"To protect both her and myself from her demon-provoked convulsions, I summoned Dr. Stoughton to administer a strong dose of laudanum. It was while she was under the effects of the drug that Miss Whitewood's tortured ramblings revealed to me a dark and terrible secret."
"He's lying!" Arian shot to her feet.
Linnet clapped his hands on her shoulders and shoved her back down in a pretense of kindness. "Strength, my child. Resist the demons that torment you."
She clamped her lips together, determined to resist the torments of only one demon.
Linnet crossed to the hearth, took up the iron poker, and stirred the flames to crackling life. Shadows leapt across his features as he looked each man full in the face. "I cannot even bring myself to describe the contortions I witnessed in that bedchamber."
"Do try, sir." Ingersoll leaned forward, his florid brow sheened with sweat.
"While possessed by one of those terrible fits, Miss Whitewood grabbed my hand and dragged me into the bed with an inhuman strength." A flattering flush spread across Linnet's regal cheekbones.
Arian gaped, too captivated by his performance to predict what he would say next. It was easy to understand how he had made his living on the French stage all those years.
"While she had me in her grasp, she did whisper to me a grim tale, indeed." He passed his hand over his eyes. "She confessed to me that the night before the swimming, a dark spirit overcame her in the woods. He took her flying on a pulsating broomstick and worked his dark ways with her until she cried out in agony and mortal pleasure."
"An incubus!" Ingersoll hissed.
"That's rubbish, you blathering Beelzebub!" Arian cried, springing out of her chair once again.
"Sit down, girl." Marcus's command froze her where she stood. He had been so quiet she had nearly forgotten he was there. "Let the good Reverend finish. We will have no more of your impudence."
Arian sat, shifting her gaze to the rafters to keep the tears in her eyes from falling. Somehow Marcus's betrayal was the most bitter of all.
Mr. Corwin cleared his throat. "So now we have the opium-induced ramblings of a young girl in the budding flower of womanhood. Do you have any physical evidence to condemn this child, Reverend?"
Arian wanted to hug the crotchety old magistrate. But Linnet's smooth smile sent ice coursing through her veins.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Corwin. I have evidence. After suffering one of these fits, Miss Whitewood slipped into a stupor. It was at that time that I decided 'twould be wise to have Dr. Stoughton examine her body for Devil's Marks."
Arian's cheeks burned with mortification. Everyone in the parlor knew such marks were only found in the most intimate areas of the body.
Linnet offered her a mocking nod to acknowledge the quickened pace of her breathing. "The examination was conducted properly, Miss Whitewood. Goodwife Burke was present in the chamber at the time."
Ingersoll whipped a kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. "I cannot imagine why I wasn't summoned to witness this examination."
"Did you find any such marks?" Mr. Corwin demanded.
Linnet shook his head sadly. "We did not. But we discovered something else." He pursed his lips. "I know of no delicate way to phrase this. The girl was not… intact. She is no maiden."
Arian's outraged gasp was drowned out by Ingersoll's whoop of triumph. The constable's round face split in a wolfish grin. "She is a witch and a harlot. Arrange a trial and hang her."
Mr. Corwin shook his head. "A trial would be of no use now. We cannot hang her if there is the slightest possibility that she could be with child."
Linnet arched an eyebrow. "Is there that possibility, Miss Whitewood?"
Arian gazed into her lap, remembering the hot rush of water over her naked flesh, the steam rising from Tristan's golden skin, his hoarse moan of satisfaction as he joined his body with hers. Her hand twitched with the urge to cup her belly, to savor the irresistible notion that her womb might even now be quickening with Tristan's child. Even though she knew she was playing right into Linnet's cunning hands, she could not summon even a shadow of shame.
Lifting her head, she met his eyes with a pride that bordered on arrogance. "Yes."
Mr. Corwin rose, his distress visible. "Miss Whitewood, if some lad in the village has compromised you, now is the time to name him. This is not a disgrace you should bear alone."
Arian shook her head mutely, regretting that she could not meet his earnest gaze.
