“You can see her?” Lady Thornton stared at him wide-eyed.
Ray blinked a few times. “How could I not, when she’s standing right in front of me?”
Lady Thornton shook her head. “This can’t be real. Neither of you is real...”
“Run from him before it’s too late.” The ghost grasped Catherine’s shoulder. She was becoming corporeal, but just acknowledging her wouldn’t be enough for that. Even if she’d gotten a bit of magic from his glamour. The rotting stench grew stronger, and his stomach twisted. It wasn’t just her desire for revenge that was keeping her tied to this plain. It was dark magic.
He put himself between the ghost and Lady Thornton. At this rate, a few more minutes and she’d would transform into a wraith, and he wasn’t strong enough to fight her himself. She screeched as she lunged for him, clawing at him with hands so cold they burned. He wrestled with her, but she was stronger than he expected. Her rotting hand clenched around his windpipe, squeezing the air out of him.
“I just want this all to go away!” Catherine shouted. The call of it reverberated toward him, slammed into his chest, burst from him like a lightning strike to earth, the echo of power shot outward and dislodged the ghost’s grip around his throat.
Lady Thornton crouched on the ground, her knees drawn to her chest as she rocked back and forth. She muttered to herself under her breath. But he felt it, the tingle of power on her skin. It had flared out of her and into him. A tiny sliver of power swirled inside him, enough to summon his blade. He held out his hand, and a green vapor coalesced, forming into a short sword. Who was she?
The ghost gave a gurgling gasp. Black threads wound around the ghost’s wrists, ankles, and throat, oozing like bleeding wounds. Frayed ends dangled as if they’d been severed. Whatever had been tethering her to the world of the living had been severed. Ray closed his fist and dismissed his blade. There was no use drawing it now. The ghost clutched at the frayed strings as it ran through her fingers, trying in vain to stop her power from escaping her.
Hooves clopped, and wooden wheels creaked. Death upon his midnight carriage parted the mist. His black stallions tossed their ebony manes and pawed the ground. Death beckoned for the ghost with a skeletal hand.
“No, you cannot take me. My business here is not complete. I have to protect Lady Thornton from him,” she pleaded, hands clasped together.
He shook his hooded head and crooked his finger once more. The ghost rose up like a marionette and took a seat beside Death. The black stallions blew out a huff, and the wheels creaked as they pulled into the mist once more. As the carriage disappeared, the ghost glared back at him.
Lady Thornton had stopped rocking back and forth and stared blankly after the retreating carriage.
“Lady Thornton. It’s alright now; the ghost has moved on.” He gently shook her shoulders.
She recoiled from his touch. With her face averted, she stood.
“Pardon me, I should be going.” She swayed on her feet, and he held out a hand to steady her, but she once more shrunk from his touch. Ray let his hand fall to his side.
It wouldn’t be good to press her. She seemed to be in shock. Even those humans with the sight would be rattled by coming face to face with death themselves. But she wasn’t merely a human, or a half breed; she had infused him with her power, by accident. It seemed he wouldn’t be bored for a long time yet.
4
Catherine paced the length of her room, bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor as she circled her four-poster bed. Her untouched breakfast taunted her roiling stomach. Last night she’d slept in brief snatches. Each time she’d dozed off, she’d woken in a panic, expecting to be pulled from her bed. When Miss Larson had brought her breakfast, Catherine had given up the pretense of trying to sleep. This crawling anxiety wouldn’t leave her since yesterday in the garden. The cold brush of the ghost’s hands and the putrid smell of rot lingered in her nose like a foul perfume. As if her imagination had woven its way into the fabric of her clothing, her hair, under her nails, which she’d scrubbed and scrubbed until they were raw.
