Belmary House Book Two (24 page)

He wished he was with Matilda, hidden away safely somewhere on the fifth floor with the giant Highlander and the red-haired woman, Evelyn, who despite being told repeatedly to stay away, had arrived first thing that morning. He was glad she wasn’t alone though, waiting and worrying about him. He didn’t like the idea of being dangled as bait either, and no matter what Piper said about him having his own source of power, he’d never seen evidence of it.

Before he’d parted ways with Matilda to take part in this bumbling charade, she’d harangued him relentlessly to try something.

“Try what?” he said, trying to force his irritability down. If things went awry and he never saw her again, he didn’t want to act like a curmudgeon during their last moments together. “You don’t just wave your fingers and something happens. Everything requires a spell, and for one, I don’t know any, and two, they take practice.”

He’d felt guilty saying that, knowing it wasn’t strictly true. When they were small, he remembered odd things happening around Camilla. She’d get mad and something near her would fall down and break. She’d be crying and a butterfly would land on her arm. He’d always told himself these things were coincidences, but as he grew older and learned more about their family, he knew there were far too many instances for it to be merely chance. And no such occurrences had ever happened to him. Whatever Piper saw, he was sure it was only a residue of his family line. He started, realizing that he was somehow related to her. He knew it was so distant as to not matter, but it strangely comforted him.

He’d asked Matilda if she trusted Piper and she’d answered yes without hesitation. He trusted Matilda implicitly, but also knew she liked people far too easily. The bizarre rapport she shared with Liam Wodge, for instance. That still rankled him to no end, even though the man had done what he said he would.

No, he didn’t like being a wriggling worm on the end of Liam Wodge’s line, but it got Matilda home safely, and that was all that mattered. If he somehow survived this showdown with the wayward son, Solomon, perhaps there was also hope of convincing Piper to help him rescue Kostya.

He looked at his pocket watch for the tenth time in five minutes. They were late, which was never a good thing as far as he was concerned.

“Can you please try and relax?” Piper asked, patting his arm. “Your nervous energy is messing with our spells.”

God, witches. He longed for a time when he could be free of it all, and for a fleeting second had a glimmer of compassion for Solomon Wodge. It was over before it began. Too many years of being hunted by that lunatic had wrung out any trace of forgiveness for him. He shook his head at the pathetically hopeful Liam, thinking his son could be saved.

“It’s actually getting worse,” she sighed. “Do you need some chamomile tea or a shot of whisky?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, and closed his eyes against her skeptical look.

He had to think of something calming or risk the success of the operation. Matilda’s beautiful, smiling face immediately came to mind.

“There you go,” Piper told him encouragingly. “Now we can get down to brass tacks.”

He snorted at her oddity, but continued thinking of his beloved Matilda. He wouldn’t think of losing her, that would be too painful and he’d probably get chastised again.

He thought of the first time he saw her, wearing a scandalously enticing short dress that hugged every one of her lovely curves. He thought of the way she’d broken Nick Kerr’s nose, after that scoundrel tried to get too close to her. The way she’d comforted him when he thought he would break into pieces too small to put back together, and the way she’d allowed him to comfort her when her memories were too much for her to bear. He thought of every kiss and touch and smile.

She’d given him at least a piece of her heart, and he would cherish it until the day he died. As for her, she had every part of his mind, body, and soul, and he hoped she could one day understand and forgive him for letting her go. His thoughts were veering toward sadness and he hurriedly struggled to remember the way she’d looked in her green ballgown, how she’d felt in his arms when they danced. The way she took in all the outlandish things his life entailed, and always nodded agreeably. He almost prayed he wouldn’t make it through this fight, knowing his life would be worthless without her.

“Someone’s here,” Piper said shrilly, jolting him from his thoughts.

“Who?” he and Liam asked in unison.

She squeezed her eyes shut and held out her hands for them to be quiet. After a moment, her eyes flew open, wild with fear.

“It’s him. It’s Solomon. And he’s pissed as hell.”

The End.

Kostya waited outside, standing resolutely in the deserted streets of Rouleney. It was only moments before their horses rode around a corner, two men sitting tall in their saddles.

His uncle looked exactly the same as he recalled, but his cousin Sorin had been a child when he left. He barely recognized the boy he used to search for treasure with along the river. His hair had darkened and he had a weathered look about him. He’d been a bit stumpy when they were children, but he was at least half a head taller than Kostya, and stringy now.

There used to be frequent famines in his village, usually inflicted on them as punishment after someone grew a crop they weren’t supposed to, or hoarded more than their fair share of the grain harvest. He wondered if either one of them had eaten a proper meal lately. If there was a food restriction in the village, they wouldn’t dare eat more than they were allotted, even on the road. It didn’t matter how or where they hid, his grandmother always found out.

He waved at them, despite everything, strangely glad to see them. His uncle had never been unkind to him, and he and Sorin had been friends. For a while after he left, Kostya had felt guilty that he’d got away and left him behind, but he didn’t seem to harbor any ill will toward him now. He was merely doing what he was ordered. They didn’t bother getting down, his uncle motioning for him to find himself a horse and be quick about it.

“Grandmother didn’t come?” Kostya asked, disappointed.

The animosity he felt toward her would have driven away the dispassionate fatigue he felt since he’d had to face Camilla. He knew it was his mind’s way of coping with her demise, with the realization that his daughter’s death had been his fault, that his family still had their hold over him.

He knew it would break eventually, but right now he wished he had something to show he still had a fire within him. He hoped he still had it. And it would have been nice to have something stronger to cling to during the long journey. Hatred and rage were always so much easier to handle than grief and regret.

“Your grandmother’s been ill, boy,” his uncle grunted.

“Sorry to hear that,” he replied, not bothering to hide his insincerity. He hoped whatever she had was fatal, and that he’d get to watch her die.

