Chapter 13

13

B astian held out his hand, hoping Jane would come with him. It made no sense that a woman he'd met only a few days ago seemed suddenly so important. But a stirring deep inside the core of him whispered.

Take her. Protect her. Mine .

After all the women he'd been with, to not merely crave Jane, but want to possess her on some elemental, primal level confounded him. He needed her almost as much as he needed air to breathe. Every rational thought reminded him to keep away, that staying distant would protect her, but it was harder and harder to fight that.

After his father died, he'd believed little else mattered beyond finishing what his father had started. Stormclyffe's restoration was to be a tribute to him and all of the Carlisles who'd come before, haunted by years of tragedy and superstition. Now he realized it was so much more than that. Bringing this place back to life wasn't about creating a tribute, but defending what was rightfully his. His father had risked his life coming back because restoring the hall had meant that much to him, and Bastian understood that. Hated it that it had taken his father from him, but the same deep need to fix the castle was within him, too. At any cost.

Slowly Jane put her palm in his. He relished the blossom of rose in her cheeks as her gray eyes flitted to his face, then away and back again.

He led her out of the dining room, down the hall, and into the castle's large ballroom. He'd purposely not taken her there, so he could surprise her, and the wait had been worth it. The ballroom had been renovated in the 1920s, with stained glass windows, crystal chandeliers, and wood floors.

"Oh! The ballroom!" She sighed dreamily. "Did you know that during World War II they housed wounded soldiers here?"

His lips twitched. She may have originally been an intruder bent on prying into his past, but now he understood her interest for what it was. She loved this place as much as he did.

She grasped his hands, delight shining in her eyes. "Dance with me!"

Bastian attempted to step back, shaking his head. "I don't really dance."

With a nibble on her bottom lip, she tugged on his hands. "Just one song. Please."

Sighing, he surrendered and left her in the middle of the room and to walk over to the newly installed entertainment bar off to the side.

He'd had a group of technicians install a sound system in case he wanted to connect an mp3 player into the new speaker system that circled the room. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, scrolled to a playlist, and found a good song before he popped the audio jack in and hit play.

She had her back to him when a musician started to sing "Ain't No Sunshine."

The staccato bump bump of the bass and the infusion of orchestra strings filled the air, enveloping them. The music's invisible strings seemed to coil around them as she spun to face him. Her lips formed a little "O" of surprise, her eyes bright with pleasure. He grinned.

She was beautiful. Stunning.

He could see a future with her, and it scared him. What if he had that future within his grasp and lost it, lost her ? Losing his father had destroyed his mother. He didn't want that to happen to him, but it could if he let it.

How appropriate the song was.

The singer crooned about how a house was not a home when his love was away. He couldn't help but wonder how Stormclyffe would feel if she left. He'd be alone every night. The thought was unbearable.

He joined her on the floor and pulled her into his arms. Her body bumped into his as she settled against him. They began a slow dance, the gentle shuffle of her flats and his shoes over polished wood. He tucked her head into his shoulder with a gentle hand, and she exhaled softly. Her warm breath seeped into his thin wool sweater.

"I thought you wouldn't be a good dancer since you acted so afraid, but you're excellent," she murmured against his throat.

He smiled. "My father taught me. You form a box with your steps." He demonstrated the incredibly simple move, both their heads bent as they watched their own feet. "And then," he chuckled, "when you become very good, you round off the corners of the box." There were many other fancy dances he was familiar with, but this one, the simple slow dance, was the one his father had taught him, and the one he suspected his father had used when he'd proposed to his mother.

The song changed, and a rich, upbeat melody washed over them as the sound bounced off the walls around them. She tilted her head back to look up at him with joy.

She started to sing along, laughing at the lyrics and herself.

" Tiny Dancer is my dad's favorite song. He and mom always danced to it when they thought my brother and I weren't around to see." She blushed and resumed singing. "Hold me closer," she whispered.

He wasn't sure if she was singing the lyrics or pleading to be held tighter. He knew what he wanted and pulled her close so she fit snug against him. One of his hands settled on her lower back, just above the delicious curve of her bottom. In that moment, he was struck by a sense of surreal wonder. It was as though time had in fact stopped and there was nothing beyond the music, Jane, and the dance. He hungered for her both physically and emotionally.

His palm twitched with the urge to cup her bottom, knead it until she mewled with desire and melted against him. His other hand met hers, and he laced their fingers together, the connection sparking between them. They started moving quicker in the dance, and he couldn't help but sing, and she laughed, her smile bright and full of life.

