Blackheath Resurrection (The Blackheath Witches Book 2)

by Gabriella Lepore

  “No!” Pearl was distraught now, too. “No, no, no!”

  Suddenly someone else was on the line, someone with a voice similar to Pearl’s. Motherly and gravelly with age. “Maximus? Is that you?”

  “Aunt Ruby,” he sobbed. “Evangeline is dead.”

  “Erridox?” she asked in a whisper.

  Maximus could no longer speak. He just crumpled to the floor, clinging to the bars of Joel’s cot. From inside the crib, the baby began to cry. In turn that woke Evan, who began to cry too. Long, piercing wails that sliced through the still night.

  “Stay where you are,” came Ruby’s voice. “You hear me? Don’t move.”

  Maximus was vaguely aware of his aunt’s voice in his ear, but her words were lost on him now.

  “I’m on my way, child,” she was saying.

  Whether she had said any more than that, Maximus did not know, for the phone slipped from his hand and slid across the floor. He began to weep helplessly, causing his two young sons to cry even louder. He couldn’t comfort them; he couldn’t help them. He didn’t know how. So they cried together, a chorus of sadness echoing throughout the small house as their matriarch lay lifeless and cold in the room next door.

  Maximus couldn’t have said how long it was before Ruby arrived. To him, it could have been seconds, or it could have been hours. Hell, it could have been days, for all he knew. When she appeared, just a small elderly figure wrapped in a long black shawl, she comforted him where he’d fallen on the nursery floor. This frail woman was suddenly enormous in strength and presence, a shining light in the darkness.

  She lifted the crying baby from his crib. “There, there, sweet boy,” she soothed into Joel’s ear, rocking him gently in her arms. “Aunty is here now.”

  Then she lowered herself carefully onto Evan’s bed and took his little form in her other arm, comforting both boys at once as their father wept.

  “Where is she?” Ruby asked at last.

  Maximus drew in a ragged breath. “In the bedroom.”

  “You must go and take her to one who knows Resurrection,” she instructed, her voice calm and quiet as she held the infants. “You must bring her to life, for she has great work to do.”

  For a split second, Maximus’s breathing steadied.

  “Who?” he stammered. “Who can perform Resurrection? There’s no such spell.”

  “I know of only one,” said Ruby stoically. “The Fallows boy. The eldest son.”

  “Jefferson?” Maximus shook his head. “No, you’re wrong. I know him. He has no great power.”

  “Ah, but you are wrong,” Ruby murmured. “It is widely said that the eldest Fallows boy’s powers are significant. He is the only one I know of who has the gift of resurgence.”

  Maximus’s mind began to race. Sure, he hadn’t seen Jefferson in over a year; they’d drifted apart after Evan was born. But could Jefferson really have mastered the dark art of Resurrection since then?

  “It’s true,” Ruby went on, staring deeply into his eyes. “The Fallows are your only hope. There is a bigger picture, Maximus, and you must trust that. But go with caution. I will watch over the children through the night, for as long as you need me.”

  Without a word, Maximus staggered to his feet and walked in a stupor to the bedroom. There lay his Evangeline, her fair hair fanned out around her on the bed, her face ghostly pale.

  Maximus lifted her into his arms and paced from the house. He could hear Ruby calling after him, but he could think of nothing except getting Evangeline to Jefferson. If there was a chance that Ruby was right—that Jefferson could bring her back—then he had to get to him.

  He carefully laid Evangeline in the back seat of his Jeep, then jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Hands trembling on the steering wheel, he sped towards the Fallows manor on the outskirts of Blackheath.

  Taking sharp bends and corkscrew turns at seventy miles an hour, Maximus was speeding up the long driveway to Fallows Crest in mere minutes. When the Fallows estate came into view, he slammed on the brakes and cut the engine, then jumped onto the pebbled courtyard and lifted Evangeline from the back. Cradling her in his arms, he raced up the stairs towards the front entrance and banged wildly on the manor’s door.

  Someone whom Maximus didn’t recognise—a glamorous-looking woman with full red lips and sultry eyes—opened the door. “Can I help you?” she purred, casting her dark gaze over him, unaffected by the lifeless girl slumped in his arms.

