CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: This Rough Magic

"Hey, Doc? Where you want the file cabinet?”

“Oh, hell…” Dr. Emily Parson looked up from the tall stack of patient folders she’d been attempting to put into some semblance of order. Standing in the doorway of her new office was a burly workman in blue coveralls, an expectant look on his beefy face and the cabinet in question balanced precariously on a handcart before him.

Puffing a sigh, Emily raked a hand through her short auburn bangs and tried to remain calm. These interruptions had been going on all morning. The electrician still had to finish rewiring the office, half her books had yet to be delivered, and when she’d asked about a DSL connection, the head nurse looked at her as if she were a new patient, rather than the new chief of staff. Now to top it off, she was expected to supervise the furniture movers. At this rate, she’d never be ready for her first rounds.

“Gee, I don’t know,” she said, gritting her teeth, “how about in that one open space next to all those boxes marked ‘FILES’?”

Luckily, the workman seemed immune to irony.

“Sure thing, Doc,” he grunted, shoving the tall cabinet off the dolly and into the corner. He turned to her and in a rough, but reassuring voice said, “Don’t you worry, now. The maintenance crew should be out of here by noon, for certain. Well, four o'clock at the latest. We only got held up this week due to the flooding; that pretty near jillpoked the works.”

“Flooding?” Christ, just how decrepit was this place?

“Ayep, in the basement where the old hydro rooms are? Happens every fall when the weather turns. Old buildings, old plumbing, that’s the way of it. Something I dread every year this time. That old basement gives me the willies, it does, and for me that’s saying a lot. Last time I went down there, I swear I-"

“Yes,” she interrupted firmly. “Well, thank you, Mister...?”

The large man wiped a meaty paw on the front of his coverall and extended it to her. “Bill,” he said, smiling widely. “Just call me Bill.”

Emily gingerly took his proffered hand, but the man’s grasp was surprisingly gentle.

“And welcome to St. Barn’s, Doctor Parson,” Bill continued with a wink. “I hope you’ll like it here.”

Something about the man compelled her to return his smile, and for the first time since her arrival, she didn’t feel quite so overwhelmed.

“Thank you, Bill,” she said with genuine warmth this time. “I’m sure I will.”

“I’ll be back with the rest of your stuff in a jiffy.” Whistling off-key, the man banged the dolly back out of her office and shambled down the hall.

Emily checked her watch and estimated the number of files she still needed to go over. This was crazy! It was hardly eight in the morning and she was already an hour behind. She’d been content in Boston – okay, not happy, but content. Okay, not happy or content, but at least her entire life hadn’t been turned upside down. It had all come about so quickly, starting with that telephone call from her old friend and former classmate, Mitch Saxon.

“It’s perfect for you, Em,” he’d urged. “I’m telling you, you’ve been in the big city too long. You’re jaded; admit it! This is the chance you’ve been waiting for. You could really make a difference. Make a name for yourself.”

“I like that,” she’d retorted. “Doogie Howser telling me what I need.”

Mitch had groaned at the old nickname. “How long are you going to hold my tender years against me? Can I help it if I’m young, handsome and brilliant? At least talk to the steering committee. I’d apply for the position myself, but I’ve got…well, it’s not a good time for me to be taking on additional responsibilities. Come on, stretch those long legs of yours and take a trip north. Check it out. I’ll buy you a lobster dinner. There’s a patient there I just admitted; I’d like to discuss him with you, an unusual MPD. And besides that, I’d love to be able to gaze into your beautiful hazel eyes and pick your even more beautiful brain about some of the stuff I’ve been dealing with down here; not just the patient, but…some other things as well.”

He’d finally convinced her to let him recommend her for the position. A quick round of interviews had followed and then just last week there’d been the call from the board of trustees begging her to take the job. They’d wanted her to start immediately, which meant she'd have to split her time between here and Boston for the next month until she could transition her old patients to other colleagues.

Her first view of St. Barnabas Hospital had been a daunting one. With its blood red bricks, looming gothic turrets and high arched windows, it looked like something straight out of Poe or Lovecraft; she’d half expected to see the main building surrounded by a tarn ‘dank and drear’. She’d shaken off her initial misgivings, however, once she’d met the staff and seen how well the patients were treated.

The opportunity for advancement had been irresistible and the timing was right. She’d been in a rut back in Boston; she knew that. She’d had no personal ties keeping her there any longer, not since she’d divorced Jeremy, the conniving bastard. No family, no lovers certainly, for much longer than she cared to remember. At forty-three years of age, it was high time she accepted a new challenge.

She’d been feeling out of sorts ever since that last session with Sarah – no, she corrected herself - with Diana Carandini. The things that poor girl had finally revealed – Emily felt such a fool. She’d been treating her for three years and hadn’t even scratched the surface of her problems. Amazing how childhood trauma could twist one’s recollections of a parent’s cruelty into something…otherworldly in order to rationalize it.

If only I could have helped her break through all that; to see her father for what he truly was and not what her fantasies obviously made him up to be.

Nevertheless, it was time to put that behind her. There were people here she could help. Standing, she reached around the back of her chair for her white lab coat and slipped it on, then crossed over to the closet. Opening it, she checked her makeup in the mirror and carefully readjusted her favorite Italian silk scarf. Picking up the files she’d examined, she looked over the roster of patients she was to see and gave a satisfied nod. At the top of the list was the name she remembered from her conversation with Mitch. With a slightly imperious lift of her chin, she stepped briskly out of her office and down the hall.

“All right, Mr. Edmund Green,” she muttered under her breath. “Let us begin with you and…yours.”


-------------------------------***--------------------------------


Wilton Carandini closed the door to his room and took a moment to relish the solitude. Things certainly had started hopping around here, and not all of it was to his liking. Too many unknown elements. Frowning with distaste at the tepid mug of tea he’d carried up from the kitchen, he tipped the contents into the large aspidistra by the bureau and set the cup down. He’d gotten what he’d wanted from trusty Grant, at least. Such a treasure, that man. Such a repository of family secrets. Such a waste of a loyalty and devotion that was so rare in servants these days.

In the moment they’d connected, Carandini had not only been able to confirm what he’d witnessed between Jean and Megan, he saw that the butler was deeply involved with the amazing little Annie and grievously concerned about her. Why, Grant! Carandini mused. Who would have guessed? That explained so much. And where was that bewitching little maid these days, he wondered. Since their brief sojourn together into town, she’d made herself quite scarce, almost as if she’d been avoiding his presence. He’d been so busy lately he’d not been able to give her the attention she most definitely deserved. He needed to do something to tempt her. Leave some…bait, perhaps, to lure her back to him. He felt a smile creep onto his face. Annie intrigued him, indeed. And some games were just too interesting to resist.

But that was just the problem. There were so many games and mysteries here, so many threads and so tightly woven. Determining which of those threads to cut, however, and which to simply loosen or fray, now that was where true artistry came in. Crossing over to the mantle, he poured himself a glass of the Quinta do Noval ‘67 he’d lifted from the wine cellar and relaxed into the high backed leather armchair that faced the fire. Perhaps he was just too close to it all; that was a hazard he remembered well, living here at Halstead. One had a tendency to be swept up in events, rather than be the one to orchestrate them. He needed to assess his strategy and prioritize.

He had the book, he had the amulet, and Alexandra was safely hidden away for the time being, even though Johnny was proving to be surprisingly squeamish about that. Amazing, really, the cheek of him – no compunction whatsoever about donning a black robe, plundering a whore six ways from Sunday on an altar to Satan and then obliterating her memory, but require a simple, necessary precaution for their continued safety and suddenly the man had a crisis of conscience.

Therefore, handling John would be his first task. Confronting whoever, or whatever had taken Jean away to save him from exposure would be his next step. Then, the sturdy Dr. Saxon was proving to be more of a problem than they’d anticipated; he would bear watching. That loathsome actor Creighton needed to be dealt with as well; even John’s purposely inept counsel wouldn’t keep him behind bars forever. Perhaps some…evidence…would need to be found.

As for the family members themselves, they were all so engrossed in their own squabbles, lusts and miseries that not one of them had a clue as to what his real purpose was in being here.

Keep things stirred up, yes, but in the direction and tempo that he decreed.

He required the aid of someone he could trust, now that Edmund had been whisked away and John was proving recalcitrant. Luckily, he knew just the person for the job. Reaching inside his shirt, he pulled out the jeweled amulet he now wore around his neck. Holding it lightly, Carandini projected a thought and an image, then spoke a single word and waited, savoring his glass of port. A few moments later, there was a soft knock on his door. It opened to reveal Andrea; she was wearing a sheer black silk nightgown and little else.

“Ah, thank you for coming,” said Carandini, setting down his glass and rising to greet her. “You look as fresh as ever. Hmm, rather a daring costume, though, wouldn’t you say? Not quite apropos for the character?”

“I hate this form,” his visitor said sulkily as she entered the room and closed the door behind her. “I hate having to manufacture her thoughts and emotions. Andrea is so…dull.”

“Nevertheless,” replied Carandini, “it is imperative you maintain the illusion that she is still alive. John needs to believe that I resurrected her, and the rest of my plans would be thrown into chaos if it were discovered that Jean actually did kill her.“

“I liked the other form better, the one you had me take for darling Edmund’s benefit. I loved playing with him.” Her features melted into a greenish cast, and suddenly she was the beautiful succubus that had tortured his former assistant.

Carandini chuckled. “Perhaps we went a bit too far on that one, but it certainly was entertaining.”

She sidled up against him and stroked his arm. “I can be anything you want, you know. I am your creature after all, now that you possess the amulet. Would you prefer it if I were…”

The thing morphed again, this time into a very lovely, very naked Veronica Drake. “Why won’t you let me please you?” she purred.

Carandini grabbed her wrists, none too gently, and held her at a slight distance. “That is really quite thoughtful of you, dear, but right now is not the-”

There was another knock on the door.

With a stern gesture of warning, he silenced her and pushed her towards the bed. Crossing over to the door, he opened it a crack to find the real Veronica, wearing a demure blue bathrobe and staring up at him with plaintive eyes.

“Oh Wilton,” she said breathlessly. “I’m so glad you’re still up! Forgive me, but I really needed to ask you about something. Is this a bad time?”

“No, ah…of course not, preziosa.” He gave a quick look over his shoulder, smiled, and then turned back to her. ”Please, do come in.”

“I…thought I heard voices?”

“Yes, I was speaking to Sybil.”

“Sybil?” Veronica said, confused.

Carandini stood aside and gestured towards the bed.

“Oh!” Ronnie laughed. “So, that’s Sybil!”

“What can I say?” Carandini replied. “The name seemed to fit. I was trying to coax her off of my pillow.”

There, curled up in a ball was the black cat with the blaze of white on its forehead. She gave Veronica a dismissive glance, yawned widely, then lifted a hind leg and started grooming herself.

“She seems to have…attached herself to me,” Carandini said with an apologetic shrug. Then he smiled, placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders, and drew her in closer. “But it is such a pleasure to see you! I confess, Veronica, I’ve been feeling a trifle neglected by you lately.”