“Careful, Kostya, with what you’re thinking. You don’t need to make this harder on yourself, you know.”

A stout pain hit him in the back of the legs, like an invisible switch snapping across them, and he laughed. Same old tricks. Did they think because he’d been away so long he’d forgotten? He remembered every dirty thing they did. If they thought they could make his life worse than it already was, they were sorely mistaken. He’d lost his daughter because of them, for God’s sake. His wife had died by his own hand because of them.

He continued to stand belligerently in the street until his cousin finally dismounted and went around back to find another horse for him. Kostya noticed his right hand was encased in a thick black glove, his arm held to his side by a sling. No one had an injury for long in his family, there were too many healers. And the way Sorin effortlessly moved about as if it didn’t hamper him much made him think he’d had it for some time, and was accustomed to it. A punishment, then.

“Don’t make me put myself out, eh, Kostya?” his uncle said when they were ready to go. “It’s a long journey, and I’d rather it be uneventful.” He kicked his horse to get moving. “Why don’t you and Sorin catch up. Tell him all about your good life in Scotland,” he called bitterly over his shoulder as he took the lead.

“Don’t mind him,” Sorin said, surprisingly friendly after so long. “He’s got rheumatism and he’s not allowed to get rid of it until we get back.”

“Why not?” Kostya asked.

“So we don’t tarry, I suppose,” he sighed. “It really is good to see you again.”

Kostya nodded, wishing he could say the same. “What happened to your arm?” he asked instead. Pleasantries and niceties were a thing of his past.

Sorin shrugged and moved the bad hand across his saddle to try and hide it from view. “Ah, it was a long time ago, I hardly miss the use of it anymore.”

“You pick too many flowers or something?” he asked.

“After your marriage, I found out they hadn’t lifted your curse,” he said with a frown. “I tried to send you a message.”

Kostya dropped his chin to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m more sorry,” Sorin said. “They let me keep it, at least. Sometimes Grandmother dangles the hope that I’ll get the use of it back, if only I work harder.”

Kostya laughed. “Sounds like nothing’s changed.”

He felt the old, righteous anger returning. How could a few old, wretched people have so much control? He waited for some sort of pain to hit him somewhere, but it didn’t. His uncle wasn’t monitoring them right now. He was probably too hungry, or too wrapped up in his own misery to care. All it would take was one word and they’d both be off their horses, writhing in agony, if they got out of line. No, his uncle didn’t need to be concerned with a little complaining.

Sorin eased back on his reins, and Kostya followed suit, until his uncle was only a smudge in the foggy distance.

“Things have changed,” he said. “Many of us are realizing our worth, and thinking of doing something about it.”

“What do you mean?” Kostya asked with a sinking feeling. He’d seen so much false hope lately. He was sick of it.

Sorin shrugged the shoulder of his bad arm, causing his gloved hand to flop grotesquely. “Why do you think they let me keep this hand, instead of cutting it off?”

“To make you desperate, in the hope you’ll get it back one day,” he answered without hesitation.

Sorin frowned. “Yes, that’s part of it, but there’s a deeper reason. It’s the same reason they didn’t kill you outright when you were a baby. They let you live, dancing around to their tune, hoping they’ll lift the curse.”

He didn’t like the easy way his cousin had described his life, didn’t at all like that it was the truth. He didn’t understand what Sorin was getting at, either.

“It’s because we have power they need,” he hissed, turning quickly to make sure his father hadn’t slowed his horse as well. If anything, they were further apart than ever. “If they kill us, if they cut off our limbs and break us so we don’t care to cooperate, they can’t use that power. Don’t you see, Kostya? It’s a collective.”

He knew that the more witches that gathered in one spot, the more easily one could cast a spell. If three people concentrated together, they could get a hex cast far more quickly and better than only one. It wasn’t much different from manual labor. Any child who grew up in a coven knew that.

“Are you only now figuring that out?” he asked.

Sorin shook his head impatiently. “They draw from our power, and keep us in line with pain and hunger and fear of losing our children. If we keep our heads down and do what they say, we might live a quiet, uneventful life without too much sorrow. Maybe we can turn our heads when our loved ones get caught up, grateful it isn’t us.”

“Our mothers were sisters,” Kostya reminded him, not pleased with the unnecessary history lesson. “Why are you telling me things I already know? Too well, I might remind you.”

“To get that blank look out of your eyes, and to make you understand. The reason your wife was allowed to carry on as she did for so long, the reason you weren’t yanked back into the fold years ago— Do you think they gave a damn about that book?” Sorin paused to take a gasping breath, not finished with his passionate proclamation. “You’re powerful, Kostya. They knew it before you were born, which is why they ordered your mother to get rid of you. Then they decided they needed you, which is why they didn’t kill you. They didn’t think they could control you as you got older, which is why they let you get away. Even while you were in Scotland, blissfully unaware, they’ve been drawing from your power.”

“How do you know all this?” he asked, skin crawling that it might be true.

It sounded like the ravings of a madman, someone who only had the thinnest string to cling to. But as he studied his cousin, he didn’t look mad. He spoke excitedly, that had been his way when he was young, too, but his eyes were clear and he held himself calmly in the saddle.

“I listen, and I act the fool so they don’t concern themselves with me. That’s how I know how deep you’re in it, Kostya. They’re going to hold you responsible for everything Camilla did, and they know about what’s happening in Scotland. They’re going to make you think you have a chance to save that woman and her baby, if you’ll only do whatever they say.”

Kostya looked up, shocked that Sorin was aware of all that. He’d always known he had a certain level of magical abilities, there was no way he couldn’t with his lineage. Could he be powerful enough to be feared? He only held in his laughter to spare his earnest cousin’s feelings.