Each time they broke into the refrain, he spun her outward, and she pivoted in a graceful turn like a delicate dancer, using his fingers like the strings of a marionette as though he controlled her perfect moves. The rich sound of the melody and the slide guitar enveloped them in a spell that erased the shadows, the cliffs, like the first wash of the dawn over the land. It overrode the dark, sinister shadows slithering in the corners of the room.

If only he could have danced forever this way, holding her close. He banded his arms around her, fearing the song would end soon. He didn't want to let go of the one real thing in his life. But the music faded, and she pulled back. There was a stark pain in her eyes.

"What's the matter?" He reached for her but she stepped back, holding up a hand.

A new song started playing. It was "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes."

"I can't do this. I shouldn't have." She shook her head.

"Shouldn't what?" he asked. Worry dug into him, making him ache inside.

"I was in a relationship with a guy. We were engaged. I loved him." Her voice broke a little and she drew in a deep breath. "We used to dance all the time. I thought I could handle being close to someone again, but I was wrong." She smiled, but it was one of misery and laced with devastation.

"What happened?" He refused to let her go, not when she was hurting so badly that it made her tremble.

"He didn't believe me. I told him about the dreams, about Stormclyffe. He thought I was crazy. Two years! He just broke it off and asked for his ring back."

Her story stunned him. She'd been with a man she'd loved for two years, was going to marry that fellow, and he'd cried off just because she'd had some nightmares? A man shouldn't abandon a woman over something like that.

"I'm not that man, Jane."

"No," she admitted. "But you don't want to believe me. Sure you said you did, but you don't live with these dreams like I do. They always come, and sooner or later you'll stop wanting to pretend you understand."

He tightened his grip, anger rippling beneath his skin. After everything they'd been through, she didn't trust him?

"I said I believed you were seeing visions. Don't you dare doubt me. I said I'd protect you, and I will."

"It's too much, Bastian…" Her eyes seemed almost blue as unshed tears glimmered in their depths.

Too much? What did she mean? Too much of what?

"Jane, please." He didn't know what he was asking, but he couldn't bear the thought of her leaving.

She shook her head violently. "You're not supposed to be like this."

"Like what?" Her attempts to pull away from him were baffling.

"Perfect." The single word was barely a whisper from her lips before she spun on her heel and dashed out of the room, leaving him alone on the dance floor.

Something in his chest cracked and splintered. He could almost feel pieces of himself falling apart inside.

The song kept playing, the words a haunting warning.

Love is blind.

He swallowed hard as Jane vanished out of the ballroom door.

A fluttering movement in the corner of his eyes made him turn, and his heart jolted. A shadow hung at the edge of the floor, twisting and coiling like a serpent. The darkness stretched up the stone wall, like a thorny vine until it seeped out of the stones and morphed into a figure. Bastian watched in mute fascination as the smoky shape transformed into a handsome man with graying skin and haunted eyes, heavily shadowed with bruises, which locked on Bastian. It looked like the man in the portrait in Jane's room. It looked like…Richard.

"What in God's name?" He stepped toward the man, to do what, he didn't know, but the man shrunk back into a shadow and shot across the floor and through the door, the way Jane had gone. Was he going after her? To hurt her?

"Jane!" he shouted, fear clenching his throat as he broke into a run.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, drying in salty tracks. Jane scrubbed at them with her sleeve, her throat constricting as she tried not to cry.

Damn the man! She was completely embarrassed by her reaction to him and how she had just run away like a coward.

It felt too good to be true, to be in his arms, music enveloping her soul, binding her to the handsome Earl of Weymouth. She couldn't be falling in love with him. She had promised herself she wouldn't let this infatuation become anything deeper. After Tim, she hadn't wanted another man to have that power over her, the power to destroy her heart. What a fool she was. She should have known her heart would be the one thing she wouldn't be able to control.

She passed by the red drawing room and froze. A creeping chill slithered up her body from her toes to her head. Like how she'd felt in the library before she'd lost control and walked to the tower to throw herself over.

"Oh God," she murmured through barely parted lips. "Not again."

The drawing room door was barely opened, leaving a sliver of inky darkness. Anything and anybody could have been beyond the door. The thought made her insides squirm and twist sharply. Tiny hairs on her neck and arms rose in warning. The soft sounds of the castle faded to a heavy, blanket-thick silence until a ringing started in her ears.