Rain drummed against the glass of her window. How long before Lord Thornton discovered the truth? How long before he sent her to Elk Grove as her parents had? If she returned, Dr. Armstrong would be furious. He would lock her in the room again. And this time, he wouldn’t let her out. The dark oak panels on the walls closed in, and her chest constricted. She raced to the window and flung it open. The scent of wet earth wafted in, and she gulped in the cold air. The knot in her chest eased. This wasn’t the room. She was free of Elk Grove. She would never go back. She’d come this far. Raindrops pattered on her hands as she clutched the windowsill. Her breaths escaped in short huffs. What was real? What was fake? Was the gardener, Mr. Thorn? Had she been in the garden at all yesterday? She was afraid to ask.
Normally a walk outside or burying her hands in earth would have calmed her nerves. But given the weather, that wasn’t an option. At Elk Grove, walking about was forbidden, but here she was free to roam. Thornwood Abbey was sprawling, and there was an entire second wing she hadn’t seen. Maybe if she just went for a walk, even indoors, it might dispel this restless energy. The door creaked as she eased it open onto a deathly silent hall. Lightning flashed and illuminated the area. Catherine flinched, half expecting to see a ghostly gaze staring at her from the shadows. But there was nothing but shadows cast by flickering candlelight, dark wood furnishings, and thick drawn curtains that hardly drowned out the pulsating torrent of rain on the windows.
On previous mornings, servants moved silently from room to room, heads down as they worked. But today, it was as if the entire house was abandoned. She scurried down the hall and paused along the landing that connected the west wing and the east. No one had forbidden her from going here. But Mrs. Morgan had made mention that most of this side of the house was boarded up. This side of the house was dark, the hall like a cavernous mouth opening into an endless void.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the end of the hall and revealed portraits on the walls. Their hollow eyes glared at her. She yelped and took a step backward with one hand on the banister. Heart slamming into her rib cage, she looked around. There was nothing there but shadows. No ghosts with ominous warnings. No strange men with devilish smiles. Dr. Armstrong said to overcome her fears, she must confront them. If she didn’t want to go back to Elk Grove, she had to prove to herself that there was nothing to fear. She removed a sconce from the wall. A delicate heat warmed her hand as she ventured into the darkness.
Dust tickled her nose, and she fought the urge to sneeze. The haunting gazes of the portraits followed her as she explored. Did Edward’s ancestors watch her and find her wanting as his sister did? She was too afraid to look up and meet their empty eyes. Palms slick with sweat she grasped for the door knob. It groaned and swung open onto a bedroom shrouded in sheets. She coughed on the musty scent before closing the door again. That wasn’t so bad.
A draft blew her candle out. Catherine looked back to the hall where she’d come, but it was cloaked in black. At the opposite end of the hall, a faint light glowed. Perhaps this wing of the house wasn’t as abandoned as she had thought. Like a moth drawn to a flame, she darted for the open door. She eased it open to discover a nursery.
A south-facing window illuminated a buttery yellow nursery. The storm had passed, it seemed. Catherine inched closer to the window and peered through the rain-streaked grass. The forest loomed in the distance, veiled in shadows. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she recalled the eerie song which had drawn her to it. She turned away and banged her knee on a rocking chair. Catherine hissed in pain and backed away from it, knocking over a pile of children’s toys. She held up her hands, surveying the room for anymore tripping hazards. In a far corner sat a lonely bassinet.
Unlike the other room she’d found in this end of the wing, nothing had been covered up. Nor was there that musty smell or the dust on any surface. Someone had been keeping this room clean. But why a nursery of all things? Had Lord Thornton prepared it in anticipation of starting a family? She supposed it was the natural progression of a marriage. Yet they hadn’t even consummated theirs.What sort of mother would she make? She’d dreamed of a family when she was at Elk Grove. A happy, uncomplicated life. She approached the bassinet, a single finger extended to caress the delicate lace that trimmed the rim of the bassinet.
“My lady, what are you doing here?” Mrs. Morgan’s sharp tone sounded disapproving.
Catherine spun around to face her, dropping her hands to her sides as a blush burned her skin. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here.
“I apologize. The candle blew out and then the door...” She bowed her head.
“I thought I told you, this wing of the house is boarded up. There’s nothing for you here.” Mrs. Morgan stepped out of the way, her arm extended to guide Catherine out.