Constable Ingersoll lumbered to his feet, convinced a decision had been made. "I have a set of shackles on my horse. I shall escort the smutty tart and her litter of demons to the jail."
"No," Mr. Corwin said, the authority in his voice halting Ingersoll in his tracks. "I will not have this delicate child spending the next month, or the next nine months, shackled in a filthy cell."
Marcus opened his mouth, then closed it.
Linnet rescued him, clucking sympathetically. "We can hardly expect Goodman Whitewood to take the girl back into his home. She has already tried to kill him once. If Miss Whitewood agrees, she may stay with me until her fate is decided." He knelt before her and clasped her hands in his, his eyes as brown and winning as a pup's. "Would you care to abide with me, my child, or would you rather accompany the good constable to the jail?"
Ingersoll licked his bulbous lips in anticipation.
"How could I refuse such a kind offer?" Arian replied without blinking an eye. "Of course I would choose to stay with you, Reverend."
Muttering something about saucy wenches and devil's issue, Ingersoll slapped on his hat, threw open the door, and charged into the rain.
"I should speak to the constable before he incites another mob." Mr. Corwin offered Arian a pained smile of farewell. The wind whipped his cloak into a flapping frenzy as he disappeared into the night, Mr. Hathorne fast on his heels.
Marcus shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "I'd best be getting home as well. There is stock to be fed." He ducked into the rain without a backward glance at Arian, slamming the door behind him.
Marcus huddled beside his horse, gazing back at Linnet's house through a chill curtain of rain. A pair of oil lamps shone through the front window, brightening the night with their cozy glow.
An iron kettle went flying past the window. Above the spill of the rain, Marcus heard an outraged shriek and the terrible clatter of metal against stone. Linnet stumbled into view, reeling as the lid to a butter churn smacked him upside the head. He snarled and started back the way he had come only to be forced to dive behind a chair as a porcelain platter shattered on the wall behind him.
Marcus shook his head. There was nothing bewitched about the way those things were flying through the air. He had witnessed enough of Arian's tantrums to know that it took only her dainty hands to reduce the tidiest room to a shambles. Following another enraged shriek and a masculine bellow of pain, he mounted his horse and kicked it into a trot, drawing the brim of his hat over his thoughtful eyes to shield them from the rain.
The hidden panel slid open. Linnet slipped into the attic, his dark eyes smoldering beneath the pristine folds of a plaster bandage. Arian sat propped against the bed pillows, her hands folded demurely in her lap. With her face framed by the stiff ruffles of the homespun nightgown, she could have been an angelic twin to the gilt cherubs floating above her.
Linnet stared down at her. "You're not worthy to be my daughter."
He spoke in flawless French and Arian replied in kind without even realizing it. "Merci beaucoup, mon pere."
His sneer sharpened. "If you ever lift a hand to me again, I'll hang you myself."
"And risk everything? After all, why would you have bothered to earn me a stay of execution if you didn't need me? You must not be as confident of your ability to lure Tristan to his doom as you pretend to be."
Linnet's laugh was even uglier than his sneer. "Tristan wouldn't cross the street to help you, my dear, much less three centuries. I'm the one he'll be looking for when he
comes. You're only insurance. A man of Tristan's immense ego would sacrifice much to protect his heir – perhaps even his life."
Arian suppressed a shiver of foreboding. "What if your plan fails? What if there is no child? What if Tristan doesn't even bother to come?"
Linnet hesitated for no more than a heartbeat "Then the magistrates can try you for witchcraft… with my blessing." He snapped off a crisp bow. "Good night, daughter. Sweet dreams." The panel slammed shut with bleak finality.
Arian locked her trembling hands together, torn between praying that Tristan would come soon or that he would never come at all.
33
CRIME SCENE. DO NOT CROSS.
Copperfield brushed aside the tattered warning banner. It fluttered in the bruising January wind like a garish yellow kite, mocking his grief.
A herd of wooden sawhorses cordoned off the block surrounding the Tower, making the hustle and bustle of Fifth Avenue seem a world away. A bleak cloud of desertion hung over the entire structure. It had been abandoned by its employees, its residents, its visitors, even by the press, after weeks of vigilance from their mobile units and helicopters had failed to pierce the veil of mystery surrounding the disappearance of Tristan Lennox's beautiful young bride.