The blackness of the drawing room seemed to move and stretch, bending rebelliously against the light of the hallway. The lights in the wall sconces flickered, dimmed once, and, in a rush of popping noises, went out.

She sucked in a harsh breath as darkness surrounded her. She couldn't see… Her eyes screamed with the need to focus on something, anything. Why couldn't she move? Her feet were rooted to the floor.

Shhh…shh… The slide of something rasping over of the carpet raked over her sensitive ears.

Shhh…shh…

It sounded like dragging footsteps… Something was coming toward her. Sheer terror spiked through her, and just like that, she was able to move again.

She spun, crashing into the solid stone of a wall. Her whimper was cut short as a high, keening wail drowned her out, like a banshee crying out its warning of a fast-approaching death.

If only I could see… God, just let me see it! She would rather see the creature that approached, look into the face of the thing that was haunting her steps. Not knowing, not seeing, was killing her.

She had the urge to scream Bastian's name, to call for help. But that would just give away her location to the thing that hunted her. His name was on her lips when the choking blackness was cut through by a burst of blue light from inside the drawing room. Desperate to escape the darkened hallway, she rushed into the drawing room.

The setting sun had sunk beneath the sky, and only the moon's wan glow illuminated everything. A pearly light blossomed in the center of the room, floating like a small orb. Tendrils of light spun outward from it in soft, lazy patterns.

The sight mesmerized her, pulling her toward it, leaving her unable to stop. The orb of light moved up to illuminate the portrait of Isabelle. Jane looked from the bottom of the painting upward, studying the silk gown up to the face of the captivating woman who'd died so long ago. Her ancestor. Blood of her blood. Flesh of her flesh.

Twin tracks of blood oozed from Isabelle's eyes, dripping down the oil portrait.

A silent scream knotted in Jane's throat, but that didn't stop her hand from rising up to touch the line of blood. Her fingers came away covered in the ruby substance. The ball of light above her started to spin, moving faster and faster, before it grew bright and shot straight at her. It hit her chest, and her vision tunneled.

Something was inside her! It curled deep into her muscles, and her bones, taking hold of her, ramming against the protective barriers she had in her mind.

This isn't real, this isn't happening .

But it was.

Possession .

"Jane?" Bastian's voice echoed just outside, and she opened her mouth to shout, to warn him, but nothing came out. She stumbled forward a step, running into the back of a chair. Pain shot up her stomach and into her chest from the collision. Something dark and angry inside her clawed for control, fighting to take over.

"Jane?" He stepped into the doorway, eyes locking on her, his face lined with worry. "Jane what's wrong?" He started toward her when a second ball of ghostly light winked into existence behind him.

He spun to face it just as the orb sank into his chest. He went rigid, his entire body jolting before he fell to the floor. Jane tried to reach him, but she tripped and the carpet rose to meet her.

She blinked several times, each more slowly than the last, her final sight was the blood running down the gown of Isabelle's portrait, before darkness closed in.

Richard lounged in a chair by the fire, a glass of brandy in one hand. His coat was gone, his shirt open at the collar, and he was so deep into his cups he didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore.

Isabelle was gone.

Even the happy grin of his infant son, Edward, could not ease the ache in his chest. It was as though someone had ripped his beating heart out and cast it over the cliffs with Isabelle.

He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, mussing it up further, and took another slow drink of the only thing that seemed to numb his pain.

"My lord, you have a visitor." His butler interrupted his solitude.

"Who is it?" Richard growled. It was dark. He should have no visitors at this hour.

"Miss Cordelia Huntington."

"Bloody hell," Richard growled.

The last woman on earth he wished to see. Before he'd met Isabelle, Cordelia would have been the sort of woman he would have considered marrying.

Pain lanced through him at the simple thought of his wife, carving her name into his heart all over again.

What did Miss Huntington want at this time of night? He ought to send her away from Stormclyffe, but he was foxed, and his mood was black enough that he longed to get into a row even with a lady.

"Show her in."

"My lord?" His butler's tone was heavy with disapproval, but he didn't care.

"Show her in!"

The butler scowled but exited with a nod and a muttered "Very well."

A few minutes later a woman in a red cloak entered. Her hood concealed her features as she walked around the side of his chair to face him. She dropped her hood, revealing honey-blond hair and a beautiful face with the coldest hazel eyes he'd ever seen. Richard shuddered as her gaze fixed on him. He didn't bother to stand as he ought to in a lady's presence. He just didn't give a damn.