  “I need Jefferson,” Maximus rasped. “Now!”

  The woman looked him up and down again, touching the diamond draped around her neck. Silently, she turned and strode into the marble hallway. Maximus charged in after her, his eyes travelling fleetingly over the gold-leaf pillars and the grandiose artwork on the walls.

  Jefferson appeared from a room further along the corridor. He seemed different than he had a year ago. He was no longer the boy whom Maximus had known, but rather a man—broad, dominant, and imposing. His hair was sleek, his jaw was square, and he was dressed like power and money.

  When he noticed Evangeline cradled motionless in Maximus’s arms, his austere expression momentarily crumbled. “Follow me,” he barked.

  Maximus trailed Jefferson through the channels of the marble and gold house into a drawing room that was empty apart from a few portraits and a marble altar.

  “Place her here,” Jefferson instructed, flicking his wrist towards the smooth stone.

  Maximus lowered Evangeline onto the slab.

  “Erridox,” Maximus stammered weakly. “I tried to . . . I tried . . .” He broke into sobs. “She’s dead,” he managed. “Please, can you help her?”

  It seemed like Jefferson barely heard his pleas. He was running his fingertips over Evangeline’s cheekbone, examining her through narrowed eyes. “Yes,” he finally said, meeting Maximus’s eyes. “It’s not too late. I can revive her.”

  Maximus dropped to his knees, gripping the table where Evangeline lay. “Thank you,” he choked.

  “Stand, Maximus,” Jefferson ordered, disdainful at the sight before him. “There are conditions. We have a deal to make.”

  Maximus rose shakily to his feet. “Anything.”

  Jefferson stared into his former friend’s eyes. “I will bring Evangeline back to life, on the condition that you give her to me.”

  Maximus looked back at him, dumbfounded. “What?”

  “She’ll be mine from now on, not yours. Do you accept?”

  Maximus’s brow creased. “But . . . What are you saying, Jefferson?”

  The muscles in Jefferson’s jaw tightened. “You’ll leave her here with me, to be my wife.”

  Maximus bristled. “She’s my wife!”

  Jefferson smirked. “Right now she’s no one’s wife. Your choice, Maximus. She can live with me or not live at all.”

  Dazed, Maximus’s lips parted in disbelief. Surely he had misheard? Surely Jefferson wasn’t serious? But his expression was grave, threatening . . .

  Warped, Maximus realised.

  Well, let Jefferson try, Maximus decided. Once Evangeline was brought back to life, she could choose who she wanted. And it wouldn’t be Jefferson—Maximus was sure of that. But Jefferson was right—she had to be alive first.

  “Fine,” Maximus uttered. “Anything.”

  Jefferson cocked an eyebrow. “So we have a deal?”

  He extended his hand and Maximus took it. The moment their hands clasped, the floor began to tremble. Outside, a rumble of thunder shook the sky.

  “I will revive her,” Jefferson concluded. “And then she’ll be mine.”

  “Yes,” Maximus murmured in response. “Do what you have to, just so long as she lives.”

  Jefferson hovered his hands over Evangeline and began whispering words into her ear.

  “From darkest night I call to thee,

  Summoned by fire, earth, wind, and sea,

  Return the lost from blackest core,

  Where bones lie still, and bre
ath no more,

  Blood through veins, breath pass thine lips,

  And so revive, resurrect the witch.”

  EVANGELINE WAS DIFFERENT when she awoke; desperately weak, and yet somehow stronger than she had ever been. She opened her eyes to a grand drawing room—a far cry from her humble little family home. She couldn’t judge exactly where she was, but as she rolled over she felt a cold stone surface press against her cheek. The world looked different through her eyes now, fuzzy and blue. Then she remembered Erridox. Was she a witch now? Was this what witches’ eyes saw?

  Something in the pit of her stomach told her no.

  But witch or not, she was no longer herself. Not as she had once been, anyway.

  Through her bleary eyes she saw Maximus. She heard the muffled sounds of his voice, distant even though he was right beside her. It was as though she were underwater, her senses woolly, her sight and hearing bending slowly to allow for her new eyes and ears. It was like she was . . . transforming. Or transformed. But into what, exactly, she couldn’t say for sure.

