Grace shrieked and stumbled backward only to find herself blocked by Devlin’s immobile body. When had he come to stand behind her? She wanted to run, to put as much distance as she could between herself and the gruesome scene laid out before her—death, pain, and disdain for human life.
Her mother wasn’t capable of this mass destruction! Only a soulless demon could annihilate an entire ballroom teeming with terrified people, and terrified they’d certainly been; skeletons lay over skeletons, as if the guests had trampled one another in their haste to flee.
An acrid stench filled her nose and lungs, and she gagged on the coppery taste tickling the back of her throat. She felt lightheaded as a dizzying swirl of anguished cries rang in her ears, their gut-wrenching pain seeping into her muscles with every passing second. Everything accosted her at once, throwing her off-kilter. Her pulse raced, propelling blood through her veins. She was freezing on the outside and yet burning with pain on the inside.
Brother Anselm broke through the deafening noise with another gasp, and Grace clung to the familiar sound like a lifeline. She swallowed past the fear rising in her chest, ignoring the warning signs and her basic instincts for survival.
“Are you all right, Brother?” It took tremendous effort to keep the panic from overwhelming her, and a slight tremor clung to her words.
“Let’s get out of here!” he shouted.
But she would not give in yet. God had gifted her with a vision for a reason. She wished to view the ballroom through His unfiltered lens, and she desperately needed to connect with the beauty found in their surroundings, if there was any.
“Wait!” Grace stretched out her hand and peered up. “The glass dome is unlike anything I’ve ever laid eyes on,” she said, her voice trembling with mounting awe. “The sun must be shining, because a heavenly golden glow reaches for us through the water. Do you see it, too? Everything is shimmering green, surrounding us with nature and His grace. In the midst of barbarity, it’s the most beautiful … ”
Brother Anselm squeezed her arm. “And there are fish.” He paused, and then whispered, “Is that a—”
A what? Grace wanted to listen to more, but a crushing pressure enveloped her at once, knocking the breath from her lungs, and she cried out in pain, falling to her knees in a heap. She needed air … couldn’t cough … couldn’t draw breath … couldn’t speak.
“Grace!”
Devlin’s panicked voice flittered over her consciousness, so faraway but insistent, cutting through the all-consuming pain gripping her. Fire burned in her veins as her chest cavity snapped like twigs on the forest floor beneath sturdy boots, and a rush of blood filled her mouth.
Blue eyes stricken with terror pierced hers, and she heaved a gulping breath of air into her lungs. Marcus Deveraux, battered and dying, reached for her, a wild and desperate plea with his arms flailing in the air. A scream hurdled through her throat, but she couldn’t open her mouth.
She felt suddenly weightless, floating in a sea of sandalwood. A comforting warmth enveloped her, and she leaned into it, seeking the solace it offered. Everything melted away, until there was nothing.
• • •
“Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
The quiet resolve in Brother Anselm’s voice as he prayed by Grace’s side was a welcome relief as her brain regained consciousness. Her chest muscles ached with every breath she took, and her head felt as though it might explode, but the searing pain was gone, and she no longer felt as though a massive weight crushed every bone in her body.
Grace reached in the direction of her mentor’s even voice and came in contact with his bowed head and hands clasped in prayer, damp with what could only be his tears. He didn’t cry often, so she must’ve given him quite a fright.
“Well, it seems we have our work cut out for us,” she said, wincing at the croak masquerading as her voice. Her throat felt dryer than a desert. “You may say it if you wish, and I’ll not hold it against you.”
Brother Anselm choked back a strangled cry, and she felt his fingers smooth back the hair from her forehead.
“I told you to wait,” he admonished.
She grinned. “So you did. When will I ever learn to listen to you?”
“Most likely never. Come have a sip of tea,” he said, helping her into a sitting position. “You must be thirsty after your ordeal.”
She winced as the throbbing in her head intensified. “Was it so bad?”
He wrapped her hands around the teacup and guided it to her lips. “The worst ever, my dear. I really thought … ”
His voice caught, wreaking havoc on her heart. It must’ve been very bad indeed. She swallowed a gulp of tepid tea, washing away the coppery remnants of blood from her mouth, and resolved in that moment not to share the truth with him: that she had relived her father’s death and teetered on the edge of her own existence. It wouldn’t be good for his health to worry so much. “I’m fine, Brother. You needn’t worry about me anymore.”
“You’ve never blacked out for so long, and your pulse was so weak,” he said, taking the empty cup from her. “You could’ve died! Thank the Lord that Captain Limmerick was there to catch you. It’s difficult to believe such a large man is so agile and quick. You were in his arms and above ground in a matter of minutes. He may very well have saved your life. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve a ferocious headache,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Could you ring Emma and see if she has anything that might help?”
She listened to him struggle to stand. “I’ve just the thing for you. I’ll be back shortly.”
A light knock sounded on the door, and she pulled the covers tighter around her chest.