Relishing the slight blush that bloomed on her cheeks, he waved away her stammered apology. “No, no, I understand completely. Jean has at last begun to see the error of his ways and I could not be happier for you! Now, sit down, have a glass of this very expensive port with me and tell me what the burning question is you needed to-”

The chirrup of his cell phone interrupted him.

“Ah, ‘scuzi,” he said, retrieving his phone. “I hate the beastly thing, but I’ve found some concessions to the modern age are necessary.”

Especially when so few conversations in this house are ever truly private.

Checking the caller ID, he felt a jolt of energy go through him. He eagerly flipped open the phone and spoke into it. “Un momento.”

Holding the phone to his chest, he turned back to Veronica and said, “A thousand apologies, cara mia, but I have been waiting a very long time for this call. Urgent business, I’m afraid. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Oh!” The girl tried to mask her disappointment. “Of course. It…really wasn’t all that important; just some weird dreams I’d been having that I hoped you could help me decipher. It can wait.”

“Ah, dreams! Always intriguing,” he said, smoothly urging her out the door. “I suggest you write them down in as much detail as you can remember, and at the first possible moment, I promise we shall examine them from every possible angle, yes? ”

He paused, then reached out to trace his finger down along her temple and under her chin. He could feel her tremble at his touch.

Good. Very good. For I still have so much planned for you, my lovely Veronica. And I do believe that all of Jean's clumsy attempts at a rapprochement will be for naught.

Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on the girl's forehead. “Buona notte, sweet one. May your sleep tonight be blissfully unencumbered.”

Veronica smiled, slightly dazed, and trotted back down the hall towards her room.

Carandini turned back to the cat on the bed and snapped his fingers. “And as for you…watch her, but do not send her any dreams.”

Sybil scratched her ear and stretched languidly.

“Now, if you please,” he said warningly.

With a disgruntled snort, the cat leapt off the bed and ambled out after Veronica. Closing the door firmly, he raised the cell phone to his ear once more.

“Pronto? Si.”

As he listened, Carandini could feel his pulse quicken.

“Siete sicuri?” he asked in a hushed tone, trying to control his excitement. “Bene. Va bene. No, no, do nothing, non si avvicina. Verrò.”

Snapping the phone shut, he closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“It is time, Diana. I shall come to you. I’ve waited long enough.”

Crossing back to the mantle, he retrieved his glass of port and took a final, appreciative sip, then carefully set the crystal glass back down. Sometimes, he mused, things fell out exactly the way they needed to, when they needed to.

“ ‘I have done nothing but in care of thee’,” he murmured. Staring down into the fire, he saw only her face. “ ‘Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who art ignorant of what thou art…’”



L.A.G.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: Redemption's Fire

As the rain poured down upon them, Augusta desperately clawed at Jamison’s arm. “Look!" she wailed. "Behind the bushes! I tell you he is THERE! The red eyes burn, why won’t you look?”

“Yes, yes I see them, darling,” Jamison said soothingly as he tried to urge her towards the house. “Now let me take you back. We’ll catch our death out here.”

“But he calls me!”

With a final anguished cry, Augusta collapsed in a faint on the rain-soaked lawn. Cursing under his breath, Jamison set down the lantern and slung the rifle over his shoulder. Lifting his wife up in his arms, he hurried the rest of the way to the house, past the fountain and up the back steps. Paxton stood at the French doors, bleary-eyed and uncharacteristically rumpled. As he pushed by the butler into the drawing room, Jamison could smell whiskey on the man’s breath.

“Yes, Paxton,” he said, trying to quell his anger. ”She managed to get out yet again. God only knows how she got past you.” No doubt when you were replenishing your stock. “I’m taking her back upstairs. Where is Roderick?”

Paxton shifted uneasily. “The master has not been seen since this afternoon, sir. He may have gone into town with Dr. Marcus.”

“Very well.” Jamison adjusted Augusta in his arms so that Paxton could take the rifle from him. “I shall…I shall have to restrain her this time. You’ll need to get the...” He broke off, unable to say the word.

“Aye, sir,” whispered the butler. “It’s the only way.”

Jamison carried Augusta up the back stairs and into the spare room they’d used earlier that day. Striding over to the single bed, he laid down his frail burden.

Paxton came close behind him, holding a lamp in one hand and a bundle of material in the other.

“I brought some dry towels and another gown, sir, along with the…other.”

“Thank you, Paxton. You can leave it all there on the dresser. “

"Are you sure you don’t need my –“

“That will be all, Paxton. Go to bed. Leave me the lamp and close the door behind you.”

“Very good, sir.”


As soon as the butler was gone, Jamison gently peeled Augusta’s sodden nightgown off her. Gazing down at his wife’s small, naked form, he breathed a weary sigh. When he had come upon her in the barn, that machete lifted high over her head and her eyes burning with madness, Jamison felt as though he too would go insane.

He reached down and caressed her cheek. Her skin was so cold and blue, he thought with concern. Almost as if...
But no, he could see the pulse fluttering at her temple.

So frail, and yet…so tenacious.

He’d once loved her so dearly. Now he felt nothing for her but pity, frustration and some unnamable guilt. Shaking off the black thoughts, he grabbed a towel and briskly rubbed warmth back into his wife’s limbs, then eased her into a dry nightgown.

Steeling himself for his next task, he slowly unrolled one of the four thick leather straps that Paxton had brought up. Placing it over one of Augusta’s wrists, he wrapped the ends around the bed frame, then cinched and buckled it tight.

“Please forgive me, Augusta,” he hoarsely whispered, reaching for another strap. “If I only knew what it is that torments you! If I could burn it out of your mind, I swear to you I would.”

----------------------------~*~---------------------------------

Outside, the storm redoubled its fury, lashing down at Halstead Manor and all its inhabitants. In the dark garden, underneath the brambles by the old stone boundary wall, in a lair that was dug out a long time ago, a great black creature lay hidden. A fiery slice of pain burned deep in its shoulder where the bullet had creased it – the animal’s impulse to attack had been overcome by the need to retreat. The red light in its eyes was beginning to dim and it shook its great head. Panting hard, a violent shudder wracked the creature’s frame. It slowly dragged itself farther back into the cave and then up, up towards a crack in the wall that was so narrow only its own lithe form would be able to squeeze past. With a desperate effort, it heaved itself through and into the wider passageway beyond. Then, with a frenzied shriek the animal collapsed, convulsing. White flecks of foam dripped from its jaws, and its eyes, now pale blue, rolled back in its head. The animal’s features began to swell and contract with a horrible popping sound, and its long canines retracted behind lips now thin and red. Bones snapped and reformed, muscles twisted and flexed. The thick black fur melted into white, quivering flesh and angry red scars appeared in a criss-cross over the thing’s back and shoulders.

Through it all, the creature writhed and screamed in a sort of ecstasy, as if it was suffering both the tortures and the pleasures of the damned.

----------------------------~*~---------------------------------


Jamison lurched blindly down the hall, desperate to shut out Augusta’s plaintive cries. He’d not been able to escape in time; she’d awakened and had immediately become hysterical, struggling against the restraints. Finally, he’d had to dose her with the laudanum Dr. Marcus had left for just such an emergency. As he turned the corner, he realized he was close to Alexandra’s room. Just the thought of her calming voice soothed him. She knew nothing of what had transpired and would surely want to be told, he thought to himself. Once he arrived at her door, however, he hesitated. She’d complained of not feeling herself early that evening and had kept to her room. Jamison checked his pocket watch – nearly midnight – much too late, he chided himself; the poor woman was no doubt sleeping soundly. He was about to walk on when he heard a muffled voice and a trilling laugh.

Jamison stumbled back against the wall. That laugh! It was a laugh he’d not heard over half a year – not since the last time he’d seen Brigid Halstead alive.

----------------------------~*~---------------------------------

In the bowels of Halstead Manor, far below the wine cellar, past the storage room where old trunks lay full of rotting journals and incriminating letters, and where certain portraits of ancestors considered too depraved even for the upstairs gallery were turned face towards the wall, there was a passageway. There was no light in the passageway. There was no dust there, nor any cobwebs. The rats did not crawl there, although they reigned freely over the rest of their domain. At the end of this passageway there was a blank wall of brick and mortar, nothing more. But behind the wall, a grinding sound could be heard, and the wall slowly began to slide back, revealing a dark opening. A tall figure stumbled through it and down the passageway, collapsing as the wall ground shut once more. The dim light of a single blue candle in the storage room revealed Roderick, naked and panting against the barren floor.

Raising his head up, he called out, his voice echoing in the gloom, “ ‘Surely thou didst set them in slippery places: thou castedst them down into destruction. How are they brought into desolation, as in a moment!’”

He winced in pain, clutching at a bloody wound on his shoulder. Pulling his hand away, he stared at the blood, and the answer he had been avoiding all these years came to him.

“ ‘It is the blood that maketh an atonement’,” he whispered as awe, fear and desire finally became one in his broken mind.

“It is fitting,“ he said, nodding. Drawing himself up, he reached for the long purple dressing gown he’d thrown off earlier that evening. “It shall be done. Our bodies and our souls shall be set free from that demon’s curse at last!”


----------------------------~*~---------------------------------


Jamison recovered from his shock long enough to rap on the door. “Alexandra? Are you all right in there? It’s….“

The door swung open slightly. “Alexandra?? What are you-” he managed to ask, before a slim arm reached out and yanked him inside.

----------------------------~*~---------------------------------


In the spare room down at the end of the hall, Augusta drifted in and out of consciousness. She cried out in her drugged sleep and struggled against the bonds that secured her, just as she still tried to fight the devils that plagued her mind. An insistent creaking sound dragged her up out of the grey mist long enough for her to open her eyes. Turning her head, she was amazed to see a tall angel with shiny purple wings ooze out of the wall. A swath of moonlight had fallen from the window, spilling across the floor, and the angel drifted over it. Hovering next to her bed, the angel looked down at her with eyes that shined like silver and Augusta felt her skin burn under its fierce gaze.

The angel bent over her. With long, white fingers, it touched the awful thing that held her leg fast. She felt a soft, trembling hand draw its way up her thigh, then higher, lightly caressing the secret places underneath her nightgown.

“Angel,” Augusta whispered hopefully. “Have you come to save me?”

The angel gave a great, heaving sob, and pulled away its hand. Augusta held her breath as the angel rose up again to its full height, its great iridescent wings parting to reveal skin so like alabaster it seemed to glow. Something in its right hand sparkled and gleamed.

----------------------------~*~---------------------------------

It was dark inside Alexandra’s room, except for a sliver of moonlight. In front of him, Jamison could see a familiar silhouette and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Alexandra! What in heaven’s – “

“Shhhh! Jamison, there’s no time to explain. We must get Augusta out of here. If you don’t, she is only going to worsen. She may very well die.”

“Oh God, I haven’t wanted to believe that, but after what happened today…”

“Exactly. Jamison, you know you can trust me, don’t you? You’ve sensed there is something…unusual about me. I came here for a reason.” Alexandra stepped back into the light and Jamison gasped. Far from looking ill, she seemed even more beautiful than before, somehow more…youthful.

