Stop it, don’t think about him.Maybe that’s how he always found her—maybe he could see himself in her thoughts.
The night air was chilly, only dying embers glowed in the fireplace. The window was open, but only a bit, again, so if she really had to run, she could get out faster than a bat. She knew Max realized she was afraid even as he’d tell her yet another time she was safe with him here at Storne Hope because it was magic. Good magic as opposed to evil magic. But which was stronger, more powerful?
She pulled the soft covers up to her chin over a lovely warm flannel nightshirt Max had bought her in London on their mad shopping spree before they’d left. She was drifting into a twilight dream of a seashore she’d read about in Brighton where the old king had built that amazing pavilion when she suddenly snapped awake, muscles locked, terrified. She held perfectly still, blinked into the darkness. Something was near, maybe at the end of the bed. She knew it, she felt it. She was so scared she couldn’t get spit in her mouth. He’d found her.
Then she heard a sort of fluttering sound. He never fluttered, never. Then she remembered Max had told her about the long-dead Lady Hilda whose husband had murdered her and how it was written she’d haunted him until he’d collapsed of fright, or maybe, Max said, he simply drank too much and fell down the stairs and broke his neck. Who really knew? And Lady Hilda had remained here at Storne Hope. Why? Again, no one knew. Max liked to believe she kept guard, and then he’d laughed, said alas he’d never seen her.
But she was here now, Crispin knew it. She lay frozen and stiff, ready to have the ghost of Lady Hilda knock her on the head, maybe drag her off to the nether regions and eat her bones. Or give her tohim.
The fluttering sound came closer, louder now. Crispin knew whatever it was now hovered over her, was looking down at her, studying her—but nothing happened, only that fluttering sound, like rustling clothes.
She lay frozen, scarce breathing, not wanting to believe in a ghost from hundreds of years ago, but how could she not? She whispered, “Are you Lady Hilda?”
She heard the soft rustling sound again, but it seemed farther away, distant now. She heard a light, floating voice say,“A sweet, clever girl. Evil is coming. For you.”
Then there was nothing. The night air brought the scent of jasmine through the window. Or had Lady Hilda smelled of jasmine?
Crispin’s heart slowed its mad gallop, but then, suddenly, she nearly screamed—deep inside she knew he was coming, she felt him, saw him in her mind’s eye, shrouded in a roiling cloud of black, whipping and twisting about, roaring toward Storne Hope, toward her. He would kill her this time? Max too? No, she couldn’t let that happen. But what could she do?
She listened to her heart pound, loud, fast, and she wondered if a heart could burst from fright. She knew where Max’s bedchamber was—the huge room at the end of a monstrous long hallway. She swung off the bed, slid on her woolen slippers and robe, lit a candle, and slipped out the door, open a crack just in case, Max had told her, understanding.
The hallway was darker than a pit, darker than the airless small bedchamber where she’d spent so many hours—no, she wouldn’t think about that, waiting, knowing he would come, hurt her. Crispin raised her candle, saw a white marble statue of some ancient old man with a thick white curling beard staring at her from a deep niche, and nearly expired on the spot.No, no, don’t be a loon, keep going.She ran then, all the way to the end of the hall, the cold from the thick stone seeping through her slippers. His door was cracked open, and she slipped inside. Embers crackled in the fireplace, nearly dead now, like hers.
He’d shown her his bedchamber, laughed at how high the bed was off the floor, told her when he’d been a child he’d had to take a running leap and jump as high as he could to get on top. She ran to the bed and stopped. Max was sound asleep, breathing deeply, on his back, the covers to his waist, his chest as bare as when she’d first seen him two weeks ago in London. Wasn’t he cold?
She whispered, “Max?”
He didn’t move, just slowly opened his eyes, slowly turned his head to look at her. “What’s wrong?”
“I think Lady Hilda came to see me.” She gulped. “He’s coming. She saw him coming, and then I saw him, a wild black cloud, whipping toward us. He’s close, Max.”
He pulled the top blanket back. “Put the candle on the table, then hop up. It’ll be all right.” He said more to himself than to her, “I must wear a nightshirt in the future,”
Max covered himself, pulled her close, tucked two more blankets around her. “Tell me what Lady Hilda said to you.”
A sweet, clever girl. Evil is coming. For you.
He believed her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saturday
The early-morning ice had melted into mush as Grayson rode Astor to Storne Hope, but still no sun. When would spring finally come to northern England?
Astor trotted up the steadily rising drive up Piper’s Hill to the medieval castle that sat atop, still lording it over all its neighbors six hundred years later. He thought of Max’s letter, delivered personally by a tenant farmer’s son.
Grayson,
Your father has told me of your special gifts, your affinity with otherworldly creatures. I need your help.
Max
Was this about the ghost of Lady Hilda? Every old house had resident ghosts. As far as Grayson knew, she was nothing remarkable. Locals believed since Storne Hope had produced only one ghost in its six-hundred-year-old history the family must be a boring, bloodless lot with not a whit of hair-raising drama.
When Grayson brought Astor to a stop in front of the massive front doors, a stable lad came running from around the back of the castle waving a carrot, calling out, “’Tis fresh, sir, picked it meself. Ah, I knows about Astor, a fine purty lad, all remarks on it.”
As Grayson thanked him, he couldn’t help thinking of Barnaby the barn cat who was magic with horses—he’d even seduced Albert. He knew Barnaby—now Brady—had also seduced King Stuart, his father’s famous racehorse.