The door creaked open. “It’s Devlin. May I come in, Grace?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Please don’t overtax her,” Brother Anselm said. Though his command was unmistakable, there was a level of respect evident in his tone. The captain had protected her and that, apparently, had raised him in Brother Anselm’s esteem. “She woke a few minutes ago and isn’t feeling well.”
“I’ll not stay long,” Devlin said. The edge of her bed dipped under the weight of his body as he sandwiched her hand between his. “You gave us quite a scare in the ballroom. I’m happy to see you’ve recovered some of the color in your cheeks.”
The way his hand petted hers felt wonderfully soothing.
She cleared her throat. “I’ll be fine by the morrow, you’ll see.”
“Is it always that violent?” His voice hitched. “I confess I wasn’t prepared for it at all. One moment you seemed fine, and then you were pale as death itself, crying out with so much pain I thought you’d perish before my eyes.”
He sounded as if he only now understood the depth of her powers as a medium. Her stomach felt queasy; after what he’d witnessed, he must think her a horrible freak. Breathing deeply, she ignored the prickling sensation burgeoning in her breast and told herself it didn’t matter. But she knew that was a pitiful lie, because it mattered … very, very much.
“It wasn’t as bad as all that,” she said, biting her bottom lip.
“Don’t lie to me, Grace.”
He captured her chin and turned her head toward him. His thumb rubbed over her cheek, and she nearly came undone. He couldn’t touch her that way if he found her disgusting, could he? She leaned into his caress, savoring the unexpected moment.
“I’ve witnessed people in the throes of death more times than I care to admit, and what I saw was real and intense. Answer my question. Is it always like that?”
She shook her head. “Never that bad. I imagine I felt a fraction of their pain and fear, but it consumed me.”
He took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of a medium dying while practicing their craft?”
She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Yes, but it’s rare. Don’t worry. Brother Anselm and I will devise a plan, and you’ll be rid of your evil spirits soon.”
They sat in each other’s company for a few moments without saying a word, and then the bed shifted and his lips brushed over hers.
“Rest now,” he whispered. “I’ll let Poppet know you’re going to be fine. She’s been worried sick. Couldn’t even stomach Cook’s cookies after lunch.”
A smile tugged at Grace’s lips. That was saying something. He made to stand, but she pulled him back down, suddenly loathe to let him go. She was tired, and her head throbbed so thoroughly that she thought she might be sick, but she felt uneasy. “Will you stay with me until Brother Anselm comes back? I don’t wish to be alone.”
“Scoot over.”
She complied, and he lay down, stretching his legs out next to hers on the bed. He folded her against him, and she rested her cheek on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. She felt safe as he threaded his fingers through her hair. Tears sprang to her eyes and overflowed as the weight of the past few days came crashing down on her.
“Why are you crying?” Devlin asked, hugging her close. “Talk to me, Grace. Let me ease your burdens.”
And though she didn’t truly know this man, and ought not to trust him, the offer to unload her burdens on someone other than Brother Anselm was tempting.
She swallowed back her tears and sniffled. “I’m feeling overwhelmed.”
“I imagine so. Even I felt the weight of this morning’s events.”
Grace shook her head. “It’s so much more than that.”
His hands stilled. “Tell me, then.”
And she did. All of it. The pain of discovering that she was a bastard child of Lord Marcus Deveraux. The horrifying truth that her father, or the man she believed to be her father all these years, committed her innocent mother to a mental institution out of spite. And, finally, the true reason Brother Anselm changed her name to Grace. It gushed out of her like a cascading waterfall, crashing into a pool at her feet and leaving her drained.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, and the sadness in his voice spoke volumes.
He felt her pain, and in sharing it, he made her stronger and bolder. No matter what she told him, she sensed he wouldn’t judge her. Perhaps he’d been judged harshly in his lifetime as well. She could well imagine it to be true, for hadn’t she judged him harshly only days ago? The urge to let everything go—to share her greatest fear—finally won over and burst free.
“I’m not certain, but I think I relived my father’s death,” Grace whispered, unable to fathom the truth of her words. “It was terrifying, and brutal. I could sense his fear, feel the cracking of his bones, the strangling pressure on his chest, and taste his blood in my mouth.”
“Grace, stop, please,” he begged. “Don’t think on it anymore.”
His heartbeat hammered in her ear, and he held her a bit tighter, it seemed. Her fear melted away, and she snuggled even closer. He didn’t recoil in disgust at her gift.
“I’ve never connected on such a deep level with a spirit before,” she confessed. “Do you think Josephine wields the power to direct my mind? Or perhaps it is because I share the same blood with Lord Deveraux.”
“I cannot say.” Devlin paused and then buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent as if he wished to assure himself she was really there in his arms. The gesture was so unexpected, and thrilling.
After a great deal of time, he posed a question of his own, but it was spoken so quietly, she struggled to make out the words. “So you believe Josephine exists?”