“You’re different, Alexandra. You’ve changed. Your voice…it’s not the same somehow. That laugh I heard, and your hair…”

He realized with a start that Alexandra’s glossy black hair was now accented with a pure-white widow’s peak. Just like-

“Jamison, you don’t understand. We don’t have time for this. Augusta must leave tonight! Or it will be too late. I can’t tell you everything, but the one thing you must know is that no matter what has happened in the past, Augusta is not to blame! She was never meant to suffer.” She held out a thick envelope. “Take this. It contains all the documents and information you’ll need. There’s the address of a convent in Italy where she’ll be safe and well cared for, as well as-”

“Italy!” Jamison spluttered, backing away. “I couldn’t possibly-”

“Yes, you can!” Alexandra insisted, shoving the envelope into his hands. “The only chance she has is to get as far away from here as possible, away from everything that has been tainted by this place!” Her eyes softened and she gave him a sad smile. “Even you, my dear Jamison. You must send her away and never see her again. Trust me. For this treatment to work…ah…she needs absolute isolation. Even your love would be too much for her to bear.”

“But I –“

“If you want her to live, you’ll do as I say! Send her on a ship with William and a good sensible maid, perhaps Adelaide, but get her out of here tonight!”

Jamison looked deeply into her eyes and saw the truth.

“It’s Roderick isn’t it? He’s the danger. His hold over her, the sanctimonious--!”

Alexandra gripped his arms firmly. “Listen to me. We will deal with Roderick later, but our first priority must be Augusta. She must not be harmed. There is much at stake here, more than you know. I’ll get her ready, you call for the servants and the coach.”

Jamison still didn’t move; he had to know. “Who are you really?”

“I tell you there is no time!” Alexandra spun him around and pushed him towards the door. “Go, Jamison! Go now!”


----------------------------~*~---------------------------------


As she watched Jamison finally run to do as she demanded, the being that looked like Alexandra permitted herself a smile. “Time enough still,” she whispered, “to give my dear Roderick everything he deserves.”

A sharp pain stabbed at her mind.

“No!” She quickly crossed over to the mirror hanging above the dresser and looked into it. Staring back at her were eyes not her own, and they were filled with terror. She gripped the edge of the dresser tightly and spoke sharply to the image before her. “I have no wish to harm you, Alexandra. You have given me the information I needed to help Augusta, and I thank you for it. However, I need complete control of your body as well to do what I must. The more you fight me, the harder it will be. I am much stronger than you, and if I have to…I will destroy you as well.”

She closed her eyes and concentrated. The pain receded and slowly the patrician face in the mirror melted and changed, shifting into the features and form of Brigid Halstead.

----------------------------~*~---------------------------------

Roderick stood in the moonlight with his arms outstretched, the purple dressing gown falling open to reveal his naked body. The sight of his sister bound by straps like Saint Catherine on the wheel had nearly been his undoing; he’d almost succumbed once more to the demonic lust he felt for her - the effect of that lust on his body was still painfully evident. But then she’d spoken; she’d called him “Angel” and with her soft words, Roderick felt the power of the Lord wash over him and scour him clean. He knew then that what he was about to do was right and good.

“Yes, my sweet child,” he answered softly. “I am here to save us both.”

He raised his right hand, and the long silver dagger he held up glittered like Jehovah’s fire. " ‘God judgeth the righteous’,” he intoned solemnly, “ ‘and God is angry with the wicked every day. If he turn not, he will whet his sword; he hath bent his bow, and made it ready. He hath also prepared for him the instruments of death…’”

Augusta’s eyes widened and she smiled up at him with delight. “And you’ve brought Brigid with you from Heaven! Oh, thank you!”

Roderick stopped, momentarily confused. Then he heard an odd, rustling sound behind him. He turned quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid the iron poker that swung up out of the dark and slammed into his skull.

As Roderick crumpled to the floor, Brigid dropped the poker, stepped over him and hurried to the bed. “Oh, Augusta! Yes, I am here. Brigid will take care of everything.” She knelt down and unbuckled the straps. Augusta sat up and hugged her fiercely, then smiled brightly.

“You’ve been gone for so long, I’d nearly given up hope. I’ve been sick. A black beast called to me in the garden. I don’t like Alexandra. She doesn’t belong here. I made a present for you, but Brother wouldn’t let me keep it.”

“It’s all right,” said Brigid, smoothing the pale hair back from Augusta’s face. “Would you like to go on a trip?”

“Outside, you mean? Away from Halstead?”

“Yes, to a place where the houses are filled with sunshine and the people sing, and it only rains long enough to help the flowers grow. Would you like that?”

Augusta's face lit up with joy. “Oh, yes, Brigid, I’d like that very much!”

“It will mean a long boat trip, darling. You will have to be very brave.”

“I will be, Brigid. I promise! After all, you’ll be with me, won’t you?”

“I – I will join you later.”

“And Jamison will come, and…” Augusta’s smile dimmed, and Brigid could feel the small body tensing in her arms. “What about Brother? Will he be going, too? ”

“No,” Brigid said grimly, glancing over at the body on the floor. “Brother needs to stay right here.”

Augusta looked down at her lap and plucked fretfully at her nightgown. Finally, she nodded and in a quiet voice said, “I don’t think he would like a place that is sunny all the time.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” said Brigid, gently pulling Augusta to her feet. “Very well, then. Let’s hurry back to your room and get you dressed, then we’ll go downstairs. I’ve already packed you a few things and will send the rest on later.”

As they started for the door, Augusta stopped and looked back with concern at the unconscious figure lying by the bed. “Brigid, you didn’t kill the angel, did you?”

“Of course not, darling,” said Brigid soothingly, urging her sister-in-law out the door. “I have other plans for him.”


----------------------------~*~---------------------------------

Jamison waited by the carriage house, going over the details with the two servants he was sending on the boat with Augusta. He still couldn’t believe that in the last hour his entire world had changed. But he knew that Alexandra was right – he’d been avoiding it for too long. He had to get Augusta away. Away from this horrible place and that damnable brother of hers. He knew that William and Adelaide were dependable and could be trusted. He also knew they were sweethearts, and that the money he’d promised them upon their return would be more than enough to set them up for a life together outside of service.

“Do not worry, Monsieur Legard,” chirped the little maid. “We will take good of Madame. Vraiment, even if it is to Italy and not France we go, I know she will be very happy there.”

“You have my word, sir, we’ll see she gets to…” William squinted down at one of the papers Jamison had given him and struggled to pronounce the unfamiliar words. “Er...this ’Castelnuovo Rangone’ place safely.”

“Thank you. Bless you both. “ Jamison looked up at the house impatiently, then down once more at his pocket watch. What could be keeping them?

----------------------------~*~---------------------------------

It had taken longer than Brigid had anticipated to dress Augusta – the girl seemed to sense that she would not be coming back; she kept picking up one thing and then discarding it for another, unable to choose the few precious items Brigid would allow her to take.

“But Brigid!” Augusta wailed. “The little black cat poppet you made for me! I can’t go anywhere without that!”

“I swear to you I’ll find it. Now put on this coat and we’ll go to Jamison.”

“That horrid Alexandra person won’t be coming with us, will she, Brigid?”

“No, Augusta. You needn’t worry about her. I’ll take care of everything. Come along now. We have to hurry.”

They ran down the hall to the great stairs, Augusta clutching a small valise close to her chest. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Brigid stopped and turned Augusta towards her. “Now listen to me, darling. I want you to go straight to the carriage house – Jamison is waiting there for you.” She stole a glance back up the stairs. “There’s…something I must do before I can join you.”

Augusta’s chin began to tremble. “But you-“

“Now, you promised you’d be brave. I’m depending on you.”

Augusta took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “All right, Brigid.”

“Go on now, Jamison is waiting for you!”

With a final hug, Augusta kissed her goodbye and ran out the front door, slamming it behind her. Brigid sighed with relief. Now to-

Suddenly there was a great crash at the top of the stairs and she looked up, startled.

Standing above her was a horrifying sight. It was Roderick, leaning heavily on the balcony rail and gasping for breath, Blood and gore streamed down from the gaping wound on the side of his head, blackening the purple dressing gown that still hung over his naked frame. His eyes burned with an insane fury as they focused on her.

“YOU!!” he screamed in disbelief.

“Yes, Roderick. It is I.” Brigid said icily. “I told you I’d return.”

“DEVIL’S WHORE!!!” he cried. "What have you done with her? She must be washed in the Blood of the Lamb!” Roderick began to stumble down the stairs.

She couldn’t let him go after Augusta – everything depended on it!

“If you ever want to see Augusta again, Roderick, you will have to deal with me first,” she taunted, edging away from the front door. “You see, my Master actually hears my prayers.”

“THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE!” Roderick bellowed and started after her.

Brigid turned and ran into the drawing room. Pushing aside the ornate, high-backed chair by the sideboard, she opened a secret panel, then waited until she saw Roderick lurch through the double doors. Dashing inside, she raced down the narrow passageway. She could hear Roderick raging behind her.

“WHERE ARE YOU, YOU BITCH!”

Brigid hitched up her skirts and ran to the end of the passageway, then up the circular stairs that led to the second floor. Coming at last to the panel she sought, she slid it open to reveal Alexandra’s darkened bedroom. Slamming the panel shut behind her, she dragged the dresser in front of it. She could hear Roderick pounding up the stairs. There was just enough time. Wrenching open the bottom dresser drawer, she pulled out the grimoire and the amulet. Although this corporeal form was proving useful, it badly limited the kind of magic she was able to perform without aid.

Taking a calming breath, she turned to a page she knew well and set the book on the floor. Reaching for the amulet, she held it lightly in her right hand.

BOOM!

The room reverberated with the pounding. She stepped away from the grimoire and turned to face the sound.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Roderick’s voice echoed from the other side of the panel. “YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME, YOU HARLOT OF SATAN!"

“I am right here, Roderick.” Brigid called out, steeling herself for what was about to happen.

BOOM!

With a splintering crash, the panel shattered, revealing Roderick’s torn and bloodied face. His mouth widened in a vicious, calculating grin when he saw her, then he wrenched away the remains of the panel.

“Hello, Roderick. It took you long enough,” Brigid said evenly.

“You won’t escape me this time, whore,” Roderick hissed, shoving the dresser away from the opening he’d made. “I killed you once, I can do it again. This time, however, I won’t just throw you down the stairs. No. I swear I’ll drag you to the highest turret, and I’ll cast you off, then I’ll rip your sin-infested corpse to bits with my bare hands and I’ll grind your bones to dust.”

With a scream of rage, he leapt through the jagged opening he’d made in the wall and started towards her.

As he did so, Brigid held out her left palm, exposing three deep scars. Seeing them, Roderick halted, and for the first time, something like fear crossed his features.

Brigid smiled. “You remember when I made these, don’t you?”

“The curse! This family’s misery is all because of you!”

“No, dear husband. The curse on Halstead Manor started long ago. But THIS curse is yours and yours alone.”

Holding the amulet up in her right hand, Brigid cried out, “Ia! Muh’lhng ftagn! Loscadh is dó ort!"

Roderick stumbled back, raising up his hands as if to ward off the spell. "NO!” he screamed.

“She’s gone, Roderick! Augusta is free from your evil forever!” Brigid slashed down at her left palm with the amulet’s sharpened edge. Blood spurted up from the scars and her hand burst into flame.

