grabbed hold of the sorrow and despair as the hound flowed over him. So fixated was he on Hannah’s physical form, it took him a moment to register her spirit. Her soul stood next to her lifeless body, gazing down upon it. A warm yellow glow shone from her. Hundreds of fireflies formed her gown and clustered in her hair. She vibrated with beauty and he sucked in a breath at the sight of her.
She turned and smiled at him. Then Hannah reached out and stroked his smoky fur. “We do this together, Wycliff.”
He nudged her hand with his muzzle and choked back a cry.
From the bower, Seraphina murmured words that set a chill racing over his fur. On the last syllable, thunder crashed and jagg
ed lightning danced over the night sky. The silver thread that connected the mage’s soul to her body snapped, and the ends drifted to the grass and shrivelled up into nothing. The mage’s body fell into Sir Hugh’s arms and he cried out her name.
Her elegant soul leaned down and kissed the top of her husband’s head.
“I entrust you with all I love in this world, Wycliff, and pray you bring them back.” Sir Hugh stared at him, anguish written all over the man’s face as he lost both wife and daughter. Unable to see their souls, he surveyed their physical remains, now bereft of animation.
Wycliff nodded. He had no words of comfort to offer the grieving surgeon. He struggled with his own sense of loss at Hannah’s death, even though her soul stood next to him. Seraphina moved to stand on his other side, her soul possessing the limbs missing from her physical body.
“Keep hold of me. I do not know what will happen,” he instructed their two souls.
Each woman reached out a hand and touched his shoulders. He called to the void and a path opened between the trees, the inky darkness pulling him as though it were magnetic. One cautious step at a time, the group began their journey. The dark swallowed them, as though they walked into the centre of the storm. Silence enveloped them and the rain ceased. The forest disappeared and Wycliff saw only a black ribbon laid over midnight velvet. One foot in front of the other, he walked. Whispers raced over his skin, but they merely seemed curious about his companions. At least the void hadn’t demanded his wife as sacrifice.
A golden shimmer surrounded them, emanating from the women’s souls. Wycliff didn’t know if they walked for hours, days, or mere moments. Every step was identical to the previous one, with no scenery to mark their progress. Then tiny dots broke away from Hannah and Seraphina, and fireflies swirled around him. He snapped his jaws at the bright spots in irritation. One dot merged with another, then another, to create a large glowing ball that shot away.
Hessians and Hellhounds Page 18