‘Just a sec,’ he called up. ‘Don’t come down. I dropped the bottle. Broken glass everywhere.’
Alex peered down from the light of the kitchen.
He couldn’t let her come down here.
Why not take what you want?
‘Are you okay?’
‘Sure,’ he lied. He wasn’t. He really wasn’t. Things were already spiralling out of control again. So soon. He felt sick. He was a monster, deep down inside, and something was calling it forth. ‘Fine. I just need to clear this up. Sorry.’ He tried to make his voice firm and unshaken. Not terribly well but convincingly enough. ‘Why not go back to the drawing room where it’s warm? I’ll only be a few minutes. I just need the dustpan and brush and…’
And they were up there, with her.
‘Here,’ she said, as if reading his mind. She took a step forward but he held up a hand.
‘Throw it down,’ he said and she obeyed, tossing them down the stairs to him. He tried to snatch them out of the air, missed, lost his balance and brought his knee down straight onto a jagged shard.
His curses were even louder this time and his head swam. Not with pain exactly but with awareness of the blood in the air. And laughter. There was laughter all around him. Mocking, echoing, taunting. The dustpan and brush clattered onto the floor beside him, useless.
‘Nick!’ Alex cried out in alarm.
‘Stay up there,’ he roared, aware that she was already moving, her feet on the cold stone steps, heedless of the danger to body and soul. ‘Alex, don’t!’
She stopped, three steps up from him, and slowly retreated backwards, her eyes wide with alarm. Thank all that was sacred.
Moving faster than he should have given he was bleeding and in pain, he swept the broken glass into the pan and left it there. He’d sort it out later. Instead, he grabbed another bottle and bounded up the steps, intercepting her before she could think of going down there herself.
White-faced and shocked, Alex was leaning against the table and simply staring at him, her hands gripping the wood, as if she was about to haul herself up on it to escape him.
He slammed the door to the cellar closed and locked it.
The ancient warding was scattered all over the floor, pulled apart, little more than dried straw and fragments of flowers now. It was an old one. A powerful one, he had thought, the kind made by one of the wise women of Kilfayne long ago, which Sally had added to each year, refreshing it, giving it new life. And now it was broken. All the smaller ones too.
Bastard. The absolute bastard.
Nick should have known better. He should have never let his guard down. He was an idiot. More than an idiot.
He’d been distracted. He had thought they were safe with Chambers gone, that it was over. That the statue was just a statue.
‘You’re bleeding,’ Alex gasped.
He could smell it, coppery in the air, almost taste it, rather than feel the cut. Not good. That was not good. He’d just bled in the cellar. On ancient stones, in the presence of the very thing Chambers had worshipped. That was never good.
‘Here.’ He held out the bottle of wine like it was some kind of trophy. He hadn’t even looked to see what it was. But she had wanted a drink so he’d gone to get her a drink and now…
His head swam again. That surge of anger came from somewhere else. He was sure of it.
‘Are you scared?’a voice whispered. And there was a laugh. A bitter, taunting laugh. It sounded like Chambers. But not entirely. It sounded like something else as well. Like a chorus.‘Coward. They owe you. The de Wildes. She owes you.’
Alex grabbed the bottle and put it down on the table, ignoring it completely.
‘Sit down,’ she told him. ‘Let me see to that. Do you have a first aid kit?’
‘Under the sink,’ he said, grudgingly, hardly able to form the words. A first aid kit wasn’t going to help him now. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to curl up and hide in the darkness until everything went away. He wanted…dear gods, he wanted…his eyes fixed on her…hewanted…
She pulled out one of the chairs and for a moment he thought she would just manhandle him into it if he didn’t comply.
It felt like someone shoved him from behind.