But before she could fling the blood and fire down upon the grimoire and complete the curse, Roderick saw the book on the floor. With a shout, he hurled himself at it and threw it behind him.

“You won’t use your black arts against me this time, sorceress!” he bellowed, launching himself at her once more.

Brigid tried to run, but it was too late. Roderick grabbed her around the throat and they grappled together in a macabre dance of hate. He smashed her against the wall, choking her, and as she tried to gain purchase, the fire she held in her hand leapt to the heavy brocade curtains and exploded into a fiery ball.

Brigid struggled to free herself from Roderick’s grip, but his long fingers were wrapped firmly around her throat.

“ ‘Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone,” he cackled. “ ‘This shall be the portion of their cup!’”

The fire spread in seconds, shooting up the walls and over the beams in the ceiling. Tongues of flame lapped at the four-poster, feeding on the bedcovers and the ancient wood.

Although Brigid still fought with all her strength, she could feel herself losing consciousness. Tears sprang to her eyes.

I’m so sorry, Augusta. I should have never left you alone.

Through the grey smoke that now filled the room, she could still make out Roderick’s face grinning in exultation as he squeezed his hands even tighter. His eyes burned as fiercely as the flames, and he cackled in triumph.

“She’ll never leave me, Brigid. I will finish with you and then I shall bring her back. The child-“

Suddenly Roderick’s eyes went wide with surprise and his hands fell away. Brigid scrambled back, but Roderick just stood there, frozen. His mouth gaped opened, as if to speak, and then a great gout of blood poured out of it and cascaded down his chest. Falling to his knees, he clutched at his throat, gargling and gasping for air.

“My…child…” he managed to whisper, before collapsing face down on the floor at Brigid’s feet.

She looked up in amazement. Standing behind Roderick’s corpse, with the flames behind her growing ever and ever higher, was the pale, blonde figure of a girl. In one hand, she clutched a stuffed toy. In the other, she held a long, silver dagger, now stained to the hilt with Roderick’s blood.

“Augusta?” Brigid croaked.

“I came back.” Augusta held up the toy. “I remembered where I put Kitty.”

“Augusta!” Brigid ran to her and hugged her tight. “We’ve got to get out of here, now!”

“And then I found the angel’s sword where he had dropped it.”

“Yes. Of course you did.” Brigid gently took the dagger from the girl’s hand and placed in on the floor. “Now come along with me, darling,” she urged, eyeing the encroaching flames.

“I heard him screaming at you and I came to help. He was hurting you.”

Spying an quilt the fire hadn’t yet touched, Brigid grabbed it and wrapped it around Augusta, covering her head. “You saved me, darling. You saved my life. But we need to-"

“You know something, Brigid? I don’t think that was really an angel at all.”

Brigid spared a glance at Roderick’s body. “Whatever he was, Augusta,” she said firmly, “he won’t hurt anyone anymore. Now we have to run as fast as we can!”

Holding Augusta close to her, Brigid dashed through the smoke and flames to the open doorway. Racing down the stairs, they were almost to the foyer when Brigid skidded to an abrupt halt.

The BOOK! She’d forgotten the book! Roderick had fallen on top of it when he’d died. She couldn’t leave without it!

Uttering a black curse at her own stupidity, she was about to tell Augusta to run outside, when the front door burst open and Jamison appeared. Augusta ran to his arms.

“Augusta??" cried Jamison. "Where did you go? I turned around and—BRIGID?” He stared up at her, gaping.

“No time to explain, Jamison! Call the rest of the servants. There’s a fire on the second floor. Roderick is dead. I…I killed him. He’d gone completely mad.”

“Good God! But you…you’re wearing her clothes…”

“Take Augusta and GO!”

“BUT WHERE IS ALEXANDRA?”

Brigid stopped, momentarily nonplussed. “Ah! She’s…she’s safe. Still upstairs. Trying to fight the fire. I – I will go back and get her, Jamison. Now go!!!”

“Very well. I’ll be back in a moment. But do not go up there without me!” Jamison hurried Augusta out the front door. As soon as he was gone, Brigid turned and ran back up the stairs.

The fire was already spreading out into the hall. Brigid plunged her way through the flames once more. The heat and smoke nearly blinded her, but in the center of the room she could still make out the shape of Roderick’s body. For some reason the flames had not encroached upon the circle in which he lay. Running over, she kneeled down and heaved the body over. Grabbing the amulet she’d dropped in the struggle, she then reached for the grimoire. Picking it up, she noticed with dismay that it was wet with blood.

The black figures on the page were swimming in a chaotic frenzy and the entire book was beginning to vibrate.

It was soaked through with Roderick’s blood!

No time to think about what that would mean. The flames had nearly consumed the entire room - only the circle she stood in was still untouched. She slammed the book closed, held it tight and turned to go.

But just as she stepped over Roderick’s body, something shot out and grabbed her ankle. Letting out a shriek, she looked down - Roderick’s white hand was clutching her with an iron grip. He smiled up at her with a ghastly rictus grin. Brigid kicked at him and tried to pull away, but he twisted her leg and wrenched her down onto the floor. Crawling on top of her as she struggled frantically , he straddled her, pinning her arms with his knees. Then he laughed, and red bubbles of foam dripped from his mouth down onto her face.

“You see, dear wife?” he rasped. “I’m not so easy to kill, either!”

Reaching through the flames, he grabbed the silver dagger Brigid had left on the floor, ignoring the sizzling sound his flesh made.

“As you are my wife,” he intoned, “Thou shalt cleave unto me all thy days. One spirit, one flesh, forever and Amen.”

Roderick raised the dagger high over his head. Brigid heard the sound of cracking timber, and behind Roderick she could see an entire wall of flame falling toward them. As Roderick plunged the dagger down towards her breast, Brigid's triumphant smile made him falter. And as the burning pyre collapsed upon them both, Brigid heard a voice in her head scream a name she did not recognize.

MITCH!

Then Brigid's world exploded into a fiery inferno and she heard no more.




L.A.G.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: The Invocation

Alex sat next to the fire in her bedroom, contemplating the day's ordeals and nursing the very large brandy she'd badgered Paxton into adding to her supper tray. She’d told him that she was feeling ill - which wasn't far from the truth - and that she'd thought it best if she dined in her room. The household was finally quiet again after the panic over Augusta’s “accident” earlier that afternoon, and blessed solitude was hers at last. Shortly after nightfall it had started to rain, and the low rumblings of thunder in the distance seemed to underscore her own growing tension. The events of the day, the story Jamison had told her in the gazebo, and the secrets she'd overheard outside Roderick’s study all tumbled together in her mind.

Augusta was pregnant! And judging from her scrawny figure, the girl couldn't be more than three months along.

Immediately upon hearing Marcus’s pronouncement, Roderick had lurched up from his chair, flung open the door to his study and raced out – Alex had escaped discovery only by seconds, thanks to quick reflexes and a dark alcove. A few moments later, Marcus had strolled out, smirking with satisfaction, smoking one of Roderick’s fine cigars and placing two more in his breast pocket. Seeing Roderick’s reaction and knowing what she did about Jamison’s relationship with his wife, Alex had a queasy feeling she knew exactly who was responsible for Augusta's condition.

Alex tried to remember what she could of the family history and the new information Wilton had revealed when he’d arrived at Halstead. He’d actually found the place his ancestor had been born; he'd traveled there. A convent on the outskirts of Castelnuovo Rangone near Modena, Wilton had said, and he’d shown her the location on a map in the library. There were documents and records, he’d said, letters from Roderick delineating the care of “Rose” and her son, Niccolo. They’d naturally assumed all these years that his ancestor had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, but if what she surmised was true, then Wilton was not the descendent of Roderick and some “mystery woman”, but of Roderick and Augusta! Not only that, but as far as anyone knew, the woman was destined to die in childbirth. Come to think of it, the history had been very vague on what had officially happened to Augusta. A “wasting illness" sometime after the fire that nearly destroyed the manor was all Alex could remember. There’d certainly been no mention of her living a long and happy life. As far as the Halsteads went, Alex thought, that would have indeed been a notable distinction.

Now it was obvious why Roderick would pack his sister off to Italy to die among strangers and pay enormous sums to keep her son as far away from Halstead as possible. And what of Jamison? Alex’s recollection of the family history didn't include his fate. What was the poor man going to do about all this? He wasn’t so dim that he wouldn’t be able to add up the months since he’d had sex with his wife.

Oh, if she could only get back to her own time, where nothing like this could possibly happen! Why hadn’t Mitch managed to bring her back? She’d been here for nearly two weeks, now. Perhaps he’d been hurt in the séance that had thrown her back into this time, or John had foiled any attempts he’d made. Those were the only explanations that made sense to Alex; she knew how devoted to her the young man was and how dedicated to the study of inter-dimensional time travel.

She tried to remember some of the spells she’d witnessed John perform. Unfortunately, the fool injected so much excessive theatricality into the invocations, she was unsure how much was essential and how much was just ‘flash’. Alex knew that without the special training Mitch and John possessed, delving into the secrets of a grimoire was as dangerous as diving into a tub of pit vipers. But she had to try. She had to attempt contact with the one spirit she felt sure could help her. There was nothing for it except to get the damned book and begin.

Alex took one last sip of her drink, then set it down and crossed over to the bureau. Opening the bottom drawer, she pulled out the jeweled amulet and grimoire and took them back to her chair by the fire. As before, she trembled at the power emanating from the artifacts, and a strange heat suffused her as she held them in her lap.

Taking a deep breath, she let the book fall open at random. The lettering on the page was in a language Alex had never seen before; the odd, hand-written marks looked like nothing more than random curls and scratches. Wracking her brain to find some key to deciphering its secrets, she reached for the amulet. Grasping it firmly in her hand, she drew comfort from its warmth.

Just then a huge thunderclap resounded right outside her window. Startling with fear, Alex clenched the amulet and immediately felt a sharp, stabbing pain. Cursing, she saw that she’d cut her palm on one of the jewel’s sharp facets - not seriously, but enough so that a drop of blood dripped down onto the open book. There was a quick, scraping sound, like a match being struck, and as she looked down in amazement, a wisp of bile-green smoke curled up where the blood had landed. Slowly the dark squiggles began to move – right there on the page! As they twisted and wriggled like little black worms, Alex held her breath. Suddenly the lines froze: they had reformed into a word that she could understand.

It read “Invocation".

It had to be her blood that had done the trick, Alex marveled. She dimly remembered something she’d overheard John and Wilton arguing about in the old days – over twenty years ago now – back when they’d all been…experimenting. It had had something to do with blood magic and the cost to the one casting the spell…

No matter - the proof that something was working was before her - she couldn’t stop now. She’d never been one to shy away from the consequences of her actions. Gritting her teeth, she tightened her fist so that more droplets of blood spattered on the page. There was a sizzling sound, and more tendrils of acrid smoke rose up from the book. The rest of the marks on the page began to glow as they slowly aligned themselves into new positions. Then the smoke cleared and she could clearly see what was written.

“'An Invocation to Raise the Dead',” Alexandra whispered in wonder.