Copperfield's footsteps echoed as he crossed the deserted lobby. The Tower reminded him of a tomb – "a whited sepulcher full of dead men's bones." But the only bones buried in this mausoleum were Tristan's.
He bypassed the main elevators for an express, already knowing where he would find what he was looking for.
Before he stepped off the elevator, he turned up the collar of his coat, as if it might protect him from more than just the icy gusts of wind battering the Tower roof. At least it wasn't snowing this time. The sky was as barren as the face of the man who stood at the edge of the roof, searching its cold, gray vault with his shadowed eyes.
Copperfield nearly flinched at his first sight of Tristan in over a month. His friend's face was haggard, his eyes hollow from lack of sleep. Etched in that stark visage was a phantom of the embittered old man he would become. If he lived long enough.
Cop joined him in his vigil. Tristan wore no coat, but seemed impervious to the cold. Copperfield tried not to embarrass himself by shivering.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when Tristan broke the silence first. "How's Cherie?"
Cop bit back a besotted smile. "Just fine. I gave her an engagement ring for Christmas, but she says marriage is a big commitment and she needs some time to think it over."
Tristan's smile was bleak. "Tell her not to wait too long. She might end up with an eternity."
Cop jammed his hands in his pockets. "Brenda's been calling nearly every day to check on you. She sounds pretty frantic."
Gentle mockery laced Tristan's voice. "She probably wants to make sure I've included her in my will."
Well, that certainly gave him the introduction he'd been looking for, Cop thought wryly. "I talked to the judge today. A trial date has been set."
Tristan's expression didn't even waver.
"You are aware that New York reinstated the death penalty in the fall of ninety-five?" Cop asked, desperate to jar him out of his apathy.
That only earned him a halfhearted shrug.
"I don't understand why you won't let Sven and me testify on your behalf."
Tristan snorted his disdain. " 'Excuse me, Your Honor, but I'd like to make a motion that the charges against my client be dismissed since I myself and the other star witness for the defense observed Miss Arian Whitewood being sucked through a vortex in time on the night of her alleged murder.' " He shuddered. "No, thank you. You'd only succeed in getting Sven deported and yourself disbarred. You might as well call Wite Lize to the stand." He shot Cop a rueful glance. "And we both know what condition he's in. Given my prior history, I'm afraid the judge won't be quite so inclined to overlook key pieces of circumstantial evidence – such as the fact that my wife has been missing for over two months and my hands were stained with copious amounts of her blood. Oh, yes, and we mustn't forget that half of New York saw us have a violent quarrel in the middle of our wedding reception."
He had effectively disarmed every legal argument Cop had prepared.
Tugging his ponytail in frustration, Cop paced away from him and back again. "You have an answer for everything, don't you? Except for the one question that's been haunting me ever since she disappeared. Why won't you use Warlock to go after her and bring her back? I know you despise the damn thing and fear its power to corrupt, but isn't a woman like Arian worth risking your soul for?"
Copperfield had finally succeeded in provoking a reaction, if not precisely the one he had expected. Tristan grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, his eyes burning with passion in his gaunt face. "I'd sell my soul to the devil himself for a chance to hold her in my arms one more time before I die! How dare you imply that I wouldn't?"
"Then why?" Cop whispered, helpless to understand.
Tristan let go of him to reach into his pocket and pull out a worn sheet of paper. He handed it to Cop. "This was waiting for me on the day you picked me up at the jail after you finally convinced the judge to set bail. The day they returned Warlock to my possession."
It was a fax dated 11/26/96 – the day after Arian had vanished. The fax had been sent from the city courthouse in Gloucester, Massachusetts, at 0800 hours and looked like a Xeroxed copy of some obscure historical document.
He cast Tristan a bewildered glance. "I thought your research team was turning up nothing but a lot of dead ends."
"They were," Tristan said softly. "Until Arian went back."