  Instinctively she knew that they were not alone. He was there, too.

  “Jefferson,” she managed, a note of fear catching in her throat.

  “Listen to me,” he said sinuously. Somehow Jefferson’s voice came across clear and sharp, even when nothing else was. “Now you’re mine,” he told her. “You’ll bring me my heir, my son. He will be a child born by humans and turned by Erridox.”

  She swallowed. It felt like knives down her windpipe. “Erridox,” she finally managed.

  “Yes. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours; a hybrid is prophesised to power.” He laughed darkly. “Maybe you thought it would be you. What a shame Erridox didn’t work for you. Never mind, Max’s loss is my gain.”

  Maximus was shouting now, his body jerking in anger. But to Evangeline it sounded like nothing more than a mumble.

  “You will heal,” Jefferson went on calmly, his words resounding in her ears. “And then you and I will begin our life together.”

  “Never,” she spat, somehow finding her voice. She tried to sit upright, but a wave of dizziness dragged her back down to the marble slab. “N-never,” she repeated, but weakly this time. She gasped for breath, unable to fill her lungs.

  Jefferson only laughed in response.

  “Max,” she called to him, and she felt his hand entwine with hers. “Where . . . where are my boys?”

  Maximus spoke again, but still her mind could not comprehend his suffocated words.

  “Your boys will stay with their father,” Jefferson answered coolly. “They are not your concern any more. Your only concern is me—and my heir, of course.”

  “My boys,” she rasped. “I need my boys.” She lurched off the slab, falling to the floor with a smack. Maximus was at her side in an instant. Why couldn’t she understand what he was saying?

  Then Jefferson flicked his wrist and forced Maximus back with a surge of witchcraft.

  “Max!” she called to him.

  Jefferson’s darkened eyes suddenly filled her entire focus. “You’re mine,” he hissed. “You and I are connected in a way that can never be broken. I live in you, and you live in me. We’ll be drawn to each other from now on, like magnets.”

  There was a commotion across the room. She could just make out Maximus, surging towards them. Jefferson raised his hand and Maximus immediately doubled over in pain.

  Max, she thought, helplessly.

  Jefferson smirked. “The Tomlins clan is no match for my coven,” he scorned. “The Fallows name is legacy. Your little tricks are nothing to me. Nothing!”

  She was too weak to say anything now. She began to feel her consciousness slipping away from her.

  “You can never leave me, Evangeline, I will always find you,” Jefferson was saying, every syllable resounding clearly in her ears. “You belong to me now.”

  Evangeline felt cold. She wanted to be anywhere but where she was.

  Suddenly she was somewhere else inside the room, away from Jefferson’s intrusive stare, cowering in a far corner. She screamed. “What’s happening to me?”

  “A little side-effect of Resurrection,” Jefferson hollered across the cavernous room. “Astral projection. Congratulations. Don’t worry, though, you won’t get far.”

  What happened after that was a blur to Evangeline. Hours turned into days, and days turned into weeks, and soon she began to recover. She healed in the Fallows manor, waited on by chamber maids who silently fed her medicines and broths until her eyes regained their focus and her ears found sound once more.

  Now she was stronger but still numb, stoically plotting means of escape and thinking only of her boys. Each day felt like a lifetime, and with each hour her hope of salvation faded.

  In fact, many long weeks passed before Evangeline was even able to contact Maximus. In a moment of good fortune, a phone had been left in her room by a nurse maid, dropped soundlessly on the rug in the bedchamber. Evangeline couldn’t tell if it had been a deliberate act of kindness, or a fortuitous accident, but she buried it inside a plant pot, hiding it out of sight just in case.

  In stolen private moments she would call Maximus and they would forge plans for her escape. But each time she tried to run away, or project herself beyond the confines, Jefferson’s enchantment would draw her back, just like he’d forecast. Just like magnets. Evangeline would find herself halfway down the gravel drive, running bare foot as fast as she could, and suddenly the world would spin and she would be back at Fallows Crest, trapped inside the manor’s gilded walls.