It was all there! The spell she needed. Flushed with excitement, she started to read aloud the words, but stopped, remembering one precautionary measure her ex-husband had always taken. First, she bent down and pulled away the throw rug so that the bare wood floor was exposed. Then Alex stood up, lifted the amulet’s chain and fastened it around her neck so that the jeweled face nestled between her breasts. She quickly crossed to the sideboard where she’d left her dinner tray. Grabbing the saltcellar, she sprinkled a large ‘C’ on the floor where the rug had been. Picking up the grimoire, she stepped inside the ‘C’, and then closed the circle with the last of the salt. Now she was as safe as she knew how to be. The storm outside had increased in fury, and now the wind and rain beat hard against her windows.

Taking a strengthening breath, Alex lifted her head and began. “Brigid Halstead!" she called out. "I know that this book and this amulet belonged to you! If you can hear my voice, you must come to me!”

Alex hesitated. She needed Brigid’s assistance to get back to her own time, but she’d never known a Halstead alive who’d give away anything for free, and there was no reason to suspect they’d be any different beyond the grave.

“I know you loved Augusta,” she continued in a gentler, more coaxing tone, “and she’s now in grave danger. She needs your help! Please speak to me!”

Glancing down at the grimoire once more, she read aloud the words her own blood had formed.


“Life of mine flow through you
Life of mine live for you
Blood of mine go to you
Blood of mine implore you
Spark life at twilight edges grey
Where Death claims those He holds in sway
Awake, dread spirit, I shall pay thy fee,
Come forth, Brigid Halstead, I summon thee!”

The was another thunderclap, even louder this time, and a cold gust of wind blew through the room, extinguishing the lamp and sending the low flames of the fire into a roaring blaze. Turning to look at the French windows, Alex gasped – they were still firmly shut! She shivered with cold and trepidation, but remained in her circle of protection. Then, out of the fire, a sickly green mist slowly began to roil and spin. As Alex instinctively held up the grimoire, she was shocked to see the blood-spattered words pull right up off the page and fly into the swirling vortex before her. Alex could feel her heart racing. A face began to form in the mist – a woman’s face.

“B-brigid?” Alex tried to regain her voice. “Is that you?”

“Yesssss…” the apparition sighed. The features of the face were gaining definition, and now Alex could see wild, raven-black hair framing fine cheekbones, emerald eyes and a beautiful smile.

“I want to help you, Brigid,” Alex said. “You and…Augusta.”

“Ohhhh my dear,” it whispered. “You’ve already helped us more than you’ll ever know.”

The apparition’s smile grew wider and wider as its eyes took on a malevolent, predatory gleam. Then it let out a ghastly, trilling laugh and began to flow swiftly towards Alex.

Stumbling back in terror, Alex realized a second too late that she’d fallen out of her circle of protection. As Alex opened her mouth to scream, Brigid’s face once more turned to mist. A long green tendril shot towards Alex, engulfing her, choking her, shaking her, forcing itself down her throat and up into her brain. And just before her body was taken over by the thing known as Brigid, she had a moment of perfect clarity. For once in her long and careful life, Alexandra Halstead had started something she hadn’t a chance in hell of controlling.

L.A.G.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Lily White, Rose Red

"Ah! ‘La Belle Sultane’. This is one of my particular favorites.”

Jameson Legard cupped a delicate purple blossom in his hands and proudly showed it off to his companion. Alexandra stifled a weary sigh and responded instead with a dazzling smile. Feigning delight was nothing new to her – she had, after all, been married to John St. Peter, but after the thirtieth varietal it was becoming a challenge.

“The 'Sultane',” Jameson continued, encouraged, “is one of the Gallica roses, which, as you might know, are famous for their rich colors. I myself am partial to it for its fragrance – spicy but not overwhelming…”

Alexandra let his words wash over her. Although the sun had passed its peak it was still quite warm out, and of course Jameson had insisted she wear a hat and bring a parasol to keep off the sun. That it did, but it didn’t make all the damn clothes she was wearing any less stifling.

It was late October back in my own time – why the hell is it the middle of summer here? Oh god, what I wouldn’t give right now for an ice-cold gin and tonic!

But she had accepted Jameson’s invitation for a specific purpose; one that had nothing to do with what was inside his form-fitting breeches. She was burning to get back up to her room and examine more closely the grimoire she’d discovered. Surely the spells it contained could help her get back to her own time! Why had it been hidden? And by whom? She thought she knew the answers to both questions, but before she attempted anything she needed information that she hoped the handsome young man beside her would be able to supply.

“Oh please tell me more, Jameson,” she urged. “You make it all so interesting!”

“Now, many people will tell you that it is impossible to grow roses in Maine, but as you can see, ours are flourishing,” he said earnestly. “Roses seem so fragile, but in actuality they are usually quite sturdy and tenacious growers. Quite…resistant to disease…” His voice faltered and he looked away from her.

Alexandra rested her hand gently on his arm. “You’ve made me see it all in a new light, Jameson. I never knew we had – that the estate had – so many different roses!” She took a deep breath of the fragrant air. “It really is lovely here.”

He turned back to her with a grateful smile. “This is one of the few places where I can find peace from my concerns. It was Augusta’s pride and joy, before she…well, before.” He gazed down at the flower once again, and then back up at her, his eyes full of emotion. “Flowers are so simple. You plant them and care for them, all they need is water and sunshine and good soil, and they repay your love ten-fold in the simple beauty of their being.“

“Sometimes the simplest things are the most beautiful,” said Alexandra.

Jameson moved closer and took her hand. “But you, Alexandra, you are full of contradictions and yet you are the loveliest creature I’ve ever known. You are not like any woman I’ve ever met.”

Nor likely to, sweet boy.

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, then reached down, plucked one of the roses and offered it to her. “La Belle Sultane pour la belle dame de mystère,” he murmured huskily.

Oh dear. In French, yet. He does have it bad.

“Now, Jameson,” she said lightly, accepting the rose and the compliment. “You know full well there is nothing so very mysterious about me, other than how I managed to lose every scrap of my luggage while traveling here.” She coquettishly tapped him on the chest with the flower. “Might we sit, Jameson? There’s something I have been wanting to ask you.”

“But of course!” he said eagerly. “Perhaps the gazebo? It is shady there, and…private.”

***********************************

From her window, Augusta watched the pair walk arm in arm towards the gazebo. She dug her fingernails deeper into the sill, scratching long grooves along the wood. He took that whore into my garden! The garden I tended and cared for. He gave the harlot a rose and kissed her hand. Oh, yes, I have heard of such women, I have heard much. “My husband. My rose. My garden. Mine,” Augusta hissed. She’d been tired and achy all day and now it felt as though her head would split in two.

She felt a sharp pain and looked down at her hand – she’d cut herself on a splinter. Blood was oozing out of her forefinger and onto the sill. Fascinated by the color, she felt the hurt die away. “Rose red, rose red,” she sang in a high, faltering voice, “my true love’s heart in anguish bled.”

Raising her finger, she daubed three long streaks across the window – one vertical and two horizontal – just the way dear Brigid had shown her. “Dear, dear Brigid who they say is now dead; you lily white and I rose red. You’re not the only one he took to bed...”

Giggling, she leaned in closer, relishing the cool feel of the glass and the coppery smell of her own blood as she pressed her cheek against the window. Her window. The one she’d pleaded and wept for so bitterly that only yesterday Brother had finally relented and ordered the boards removed. At first it was like being reborn, seeing the sun and her beloved rose garden again. She’d hoped that Brother would realize how good she was; he’d see how it would be all right to let her outside again – even for just a little while. She just knew it would have made the voices go away if she could have felt the sun. But then last night the beast had returned, she’d seen it, crying up at her in anger and pain, but no one believed her, and that woman was still here, sneering at her and making cow’s eyes at Jameson, rummaging around in bookcases and desk drawers, scratching about and pulling up secrets secrets secrets…She had to get rid of her, she had to ask Brigid for help, Brigid would know what to do, yes…

Augusta clenched her hands into fists; the thrumming of her blood started to pound in her head again, pounding louder and louder and harder and harder until it felt like it would CRACK-

“Mother of God, Augusta! What have you done?”

Brother’s harsh voice startled her out of her daydream. Augusta turned to him and wondered what had frightened him so. He was staring in horror at her hands and arms. Somehow they’d become covered in red. The windowpane was shattered, and on the floor before her, fragments of glass nestled in drops of blood. They looked, she marveled, just like diamonds strewn upon a blanket of rose petals.

She gazed up at Brother again, thinking to share the image with him, but for some reason his eyes were filled with tears. And then with a great, wracking sob, he fell to his knees beside her.

“Oh God oh God oh God,” he moaned as he rocked back and forth amidst the red drops and the broken glass, destroying the pretty picture she had made and adding his own blood to hers upon the floor.

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo opere et omissione,” he cried. “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…”

“Do not weep, dear Brother,” she said, smiling. “I know how to make everything right again. See?” Augusta cupped her crimsoned hands together and held them out to him. “I brought Brigid a present.”

***********************************

Jameson leaned against the gazebo rail and felt a familiar stirring as he watched Alexandra gracefully settle herself one of the benches. What was it about this woman, he marveled, that made him want to forget his vows, his obligations to that poor, mad creature in the house? Alexandra was so compassionate, so wise, and yet so…worldly. How many nights since she’d arrived had he lain awake in his cold, solitary bed, imagining the two of them…together? Was it only the simple animal fact that he’d been without the comfort of a woman for so long? Augusta, god help her, was really more like a child now, and their marriage…well, they’d not had what one would really call…a marriage for nearly half a year…

“Please sit with me, Jameson,” Alexandra said, patting the bench. “You really are the only one who can help me.”

“I am at your service, dear lady,” he said, swiftly sitting down beside her.

“As you know,” began Alexandra, “I only received the barest information about Brigid’s death. Cousin Roderick is, well, so imposing. I swear, the man frightens me nearly speechless!”

“Ah, I know how difficult he can be – he was always a sensitive man, and within the last year, he’s become even more so.”

“And he’s always so involved in his…religious studies. Obviously the subject of my cousin's death is still painful for him and I've been loath to upset him. But I really must know. You see, I’m afraid there were rumors about my cousin that we heard even in Italy…”

“Rumors? What sort of rumors?”

“There was…talk, let us say, that Brigid dabbled in certain arcane subjects and rituals that some would consider dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Now he was thoroughly confused.

Alexandra gave a little sigh and seemed to take a moment to collect her thoughts.

“Jameson,” she said in a firm voice, “it was said that she was well-educated in the mysteries of the black arts.”

“You mean…sorcery? Witchcraft?” Alexandra nodded and Jameson burst out laughing. “Good heavens!! What a ridiculous notion! It amazes me that in this day and age there are still some people who insist on believing in such superstitious twaddle. Brigid was a God-fearing, sensible, intelligent woman. She’d have no truck with anything of that sort! Yes, it is true she likely read more than is good for any woman, but she always impressed me with her kindness and gentility. Why, she was the one who arranged the marriage between myself and-” He faltered for a moment and the words died on his lips.

“…and Augusta.” Alexandra finished. “Of course. Forgive me, dear Jameson. I knew I would be touching on a painful subject, and depended upon our friendship to bear it. I certainly never thought it possible of Cousin Brigid. I only wanted to be able to reassure our family back home that the rumors were utterly without foundation.”

