“Cordy?”
She turned to see her sister on the stairs, looking just as fearful and wild-eyed as herself but otherwise unharmed.
“It’s not even six in the morning.” Eustace made her way to the bottom step, eyeing the mess. “What is it?”
Cordelia’s body trembled and her stomach lurched. A pungent smell like medicine and metal met her nose. Smears of red had followed her across the floor. She bent over and wiped at the sole of her foot with her T-shirt, lifting it to her nose, teeth gritting. “It’s blood.”
Eustace’s eyes widened.
“Not mine,” she quickly reassured her.
“I thought I heard a scream,” Eustace said. “I thought it was you. I ran to your room, and you weren’t there.”
“I know.” Cordelia had texted her sister to tell her she was at Gordon’s but had never mentioned that she was going to stay, only that Eustace shouldn’t wait up. “I heard it too. All the way from the carriage house. I thought I was dreaming.”
Eustace’s eyes slid back to the symbol painted across their floor, the slash and haste of it, the blood rimming her sister’s feet and shirt.
Cordelia felt like a girl again, standing in an empty room, staring at a woman in her underwear, brain matter dripping down her front. The threatening message she’d received from Busy crossed her mind.I doubt she’s got enough years left to pay.If something happened to Mrs. Robichaud, if this washerblood, she’d never forgive herself. “What does it mean?”
“It’s called Nauthiz—the need-fire. It’s a war rune. A symbol of lack or poverty.” Eustace gave her a hard look. “It’s an ill wish.”
“A bad omen.” Cordelia felt her stomach twist.
“A curse, Cordy,” her sister said ominously. “Someone doesn’t want us here.” Her eyes darted to the hall tree. “The papers Togers left for us to sign—they’re gone.”
This was too creative to be the work of the mob. The article she’d found about their aunt Morna came rushing back to her, the accusation of things drawn in blood, the word scrawled on the bedroom wall—witch.Eustace was right—someone didn’t want them there. Someoneinside.
That fucking seance,she thought ruefully. They’d woken the dead all right.
Cordelia’s eyes lifted to the tower, inscrutable, fear sloshing over her. She knew of only one person capable of such an act, alive or dead.
“I’m sorry,” her sister breathed. “You were right about last night. I got carried away.”
Cordelia shook her head. “You’ve always been the one who took the risks. And I’ve always been the one who played it safe.”
Her sister exhaled. “Both of which got us here.”
Gordon suddenly appeared, a thin shirt thrown on, catching himself against the doorjamb before he stepped in the blood like Cordelia had, eyes rounding.
“What happened?” He took them both in—Eustace on the stairs, Cordelia’s bloody feet and shirt. “Are you hurt?”
Eustace shook her head. “We’re fine. There was a scream, like a woman’s. It woke me out of a deep sleep. I thought it was Cordy.” Her eyes rolled across to the floor to the open doors and Gordon. Her lips pulled into a sharp line. “If it’s not ours, whose blood is it?”
Cordelia’s heart tumbled over itself. Someone’s life was poured out at their feet. She looked at Gordon.
“Whoever it is, they’ll need help if they’re still here.” His face glistened with sweat, paler than she’d ever seen it. She knew thenhe was thinking of his mother, imagining her suffering, her final moments on this estate, alone. “I’ll search outside,” he said, and pounded down the porch stairs.
Cordelia’s heart lurched. In a moment of heightened concern, she ran after him into the dawn, tripping over unexpected dips and rises, heart thudding frantically. “Wait!”
But the garden’s twists and turns seemed to carry him farther and farther away from her, spinning her in directions she didn’t want to go, the dim light making it difficult for her to tell one path from another. Before she knew it, she was spilling onto the promenade, racing beneath the blushing trees, calling Gordon’s name until she found herself face-to-face with the crypt, its shorn peak shrouded in mist.
Cordelia doubled over and tried to catch her breath. It was only when she rose to her full height again that she realized the iron doors were standing open, not closed and wrapped with the chain as they’d left them. Distraught, she climbed the steps cautiously, ducking her head into the crypt before entering. It was empty, everything untouched, mementos resting peacefully. But on the back wall, between the burial shelves, a smear of blood, a handprint wetting the stone.
They had been here too, whoever was in the house, whoever left that mark for them. And they wanted her to know.
She was shooting down the stairs and across the promenade when Gordon caught up to her. “There’s blood in the crypt,” she called, as he ran toward her, shielding her with his arms. “I didn’t see anyone,” she told him. “It’s empty now.”
His face tightened. “You shouldn’t have come out here on your own.”
