Trapped

M adeline Sinclair tapped the bronze death mask against her fingertips. Her eyes focused on the open cave before her. Waiting. Hoping. Yet, nothing appeared. There were no signs of the rider. No signs of Hugo or the ferryman, only the brackish water crashing against the sheer rock cliff.

The thunder roared overhead. The storm clouds roiled, more violent and twisted than before. There were no more knocks. The wails of the ghouls were drowned out by the crashing of light littering the landscape. The land, once covered in eternal dusk, was now lit up in a brilliant bluish white light.

Madeline Sinclair focused on the mouth of the cave. Waiting. Hoping.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She glanced down at the bronze visage she held in her hands. The twisted, agonizing face captured perfectly in bronze. The long-forgotten soul offered up to a dark magick which drained them of their essence . . . their being. Her fingers traced the frozen face, committing every ridge to memory. The open mouth screamed for mercy. The frozen eyes pleaded for salvation. She tapped it once more.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Is there enough?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

There isn't enough.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It'll have to do.

Tap . . . Tap . . .Tap.

A chilly breeze picked up. It ruffled the skirt of her black Edwardian mourning gown, the very dress she had worn every day since she lost her betrothed—a victim of the famous Sinclair curse. She had tried to defeat it. She and her father both did. They tried so desperately to defeat the curse on their family. They scoured every part of the earth searching for anything to help lift the curse.

They thought they had it solved. It seemed so simple. After acquiring a copy of The Book of the Dead, she could use it to her advantage. She would seal away her betrothed where the curse wouldn't find him. Then she would retrieve him, bring him back. Exactly like what had transpired here moments before.

After being banished to the land of the lost souls, her betrothed could return, and the curse would be broken.

Things weren't as simple as they seemed. The Oaken King banished her here to suffer the same fate. His trickery offered no bounds. Another reminder of a cruel and uncaring world. She offered her soul, yet she had no gold to buy it back.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

When she arrived, she had faced the ultimate humiliation. Instead of being reunited with her beloved, the land was devoid and empty, except for those few lost souls banished here. The one she sought was nowhere to be found. The ultimate twist of fate. All her work was for naught. He was somewhere else. Banished to another realm, or perhaps worse . . . banished to oblivion.

Reciting from The Book of the Dead, she had warped this place to her own making. She transformed herself into the banshee of old, whose death wail signified impending doom. Using The Book of the Dead, she summoned those souls most likely to be twisted and manipulated into despair. Those unrestful souls who faced unresolved torment. Her wail called for them.

Little by little, they showed. It was easy to bend and break their will. To play on their fears and doubts and trauma . . . their grief. Her ghoulish army grew. Their wails beckoned those souls. She built the army to exact her revenge. A vast army. An unrelenting army of the dead. Those she could command and shape and mold.

If she had to suffer torment and heartbreak, if she had to endure a life with no control, then she would ensure the world suffered the same fate. For all her family's wealth and power and influence, they were not immune from the true law of the world—the uncaring truth of mortality.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They were close once—her and her father, Alabaster Sinclair. Close to the spell Hugo and Alice drank. It was within their grasp. The plan was perfect. They needed to track down the spell and extract it, then use the spell to erase the curse. Tracking the spell had proved more difficult than anticipated, but yet, they were so close. They knew where it was, hidden in a small western town.

They formed a pact with a pair of vampires. They sent someone to retrieve it. She and her betrothed would drink from it. The vampires would then own it. Everyone would win, and they wouldn't race each other and tear each other apart to get it. They sent a specialist, a wielder of shadow magick to extract the spell. Like everything else in the world, they only faced disappointment and ruin.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The mask had been placed on the face of one who drank from it. It wasn't on him long enough to fully extract the magick coursing through his body. The residuals of the spell became a part of him once he drank from the cup. It needed more time. If not for the traitorous Thaddeus Price . . . She should have committed him to oblivion sooner.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Ms. Sinclair," Russell Farnsworth said as he approached. His steps echoed off the wooden planks of the dock. "We have searched the house. There were no other signs of magick or connections to the mortal realm."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She didn't turn around to acknowledge him. Madeline kept her focus on the mouth of the cave before her.

"There was only a shattered mirror. Perhaps he used it to communicate with her. A bridge to the mortal realm."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Ms. Sinclair, how do you want to proceed? The ghouls grow restless."

Russell Farnsworth was like a surrogate father to her. A servant of the family. He protected her as she grew up. He cared for her. He was the one soul she trusted more than any other. The one soul she wanted by her side to exact her revenge on the uncaring world.

"Mr. Farnsworth, the books were calling to each other. All three copies. They cried out into the darkness. They were being used and, in turn, signaled for each other. Our salvation may be at hand yet," Madeline said.

"Called for each other? All three books? Someone has found the other book?"

"The Sinclair-Grove Foundation must be using the book to make contact. Someone else is using the other one. I'm guessing the little witch had the third copy. It was hidden away for so long; they signaled for each other once she used it."

"If the foundation could get their hands on the third . . ."

"We could finally go home." Madeline turned to face Russell.

His face was painted white with black rings around his eyes. He carried the mark of the death mask, but she would not allow him to succumb to the banshee's wail.

"They contacted each other at the very spot where they drank from the spell. We may be able to extract enough from there to charge the mask," Madeline said.

"Then you could make contact?"

Madeline glanced down at the mask. "It's the only hope we have left. All we have is hope. Take me to it."

Madeline picked up her black parasol and marched toward her black death coach with the headless driver waiting on top. Russell Farnsworth followed.