“That you may do with complete confidence, Alexandra.”

"Very well, then." Alexandra nodded and looked away.

A silence hung between them and Jameson shifted uncomfortably. Was he relieved or disappointed that information seemed to be all she desired of him? The woman was driving him mad! He leaned in a little closer, daring once more to take her hand.

“Was that…all you wanted of me?” he asked.

She turned back to him and held his gaze. “There is…one more thing.”

“Anything,” he breathed.

“But it might upset you…”

“Nothing you could ever do or say could upset me, Alexandra,” he assured her, gently squeezing her hand. “Please.”

“Thank you, Jameson,” she said. There a note of steel in her voice he’d not heard before. “I need to know how Brigid died.”

“Ah." He pulled back a bit from her and gathered his thoughts."Yes. Of course. You are correct, naturally. It is difficult to even think about, but I have often wondered if she’d still be alive if Augusta and I had been here.”

“You were both away?”

“Yes, only for a short time, however. It is hard to believe we have lived here for little more than a year, and that when we first arrived everything was so wonderful. It soon became obvious, however, that there was a strain on Roderick and Brigid’s marriage. I’m not sure if it had to do with us, or simply the fact that they were such opposites – Roderick the aesthete, restrained and reclusive, and Brigid so sociable and welcoming. The silences and rows between them escalated to such a fever pitch that the tension was beginning to affect Augusta. Even before she…started to decline, she was quite sensitive to jarring sounds and emotions. And her relationship with her brother was, and always has been, extremely close. You’ve seen for yourself how protective of her he is.”

“Yes,” Alexandra said slowly. “I most certainly have.”

“I finally felt the sensible thing to do would be to take a short holiday with her and allow Roderick and Brigid some time to themselves. Although the notion of us leaving upset Roderick considerably, Brigid agreed with me that it was a good idea, and so we packed our bags and journeyed to Boston for a fortnight. Augusta simply loved it. I tell you, I’d never seen her more alive and gay. Everything was new to her. I took her to the theatre, to restaurants, and far from being overwhelmed by the crowds and activity, she drank it all in and wanted more. I never wanted it to end. In fact, I was struck by the notion that it might be best if we stayed right there and began a new life for ourselves. Augusta just seemed so much more herself away from her br—“ He felt a blush creep over his cheeks. “Away from Halstead.”

“I understand.”

“In any case, a week into our holiday the point became moot. A letter arrived from Roderick, demanding our immediate return. Brigid was dead.”

The memory of that awful night when they'd received the news flooded back to Jameson and threatened to unman him. Once again he saw Augusta’s face changing from smiles to confusion, and then to comprehension and horror. He could still hear her guttural, inhuman wails as she collapsed on the floor of their hotel room - how she tore at her own flesh with her nails before he could restrain her - how a physician had had to be called in to quiet her with laudanum.

And how, before she fell silent she’d whispered the same words over and over again in an eerie childlike voice that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end…

'Lily white and rose red, both lie awaiting in their bed…'

A soft touch on his knee brought him back to the present with a start. Alexandra was looking at him steadily.

“Jameson? Forgive me, I know this is difficult, but you must tell me - how did she die?”

He took a deep breath and continued. “It was nearly another week before Augusta was in any condition to travel back to Halstead. We returned to find Roderick in a dreadful state, of course, nearly senseless with grief. I did, however, manage to corner Marcus long enough to find out the details of what had happened.

“Brigid was always a night person, you see. She had a habit of staying up long past the time the rest of us went to bed. She'd read, she told me once, or study or write letters; I believe she suffered from insomnia, actually. This one particular night, Marcus said, Brigid had apparently gotten the notion to explore the upper reaches of the East Wing, which as you probably know is the oldest part of the manor.

"She was found the next morning, lying in a heap at the foot of one of the circular stairways; she’d tripped or fallen and hit her head. By the time she was discovered, she’d passed into a coma and by the next day…she was gone. Roderick was wracked with guilt. He confessed to me that although he'd at first been opposed to my and Augusta’s departure, it had indeed been good for them to spend time alone with each other, and that some old wounds had finally begun to heal. He kept saying that if only he’d insisted she come to bed with him that night, she’d still be alive. ‘But she kissed me, Jameson, so sweetly, and said she’d follow me up shortly. How was I to know? What on earth could have possessed her to go up to the East Wing so late?’ I tried, of course, to offer him what solace I could. I told him she had always been a strong-willed woman, and that only God knew the answer to his questions. ‘Yes,’ he said to me. ‘Only God.’”

There was a long silence, and finally Alexandra spoke.

“Jameson, did you view her body?"

"Only...only at the funeral."

"Was there anything about it that struck you as unusual?"

“No, of course not…”

In his mind's eye, Jameson saw the lovely figure once more. She had looked so alive, albeit much more serene than he’d ever remembered her, poor soul. The bruises had been covered by the mortician’s art, of course, but when he reached out to…

“That was odd,” he heard himself saying.

“What?” Alexandra urged.

“Her hand. Her left palm, to be exact. I reached into the casket to place a rosary in her hand and saw that there were three long gashes on her palm. Not scratches, mind you, but deep cuts. And I remember wondering how she could have done that to herself by falling on the stairs. According to Marcus, her injuries had all been internal. Surely if it had happened before, Roderick would have remembered it, wouldn’t he?”

“Of course he would have,“ Alexandra replied. “Tell me, Jameson, did the three cuts look like this?” She turned over his palm and traced an exact replica of what he remembered: one long vertical line with two lines crossing it.

“Why…yes,” he said, shivering slightly at both the memory and at her delicate touch. “How did you know?”

Alexandra looked away from him and towards the house. “Because I’ve seen it before.”

“But…how? Where?” Jameson was bursting with questions, but Alexandra raised a finger in warning and with a tilt of her head indicated the approach of the servant Paxton. The elderly man was red-faced and gasping for breath – obviously he’d run all the way from the house.

“What is it, Paxton?” Jameson said, rising. “Has Augusta had one of her spells?”

“It’s worse than that, sir. Please come quick. She’s done herself an awful injury this time.”

***********************************

Good god and I thought our family had its problems! Alexandra sighed as she closed the door to the extra bedroom where they’d moved Augusta. She’d left Jameson weeping at the girl’s bedside. He was a mess, of course; who wouldn’t be with a wife like that and a brother-in-law who was as insane as a bag of rabid ferrets? Alex felt sure now that Brigid’s death was no accident and that the sanctimonious Roderick was no innocent. Strangely, she felt a growing connection with Brigid, a determination to get to the bottom of the mystery in addition to discovering a way back home. And now she was convinced that it was Brigid who had hidden that grimoire and amulet. Brigid was the one who’d worked the spells within it and knew what its strange symbols meant. If only there was a way Alex could communicate with her…

More eager than ever to start work on the book, she hurried down the hallway towards her room. As she approached Roderick’s study, however, she heard voices and slowed her step. She halted by the door that was slightly ajar, avoiding the spot where the floorboards used to creak, or would still creak, rather- time travel gives me such a headache- in the future Halstead. She could hear Roderick and Doctor Marcus inside, most likely discussing Augusta's condition. Marcus, she thought with a shudder. A vile man who’d smirked when they’d been introduced a few nights ago. He’d undressed her with his eyes and then managed to corner her long enough to paw at her waist and whisper in his oily, insinuating voice that ‘as a doctor he knew many secrets to please the ladies, especially those of a certain age’. The gall of the man! And the swift elbow she gave him in the ribs only seemed to increase his interest. She leaned closer to the door and peeked in – Roderick was slumped in his huge armchair by the fire. He was wearing a purple dressing gown, his long fingers clutched like a spider around a large balloon of brandy. He was staring up at Marcus with hollow, tortured eyes and his lean face was, if anything, even paler than usual. Marcus stood by the fireplace facing him, smirking of course, and rubbing his hands together, over and over - an irritating habit that Alex had noticed before.

When Roderick spoke again, it was as if the words were being wrenched from him. “It’s…not possible,” he finally managed.

“My dear Roderick,” Alex heard Marcus reply. “As you know all too well, in addition to my other…more esoteric interests I’m still a fully qualified physician. You called for me because you know I can be discrete…for a price. I didn’t see the signs the last time I looked in on her because we’d only been concerned with her mental state, not her physical condition. But I just gave her a thorough examination and I’m afraid there is no question about it. Your sister…is with child.”


LAG

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Closing Time

Lily Caldwell turned off the coffee machine, lifted up the pot and looked over at her lone customer. He was sitting at the booth by the door, glancing out the window at every car that passed by. Frankie was a good customer and an even better friend, but it was obvious he hadn’t come in tonight just for the pleasure of her sparkling conversation. There was a cup of coffee growing cold in front of him, and on the seat beside him lay a large yellow envelope. He’d been there for a good four hours, checking the clock over the pie case every five minutes and looking more and more depressed as the night wore on.

“Hey Frank, you want a refill there before I throw this out?” she asked, raising the coffee pot.

“God, no,” Frank said, wincing. “ I have any more of that Drano you call coffee, Lil, the inside of my gut’ll look like Swiss cheese.”

“Suit yourself.” She rinsed out the pot and placed it in the sink. “You been stood up again, sugar?” Lily asked as she dried her hands on her apron and crossed over to his table.

“Sure looks that way.” Frank gazed out the window again and shook his head mournfully.

“I keep telling you, you can’t sit by the window where they can see you first. That big ugly mug of yours just keeps scaring ‘em off.”

Frank managed a chuckle as he turned back to her. “I think you’re the one who scares ‘em off, Lily. They know you’d rip the lungs out of any girl who tried to steal me away from you.”

She leaned against the booth divider and raised an eyebrow. “Ha. Keep dreaming, Romeo.”

“Well, this time it was a client, Lil. A guy. When I called him in Port Legard yesterday to tell him I’d have what he wanted ready by tonight, he said he’d be staying the night down in Bangor, then meet me here by eight o’clock.”

“Maybe he just got held up with the bad weather. Rain’s been coming down off and on since yesterday. You know, if you gave in and got yourself one of those cell phones he could have called you.”

“Philip Marlowe didn’t need a cell phone, schweetheart. ”

“Hate to tell you this, but Humphrey Bogart you are not.”

“Robert Mitchum, maybe?”

“Not even on one of your good nights.”

“You are one cruel woman, Lily Caldwell.”

“And about to get crueler.” She picked up his coffee cup and pocketed the dollar-fifty Frank had placed beside it. “This place isn’t an all-night diner and I gotta get some beauty sleep. I told Dixie I’d cover her on the morning shift,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the clock, “which is about six hours from now. So unless you’re planning to sweep me off my aching feet and take me to Maui for two weeks, I’m throwing you out and locking up.” She crossed back around to the sink and placed his cup next to the coffee pot.

“Sure, sure, Lily. Sorry to keep you.” Frank picked up the fat envelope and tapped it gently on the table. “Pisses me off though. Worked my ass off getting the information this guy told me he needed pronto, and he said he was more than happy to pay me a ton of money for the job - enough to pay for a year in Maui, I’m telling you.”

“I’m already dancing the hula and sipping a chi-chi.”