Suddenly, Cop didn't want to read the fax. Didn't want the stark words to imprint themselves on his brain. But trapped beneath the spotlight of Tristan's uncompromising gaze, he had no choice.
Swallowing the knot in his throat, he gently read, " 'On the thirty-first day of October in the Year of Our Lord sixteen eighty-nine, an accused witch by the name of Arian Whitewood was hanged by the neck" – his voice faltered – "until dead." Cop crumpled the paper in his fist. Tears seared his eyes.
"They hanged her, Cop. They hanged my beautiful, funny little witch." Tristan gestured to the empty sky, his voice bleak. "If she was out there somewhere, lost in time, don't you think I'd know? Don't you think I'd feel the whisper of her breath? Smell the scent of her hair on the wind? She's dead," he bit off savagely. "She's been rotting in her grave for over three hundred years. All because I was too damn stubborn to trust her. She had to prove herself worthy of my faith by throwing herself in front of a bullet."
The fax fluttered from Cop's fingers, but Tristan didn't try to stop it. They watched it drift over the edge of the rooftop like a wisp of cloud.
Copperfield held his silence for as long as he could before blurting out, "Oh, why the hell don't you just jump?"
Tristan recoiled as if he'd been struck. "What?"
Cop swept out his hand toward the edge of the rooftop. "Why don't you just jump and save the taxpayers the expense of executing you?"
Tristan blinked, looking mildly dazed. "I always knew lawyers were a cynical lot, but doesn't advising your client to commit suicide cut down on the chances of your collecting your exorbitant fee?"
"I'd rather forgo my fee than watch you mope around the Tower like some brooding Heathcliff from a high school production of Wuthering Heights. If you're too busy feeling sorry for yourself to get off your pathetic ass and go rescue your wife – "
"Didn't you hear a word I said?" Tristan shouted. "Arian's dead!"
Cop thrust out his lower lip. "I can't believe you'd let a little thing like that come between you."
Tristan was staring at him, visibly torn between anguish and hope. He took one step toward him, then another, backing him toward the edge of the roof. "If you're cruel enough to offer me hope without foundation," he said hoarsely, "as God is my witness, I'll throw you off the roof."
"You won't have to," Cop promised his friend, his lips curvi
ng in a lazy grin. "If I'm wrong about this one, I'll jump."
"Devil's slut!"
The raucous shout assailed Arian the minute she emerged from the front door of Linnet's house. She drew the hood of her cloak forward to veil her face.
"Satan's whore! Going to meet your lover, aren't you? So he can plant another demon whelp in your belly!"
Clutching the bundle beneath her arm, she ducked her head and started across the dirt road, praying she could reach the edge of the woods without being accosted. A ball of mud spattered across the back of her cloak.
She whirled around. Two boys crouched at the other side of the road, scooping up handfuls of mud and patting them into missiles. In the past three weeks, she had seen them and many others like them lurking around Linnet's cottage, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. If the sky hadn't been threatening rain again, there would have been more.
The tallest boy cocked his head, his broadcloth coat marking him as a rich man's son. "G'day, witch. My cousin says you should give up your phantom lovers and give a real man a taste. He would be more than happy to meet you in the woods some afternoon and show you – "
He yelped as the fistful of mud Arian hurled hit him squarely in the nose. Both of the boys burst into tears and fled, sobbing that the evil witch had cast a spell upon them.
Arian sighed and shook her head. She could hardly blame children for parroting the malice fostered by their elders.
She slipped into the forest, thankful to escape the oppressive atmosphere of Linnet's house for a few hours. The underbrush clawed at the hem of her cloak, its fingers stripped to bone by the looming promise of winter.
Arian sank down on a fallen log and laid her supper of a warm beef pie beside her. Linnet had given her free rein to wander, knowing full well that more than three steps in any direction would summon a mob intent on doing her more harm than his mocking smirk could ever do. His confidence that she would not run away galled her. They both knew she had nowhere to run.
Arian reached for her supper. The log was empty. She peered beneath it, but found nothing but beetles burrowing into the black soil. She straightened, frowning. There were no wood sprites or gremlins in Gloucester that she knew of.
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