  It was nearly three months before Evangeline had a real shot at a lifeline. She was healed now, stronger, and Jefferson felt it was past time that she brought him his heir. Since her arrival she’d heard the Fallows clan speaking incessantly of an Erridox hybrid child prophesised to bring great power to their coven. Only a child born of two humans was eligible for the Erridox transformation, and even though Evangeline was not as human as she once was, she was human nonetheless. For that reason she was invaluable to Jefferson. After all, what other human mother would hand over her child so willingly?

  “He’s offered me a deal,” she said to Maximus one night when they’d arranged a secret meeting at the estate’s iron gates, concealed by shadows. “If I give him his child, he’ll let me go.”

  At once she saw the helplessness in Maximus’s gaze. He gripped his chest, as though his heart were shattering inside of him. Then she heard the pain in his voice as he told her to do it.

  So she did. Jefferson brought her a human man, and nine months later Kaden was born. She hadn’t felt the same pull of love for Kaden as she had for Evan and Joel. After all, Kaden had only been created as a means to an end—a way of returning to her real children, the ones who’d been created in love. No, Kaden just reminded her of all that she’d lost, and of how deeply she’d been manipulated by darkness. Besides, she couldn’t allow herself to love him; this child belonged to Jefferson.

  A year passed quickly. Evangeline raised the baby, providing him with everything he needed yet always keeping a certain distance between them. Sometimes, when the tiny infant would gaze into her eyes and she would look back, she’d be overcome with a familiar swell of love. It was then that she would hand him over to the nanny, reminding herself that this was not her child. That she could not let herself love him.

  When Kaden turned one, Evangeline was set free. Jefferson was bitter, but in witchcraft, when a deal was struck it had to be honoured, and Jefferson obeyed that. So with great resentment, he released his enchantment on her.

  The rain was pouring down the night she was set free, but Evangeline ran all the way to the little bungalow downtown, savouring the freedom of each stride. At long last, she was reunited with her children, her husband. Her family. The feel of four-year-old Evan and three-year-old Joel back in her arms almost erased the feeling that she was not where she was supposed to be. That she was not who she was supposed to be.

  No matter how much she wante
d them to be, things weren’t quite the same as they’d been before the Resurrection. She wasn’t quite the same. But she was happy, for the most part, and Maximus was happy, and her boys were happy, too. And that was all she’d ever wanted. So why did she often find herself grasping at the wrought-iron gates of Fallows Crest in the middle of the night, gazing longingly at the candlelit windows and aching to be let inside? She could not explain that even to Maximus, who would steadfastly come looking for her each and every time to bring her back home. Part of it was her longing for the child she’d left behind, yes. But part of it was something more. Something stronger than anything she’d ever known.

  Jefferson may have granted her freedom, but there was no escaping what he had said on that fateful night he’d given her her life back.

  You and I are connected in a way that can never be broken. I live in you, and you live in me. We’ll be drawn to each other from now on.

  A year later, a third child—Ainsley—was born to her and Maximus. But for some reason, having Ainsley only reminded her of the child she’d sacrificed. Again, everywhere she looked, all she could see was loss. Her night visits to Fallows Crest became even more frequent, her need to be there more desperate. Of course Jefferson had known that would happen when he’d set her free. He’d known that she wouldn’t be able to resist the enchantment Resurrection had cast upon her. He’d known that she’d always be drawn back to him like a magnet.

  “Stay, then,” Maximus eventually told her one night when he’d come looking for her and found her crouching at the Fallows manor gate, clutching Ainsley to her chest. She began kicking and screaming as Maximus tried to load her into the Jeep, fighting against him harder than she’d ever fought before. “If you want to be here, then stay. It’s your choice. I won’t force you.” Tears were filling Maximus’s eyes, but he pressed on. “If I did, I’d be no better than him.” He jutted his chin towards the mansion beyond the gates.

  “No,” she sobbed. “I want to be with you! But I . . . I have to be here more,” she finished miserably. “I . . . I don’t have any choice.”

  How could she explain it? It felt like a great chasm had opened up in her chest. Jefferson’s pull on her was just too strong. It was a compulsion that she could not free herself from.