She untied her apron and sighed. Frankie was always just about to land a big one, poor sap. “I’m sure he just didn’t want to drive – I bet there’s a message waiting for you at home, Frankie. Remember home? That rat trap you go to when you aren’t taking up space here?"

Hanging the apron on the hook by the kitchen, she crossed over to the coat rack by the front door and pointedly offered Frank his rumpled trench coat. “Now go on, scoot. A long, hot bubble bath is calling my name.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” He slid out of the booth to take the coat from her, then leaned in closer. “Unless you need me to scrub your back?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“That’s the caffeine talking now, hotshot,” she laughed, giving his arm a playful swat. “We still on for Saturday night? Your turn to treat, remember?”

“What,“ he said, shrugging on his coat and cinching the belt, “you think I’m going to forget a fully restored Gene Tierney double feature on the big screen? I’ll be by for you at half past six, doll.” He slipped the envelope inside his coat, gave her a wink and opened the door to the diner. Glancing up at the sky, he said, “Well, at least the rain stopped. I tell ya, this guy better have some damn good excuse.”

“Good night, tough guy.” Lily nudged him out the door. “Swing by tomorrow and let me know if your ship decided to sail in.”

“Will do. First round of chi-chis is on me.”

“I’ll bet Bogart never drank a chi-chi in his life.”

“He didn’t know what he was missing,” said Frank, warming to the topic. “I tell you, there was this one time I was working a case in Honolulu and I-“

“Say good night, Frankie.”

Frank grinned. “‘Good night, Frankie.’”

Lily rolled her eyes and firmly closed the door. “Maui, he says.” Lily gave a soft laugh. At this rate, she’d settle for a wild weekend in Atlantic City. She watched her friend snap the collar up on his coat and then walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Smiling ruefully, she realized he did look like Bogart, at least a little, from the back. Not that she’d ever tell him that, of course. She locked the door and flipped the “Open” sign around to read “Closed”.

As she flicked off the lights, she caught sight of a long, black car slowly gliding down the street in the direction Frank had just gone, its sleek lines captured for a moment in the amber glow of the streetlight. Odd thing was, the guy’s headlights were off. Lily felt a little shiver and grabbed her cardigan off the coat rack. A hot bath was definitely in order. She looked out the window again, but the car had already disappeared around the corner. Maybe it was Frank’s rich client come at last, she mused. One thing was for certain - Frankie’d have a hell of a story to tell. He always did.

----------------------------------------

Frank was fumbling with his keys on the front steps of his apartment building and cursing his bad luck when he heard a voice softly call his name. Frank turned around. Across the street idled a low, sleek Jaguar, and the driver was leaning slightly out of the window smiling up at him.

“Mr. Russell, I believe you have been waiting for me," the man said.

Older guy, silver hair, distinguished. Same high-class accent Frank remembered from their brief phone conversations. Hell, he had to be rich to be driving something like that, Frank thought. Maybe the night wouldn’t be a total bust, after all.

Frank walked back down the steps and crossed the street. “You the professor?” he asked.

The guy had never given his name, just the title and a number where he could be reached. Normally Frank didn’t put up with the cloak and dagger shit from his clients, but this guy’d been really convincing on the phone – and even more convincing had been the fee he’d offered. And besides, if he needed to track "the professor" down later, it wouldn’t be too hard. Hell, that’s what he did for a living, wasn’t it?

“That I am,” the man replied. “My sincere apologies for being so late.”

“Well, no harm done, I suppose, except to my ulcer with all the java I drank waiting for you.”

“You have the information I requested?”

“Yeah, right here…” Frank said, reaching inside his coat. The man raised a hand to stop him.

“Please, would you mind if we completed our business in my car? I’m afraid this is a very private matter.”

“Sure, I guess….” Frank crossed around to the passenger side and got in. “Nice Jag.”

“A recent acquisition.” The professor held out his hand and Frank placed the bulky envelope in it. “Grazie.” Frank heard the man’s soft intake of breath as he delicately traced his forefinger down the length of the sealed envelope.

“You know…what is in here?” the man finally asked, looking back up at Frank.

“Well, yeah…I mean, I had to know what to look for, after all, who to talk to, what questions to ask. I got you some recent photographs, a record of the subject’s movements over the past month and an address. I was absolutely discrete, though, just like you requested."

“Of course you were.”

“Ah…well, then, it’s late…and…?”

“And there is the matter of your fee. Certainly.” The man reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “Here is a cashier’s check for the amount we agreed upon – plus a small bonus for your extra time this evening.”

Frank took the paper and looked down at it in angry amazement. “What kind of jackass do you think I am? This
is just a blank piece of-"

Suddenly a strong hand gripped Frank’s wrist, and he looked up into two coal-black eyes. “What the…?”

The man’s eyes seemed to get even larger and darker, like two bottomless pits…swirling...drawing him in...
Frank felt a wave of dizziness pass over him and he gulped in a deep breath of air.

“It must be a trick of the light, Mr. Russell,” the man firmly insisted. “I’m sure that when you look at it again, you’ll see that it is all perfectly in order.”

Frank blinked and shook his head to clear it, then peered more closely at the paper in his hand. Sure enough, there was a one and plenty of zeros right where they were supposed to be, all made out to him. “Jeeze, I don’t know what I was thinking,” he said slowly. “This is plenty. Thank you.”

“You earned every penny, I’m sure,” said the man, releasing his wrist. Frank started to open the car door, but the low, dark voice stopped him.

“Please don’t go just yet, Mr. Russell.” Frank suddenly felt as though all he wanted to do was sit and chat with the nice, rich man. “Do you know why, out of all the private investigators on the Eastern Seaboard, I chose you for this task?"

“Was it my boyish good looks and charm?”

The man chuckled. “How droll. No, I needed someone who had absolutely no ties, no reputation, no connection with a large agency, no family, and no loved ones."

"Ah."

"You do not have any loved ones, do you, Mr. Russell?”

A fleeting image of Lily and her brash smile crossed Frank’s mind, but something told him to bury it deep.

“No, there’s no one.”

“How very sad for you. That generous check will be gone before you know it, and then what? You will be once more what you are now: a pitiable, lonely man scrambling from this divorce case to that insurance fraud - your only friend that pint of cheap bourbon waiting for you upstairs. Nothing to live for but a sad, solitary end. ‘Sans teeth, sans hair, sans everything’, as the poet says. A pathetic end to a wasted life."

Frank could see it all before him; the guy was dead right. A crushing weight seemed to settle down on his chest and shoulders.

“But luckily,” the man said, “I know what you can do to prevent all that.”

“You…do?” Frank asked hopefully.

“Indeed, Mr. Russell. I think the best thing you could possibly do would be to climb up the stairs to the roof of your building – you can get all the way up there, can’t you?”

“Sure…no problem.”

“And I think you should throw yourself right off the edge of the roof. Isn’t that a good idea, Mr. Russell?”

“Y---yeah. You’re absolutely right.” His own voice sounded odd now to him – thick and heavy. “That sounds like a fine idea. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“Right then. Off you go.”

Frank slowly opened the car door and stumbled out onto the street.

“And Mr. Russell?”

“Yeah?”

“It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

----------------------------------------

Wilton Carandini watched the investigator trudge slowly up the stairs and into the building towards his final appointment. He was fully confident that Frank Russell would follow his instructions exactly. Sometimes it seemed as though his ‘suggestions’ were practically superfluous, people were so eager to please.

Once he’d realized that the address Russell had given him for their meeting was not a private office, but rather a very public diner, he’d simply bided his time until the man finally left for home. It certainly wouldn’t have done to be seen in his company.

And what was four more hours when he’d already waited twenty years?

He turned his attention back to the envelope on the passenger seat, and was surprised to feel a frisson of anxiety. Very few things in this world surprised him anymore, much less made him anxious, and he savored the feelings as if they were different grace notes in a glass of fine wine. He looked up at the apartment building again to gauge how long it would take Mr. Russell to climb ten flights of stairs. He decided to indulge himself and open the envelope – he had a few minutes before he had to be away from the impending crime scene. With his right index finger, he slit open the seal and gently tipped the contents of the envelope into his hand.

And for the first time in two decades, Wilton Carandini felt his iron discipline falter.

On top of a neatly typed pile of documents were, as Mr. Russell had promised, photographs. He stared at the first one in rapt amazement. Gazing back at him was the face of a stunningly beautiful young woman, her eyes filled with a dark intensity that matched his own.

Diana.

Her hair was long and black and her lips were parted in a demure half-smile. Just like her mother’s, he thought, feeling a twinge of pain and pleasure he had assumed was long dead.

“But your eyes…” he said softly, stroking the edge of the photo, “your eyes are mine.”

He forced himself to put the other photographs aside for later perusal, and sifted through the documents to find the information he had sought for so long. She was living under an assumed name, of course, but it was his daughter, his Diana; of that there was no doubt. When he saw the address, a rare laugh escaped him.

Boston. After all these years of searching, it turns out you have been hiding in Boston.

His immediate curiosity satisfied, Carandini carefully replaced the papers and photos. Setting the envelope back down beside him, he leaned his head out the window one last time and glanced up. He smiled when, after a moment, the bulky silhouette of Mr. Russell appeared and began to teeter on the roof’s edge.

“Good man,” he said, giving a nod of satisfaction. He then put the Jaguar back into first and eased out the clutch.

As he pulled away down the street that led back to the highway, Carandini stifled a reckless impulse to drive south and admonished himself. He simply did not do reckless things. He turned north instead, back to Port Legard. It would be good to get back to Halstead. Boston was for another day. It was imperative that no one connected him with Diana, and he needed to adjust his plans now that he knew she was so close at hand.

Yes, it would be good to get back to Halstead, he thought. It was beginning to feel like home.


L.A.G.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: This Chancy Rendezvous

As Annie walked away from Halstead, past the dense row of pine trees and bushes that bordered the winding road, she shivered with the cold and pulled her new muffler up higher. Well, new to me, at any rate, she thought with a smile. The very muffler Michael had worn as the drunken coachman in The Mummy, thank you very much! Inhaling the tobacco and cedar smell of the old wool, she chuckled at the memory of her victory at Monday night’s trivia contest. Even after the horrors Michael had evoked with the story about his director friend, she’d managed to recover in time to trounce her only real competition – some creepy know-it-all grad student down from Miskatonic who thought he was in for easy pickings. She showed him. As if she wouldn’t know which two actors were first offered the Donald Pleasence role in Halloween! When she’d returned that night flush with victory, Archie had just laughed and shaken his head at the pile of prizes that she’d strewn in his lap. He’d been happy though, because, for a little while at least, she’d been happy, too.

Archie. Annie sighed and felt her good humor abruptly fade. Even with what she’d just written to Maria, even though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t let things affect her relationship with Archie, she knew they already had. She knew she was pulling away from him, disconnecting, as if doing that could prevent something bad from happening to him. She hadn’t told him about Michael’s story, hadn’t shared with him her concerns about the evil she felt sure Carandini was plotting. She hadn’t told him about the letter she’d written and was about to send, because she knew he’d insist on driving her, or walking with her. He’d want to know what was so important she needed to post it in the dead of night. She just couldn’t get him involved. And she certainly hadn’t told him what she’d done last Tuesday.