"What brings you here, Miss Huntingdon?" he growled at her, hoping to drive her away with crudeness. He wanted to mourn Isabelle in peace.

"You do, my lord. I thought it was time to point out that you are in need of a wife. I offer myself to you. My father is quite wealthy and ? —"

"Silence." The word came out sharp as a whip crack. He couldn't believe this woman. She thought to marry him? When his heart was destroyed and his soul ripped to pieces?

"The only woman I loved is gone, and you think I care for riches?"

Her plump red lips thinned into an angry line. "It is time you settled down with a woman worthy of your title. My great-grandfather on my mother's side was an earl. I am much better suited to the role of countess than some innkeeper's daughter."

He jumped to his feet and threw his glass of brandy in the fireplace. The explosion of glass and the rush of flames consuming the alcohol forced Cordelia back a step.

"You insult her; you insult me. Know this, Miss Huntington. I will never marry again."

She curled her lip in an unladylike sneer. "You will marry. It is your duty to carry on your line. And I will provide you with an heir."

He laughed harshly. "I have my son, Edward."

"A child with a dirty, common bloodline?"

He wrapped a hand around her throat the second she uttered the words. "Never insult my son again." He released her and shoved her away from him so he could pace over to the window and gaze out upon the night.

The soft clink of glasses and the trickle of liquid was soon followed by her coming to his side.

"My apologies, my lord. I've spoken rashly and out of turn. Here…drink this. It will calm your nerves." She placed a brandy glass in his hand.

With a vicious glare at her, he downed the liquid and set the glass on the windowsill. He licked his lips. The brandy tasted a little bitter.

"It's a pity you couldn't be made to come around." She stroked his cheek.

Her touch burned like cold fire against his skin. He slapped her hand away, and the room spun slightly, blurring at the edges of his vision.

"You should leave, Miss Huntington. The hour is late, and you will be missed." The last few words of his speech slurred as his tongue grew heavy and thick.

She laughed quietly, yet the sound seemed more sharp and piercing to his ears, as though they strained to pick up every sound around him.

"I will leave… As soon as I've watched the last breath leave your body, and then I will go upstairs and take your precious babe and throw him off the cliffs like I did the common whore who birthed him." The venom in her tone was pure acid to his ears.

He spun to face her, using the windowsill to support himself as his legs quaked beneath him.

"What? You mean…she didn't kill herself?" Through the murky waters of his mind, this revelation was strangely a comfort. Months of guilt had driven him to the bottle, had him ignoring his son. And now he'd learned Isabelle hadn't committed suicide?

"I cast a spell upon her." She explained the murder with all the casual disinterest of someone discussing the weather. "I'm a witch, you see. My mother taught me well. The hearts of a dozen innocent doves taken by force beneath a full moon gave me the power to enslave your darling wife's free will. I forced her to flee into the storm and come to the cliffs. And when she arrived, I shoved her over the edge." Her pupils appeared almost catlike, and Richard shook his head, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

"Why? Why kill her?" he demanded hoarsely.

Shock numbed Richard. His throat started to close.

"It's not just her I've killed… I've poisoned your brandy. Feeling short of breath yet?" As she spoke, she slid one hand into the folds of her cloak and retrieved a vial filled with red liquid. She uncapped the stopper and smeared the liquid along her palm.

He doubled over, coughing as he struggled to breathe.

"I was the proper choice as your wife. But you picked that woman. That innkeeper's daughter!" She lunged for him, smearing the liquid…blood…on his chest.

"It was my choice. I loved her," he choked out, shoving her hands away from him.

"You shamed me by picking her. And now I shall have my revenge on you all."

Her eyes glowed, orange flames destroying any glimmer of humanity that might have remained there.

"I'll take great pleasure in tossing that brat into the sea for the fish to devour. Tenebrosum cor tuum anima vestra, et tenebrarum. Tu mihi in sempiternum. Masculi Omnia mihi." She smiled at him, the expression full of pure malice. "Everyone in your family will suffer. This will never be the end, not until I own the soul of an heir to Stormclyffe."

Something deep within Richard refused to die, even as the poison spread through him, killing him.

This bitch would not kill his son!

He shoved away from the window and tackled her. His hands wrapped around her throat. Even as his strength began to fail and his vision blurred, he kept hold of her, squeezing. He heard the faint cry of his little boy one floor above. The sound infused him with one last burst of determination and power.

"You will never harm another soul, never take another life!" He squeezed again, and the flames in her eyes were extinguished. His heart gave out, and he slumped forward.