Her half-day off had been spent at the Port Legard library searching the Internet, but she’d only gotten hits that referenced Carandini’s papers and lectures on history, literature and archeology. Desperate to find something incriminating, anything to prove that the professor was up to no good, she’d waited yesterday until he’d gone into the village with Ronnie, then she'd searched his room thoroughly. Annie thought her heart would hammer right out her chest, she’d been so sure that he’d come back to find her rifling through his things. Nothing she saw, however, told her he was anything but what he said he was - an extremely well off, obsessively tidy and well-educated man. The copy of Faust in the original German that lay on his bedside table, while ironic, would hardly convict the guy. There had to be someplace else in the manor he was using. Some other room or hidey-hole.

She knew she could manage to wheedle some information out of Edmund; unfortunately she also knew the easiest way to get on his good side would also be the most unpleasant. Yet another reason not to confide in Archie, Annie realized. He’d never forgive her.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and Annie felt a few drops of rain on her head. “Great. Thank you so much,” she called up to the sky. “It never rains here except when I have to walk two miles into town.”

Picking up her pace, Annie passed the bend in the road where the forest cut off all view of Halstead. Fumbling in her coat pocket, she pulled out a flashlight and clicked the switch.

Nothing happened.

“Well, fuck,” she muttered, shaking it. "I just changed the damn batteries…”

That was when she heard the rustling in the bushes behind her.

----------------------------------------------

Edmund knocked on the bedroom door, the red letter clutched in his fist. He nervously glanced up and down the hallway, then smoothed back his hair and hoped he didn’t look as sick as he felt.

The door cracked open and a young boy frowned up at him.

“What do you want?” the child asked suspiciously.

“Uh, hi…” Edmund said, attempting a smile. “Antoine, isn’t it?

“It’s Tony,” the boy glowered.

Edmund raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, whoa. Whatever. Sorry, Tony. I’m Edmund.”

“So?”

“So…I’m here to see your Mommy.”

Tony leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “Are you a servant or what?”

Edmund gritted his teeth and calmed himself by imagining dear little Tony’s head on a pike. “Just…get her for me, will ya, kid? Before I-“

A soft voice called out from inside the room. “Tony? Who is that? Is it-“

“Ronnie? It’s me, Edmund. I…got your note.”

Edmund started to ease past Tony into the room, but the boy’s next words froze him to the spot.

“I wonder wonder wonder,” Tony whispered in a singsong voice, his eyes bright with malice, ”what the professor would say….”


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In the secret passageway alongside Roderick’s bedroom, Alexandra backed away from the disturbing and distasteful scene she’d just witnessed, wanting nothing more than to blot the image from her mind. In her haste, however, she snagged her heel on the hem of her gown and lost her balance. Twisting around, she managed to stop her fall by grabbing onto a jagged outcropping where the plaster had crumbled away. Pulling herself back up and catching her breath, she realized that one of the bricks had come loose in her hand. She was about to replace it when something caught her eye. There was something in the hole reflecting the dim light and sparkling back at her. Carefully pulling out a few more bricks, she reached in and slowly drew out what looked to be a large amulet on a heavy chain. It was hard to make out the design, but Alexandra thought it must be of a face – yes, and those two rubies are its eyes! Trembling with excitement and wondering if there was anything else to be found, she eagerly stretched her hand farther into the hole. She touched something smooth and solid, and with a little effort she was able to pull the heavy object out. Large and square, it was wrapped in oilskin and secured with leather straps. A gasp of delight escaped her lips. A book? Perhaps the very sort of book she was looking for! She had to get back to her own room and examine it – quickly!


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Annie turned at the sound and peered into the dark, but the rustling had stopped. She shrugged, blaming the wind and her imagination, and continued down the road.

A few paces later, the noise came again, and this time it was accompanied by a low moaning sound.

“Okay, whoever or whatever that is,” she called out, still walking calmly, but feeling her pulse start to race, “you are fucking with the wrong girl here. I’m not one of those bimbos who starts running through the forest at the slightest sound and then trips over a damn root while looking back to see if the monster is following her. That ain’t gonna happen here, so just forget it. “

She gripped the flashlight more tightly, slapping it against her thigh as she walked. The noise behind her was getting louder, moving with her, but whatever it was, was staying hidden amongst the trees.

“And if you are just some pervert,” she said, raising her voice even more, “you should know I am perfectly capable of ripping your balls off and sending them home with you in a box.” Annie chose her moment carefully, and then swung around with the flashlight, intending to throw it at the sound. As she raised it up, however, the light suddenly came on, illuminating the bushes in front of her.

Two huge eyes reflected back at her like a pair of glowing silver dollars, and Annie could make out what seemed to be two gleaming rows of teeth, pulled back in a red, wet grimace. The awful face looked directly at her and snarled.

“Oh my god,” she whispered in horror. “Nice…kitty?”

Backing away, she stumbled into the middle of the road, knowing she had no chance of outrunning the thing or fighting it off with her flashlight. She could tell the monster was readying itself to spring, when suddenly its attention was diverted by something off in the distance. Then Annie heard it too – it was car, and it was coming from Halstead! Bright lights came swiftly around the corner, and with an angry roar, the thing in the bushes bounded away. Annie ran towards the oncoming headlights, frantically waving her arms and yelling. The driver slammed on his brakes and expertly skidded to a stop only a few feet away from her.

“Thank you so much for stopping!” Annie crossed quickly around to the driver's side. “I’m sorry I jumped out at you like that, but-“

As the car window rolled down to reveal her anonymous savior, Annie’s words caught in her throat.

“My dear…Annie, isn’t it?” said Professor Wilton Carandini, giving her a cool smile. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is for little girls to be out in the woods at night all alone?”



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Alex made it back to her room without further incident, tightly clutching her new discoveries. Setting them down on her vanity table, she cut the rotting leather straps off the package with a pair of sewing scissors and tore away the wrapping. She nearly shouted with joy; inside was exactly what she’d hoped for - a very large and very old book that had all the markings of a grimoire. It was edged with metal clasps and secured, unfortunately, with a heavy padlock. Well, locks are made to be broken, she thought. The book had no title, only three wide black burn marks on the dark leather cover. She traced one of the marks with her forefinger and felt an odd tingle run up her arm. The marks made a double cross: one parallel line with two horizontal lines bisecting it. But as she turned the book sideways to look at the lock more closely, she realized that the slashes formed the letter “H”.


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“Good heavens. A giant…cat, you say?” Carandini asked, raising an eyebrow. He downshifted and expertly negotiated the sleek sedan around another sharp turn. Annie had to stifle an insane impulse to laugh when she realized she was sitting in a black Jaguar.

But between the monster in the woods and the one driving, I'm not sure which is more dangerous.

“I really don't know what it was…sir," Annie finally replied. She looked away from Carandini and kept her eyes on the road. It had started to rain in earnest, and the steady tick of the windshield wipers filled the silence. Settling back into her plush leather seat, Annie forced herself to relax and tried to collect her thoughts. After her little display of hysterics on the road back there, she’d had no other choice than to accept the professor’s insistent offer of a ride into town.Obviously, he didn’t believe her. That didn’t matter. What was important now was making sure he did believe that she was absolutely no threat to him.

I am a non-entity I am just a brainless servant nothing to see here nope nothing at all just keep moving…

“I…oh, sir, I guess I just got spooked. I sure thought something was following me. It was probably just a stray…dog.”

“Whatever it was, I am only glad I saw you in time.”

He’s going to ask you why you are out here. Make up something, quick.

“I guess I deserve to be scared out of my wits. Heh, that’s what I get for sneaking out on my own just to have a beer with my friends in town.”

Carandini gave a dry chuckle. “Ah, but how can you be blamed when there is so little here to stimulate a young person such as yourself? Forgive me for saying so, but you do not strike me as someone who is suited to the life of a menial servant. I confess to a certain...curiosity about you, Annie.”

Ok, so much for blending into the woodwork…

“I’m just trying to do my job, sir. That’s all.”

“And you do it splendidly, my dear! In fact, you seem to do the job of ten!” Carandini cut her a sharp glance. “My room has never been cleaned so…meticulously.”

Annie looked down at her hands, carefully schooling her face to show no reaction. Oh crap, he knows I searched his room. He’s just playing with me now, he’s going to pull the car over any second now and make me cut out my own heart, and boy is that going to mess up this nice leather interior; he’s going to…Don’t let him know what you’re thinking don’t think of red eyes and blood and...think of something else…anything else…song lyrics, that’s it!

Annie started humming a favorite Cars tune under her breath.

'Oh well uh you might think I'm crazy to hang around with you…'

Carandini gave her a quizzical look. “I meant no insult, my dear,” he said in a reassuring tone. “I merely meant that with your obvious talents, you seem to be capable of so much more than changing sheets and…dusting antiques.”

What the hell…? Was he trying to get into her head? Or into her pants? Damndamndamn don’t think don’t... ’You think you're in the movies and everything's so deep’…

Peering ahead desperately, Annie finally saw what she’d been waiting for – the lights of Port Legard, dead ahead.

“OH LOOK, here we are! You can just let me off on the corner there, sir. I’ll be fine. I really appreciate you stopping for-"

Carandini showed no sign of slowing the car. “You know, Annie, I can read most people like a book.” His voice was low and soft, seductive. “But you…intrigue me…”

Carandini lifted his right hand from the wheel, and for a horrifying moment Annie feared he was going to touch her.

That was when the realization hit her. That’s how he does it! He can’t control you unless he makes physical contact! Don’t let him-

The tension was shattered by the wail of an ambulance approaching fast behind them. Carandini glanced in his rear view mirror and frowned, then put his hand back on the wheel and pulled over to let the ambulance pass.

Annie suddenly had an awful premonition that had nothing to do with Carandini; something bad had happened in town to someone she knew. Really bad. Please don't let it be Michael. Let Michael be okay, she prayed to herself. Please don’t let it be at-

The ambulance stopped in front of the Slaughtered Lamb.

Annie leapt out of the car before Carandini could pull away again, and she ran towards the small crowd gathered in front of the pub. The red lights from the ambulance flashed in the rain, casting a weird strobe effect over the scene. A police car was parked there, too, and the static drone of the radio dispatcher's voice could be heard calling another unit to the scene. Annie frantically searched the crowd for a familiar face – there!

Michael stood huddled in the doorway, talking to the sheriff. Even at a distance, she could see that her friend looked awful; his face was gray with shock and misery. She was about to cross over to him when the policemen parted the crowd. Annie could now see what had been covered from view – it appeared to be a crimson-spattered pile of clothes on a stretcher. But as the paramedics lifted it up, a long white arm was exposed, and Annie could see that it was streaked in blood.

“What a shame,” murmured a voice close behind her, startling her. It was Carandini. She hadn't even sensed his approach.

Annie turned to reply, so surprised by the man's sympathetic comment that, for a moment, she forgot to be afraid. But any response she might have had was stilled by the look on his face - it was one of utter disdain. Annie then realized Carandini was gazing, not at the pitiful corpse being loaded into the ambulance, but at the wide, red pool of blood that was being washed away into the gutter by the rain.


L.A.G.