She wetted her lips and nodded. “My mother believed, and she possessed more talent in her little finger than anyone I’ve ever known.” Grace could no longer deny the truth, as much as she wanted to. “Yes, I believe. And after this morning, I also believe my mother was right about protecting me from the gatekeeper. I’ve no doubt in my mind that Josephine massacred those people, but it was personal with my father. He did something horrible. I can’t explain why, but I could sense his guilt and shame. And regret. Whatever he did, he regretted it in the end.”
“You’re not safe here,” Devlin said.
Something in his tone, a kind of resolve, set her on edge, and she sat up. “I’m safer here than in the village. Willie Jackson will send for the caretaker the moment I return to the priory. Josephine doesn’t know the truth about me—that I’m Lord Deveraux’s illegitimate daughter. My mother made sure of it.”
He wanted to argue the point, she could sense it, but before he had the opportunity to speak, Brother Anselm entered the room. Devlin palmed her cheek before hopping off the bed. “Get some rest, Grace, and we’ll talk later. I leave you in good hands.”
Chapter Thirteen
Devlin glanced over his shoulder as Hatchet and Victor entered the study, their grim expressions mirroring his own. He returned his attention to the statue of Neptune, gazing upon the god of sea and water with a newfound respect for what he watched over. The ballroom far exceeded his expectations—a masterpiece in its own right. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his mind: people would come from far and wide to see its splendor.
Especially his mother.
He’d kept close tabs on her over the years. Tracked the movements of her dearest friends, understood her tastes in fashion, and knew of her passion for maintaining her rank in high society. All he had to do was invite the Duke and Duchess of Wyndover, along with a few other key members of the aristocracy, and if he could secure their favorable response, his mother would come.
But first he needed to rid the mansion of all traces of spirits, or sending invitations would be fruitless. Then he needed Grace to negotiate his bargain with Josephine. Every time he thought of the way Grace had opened up to him, guilt twisted the knife in his gut harder. He wanted to confide in her, trust that she would understand his motivation, but he didn’t dare risk it yet.
He faced his first and second mates, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.
“Tell me what you’ve learned about Grace and her mother since we last spoke,” he said with quiet resolve.
“Good Lord, man,” Victor said. “Will you not first ease our minds and tell us she is well?”
Hatchet glowered at him in equal measure, and Devlin shook his head. She was supposed to be disposable, and instead, the entire household was up in arms over her condition.
“I’ve just come from her room. She’ll be fine.”
The men nodded, and Victor strode to the sideboard. He returned with three drinks and settled himself in an armchair.
“Well?” Devlin asked. “What news do you have for me?” Perhaps it was rude of him to test his best friend’s abilities to ferret around for information this way, since Devlin knew the truth already, but he enjoyed the sport.
Victor took a sip of whiskey and set his glass on the side table. “Beatrice Mitchell wasn’t crazy. That bastard she called husband committed her out of spite.”
Victor’s skills were truly amazing. “Go on,” he encouraged.
His friend’s lips pressed into a grim line, as if he fought to hold back a torrent of expletives. “You were right about one thing; Grace isn’t a Mitchell. She’s the bastard child of Lord Deveraux. Seems the lord of the manor hired Beatrice Mitchell to survey his land and ward off spirits. Only he took a strong liking to her for a long while. She was his mistress until the end. When her husband learned the truth, he went ballistic.”
Pressing his glass to his lips, Devlin forced down a gulp of whiskey, concentrating on the burning path it forged to his gut. He didn’t want to think about Victor’s revelation. Wished to God the man had found out nothing at all in his trip to the village. Because if Victor could dredge up the truth, so could others. Grace was naïve to believe her secret was safe. Unless Devlin took care of the source.
“How did you uncover the truth?”
Hatchet scratched his chin and shrugged. “Get a lot of drink in a man, and he sings like a blue tit. Charles Mitchell was itching for a sympathetic ear. Took a bit of coaxing, but once the dam was open, it poured out like a flood. The who
remonger couldn’t keep his blasted dick in his pants, but he tossed his wife in an institution for her infidelity. And sent the whelp to live with the brothers so she could repent her sins for a lifetime.”
It wasn’t what Devlin wanted to hear. Killing the bastard wouldn’t do a damn bit of good if he’d already bent an ear or two in the past. “Do you think the whole village knows the truth about Grace’s illegitimacy?”
Victor shook his head. “Don’t think so. Despite being a dirty cocksucker, the man has a fierce sense of pride, and it rankled that his wife found her pleasure elsewhere. I’m thinking we are strangers and we got him in a soft moment—all the memories dredged up with the recent events at The Black Serpent.”
“I want him dead before the sun sets,” Devlin said, his eyes piercing Victor’s. He felt no sympathy for his victim or remorse for his command. The man was a worthless piece of offal and a threat to his plans. He wouldn’t take chances, not with Grace’s life. She was innocent in all of this, and yet she’d lost her mother and lived in daily fear of a similar fate, though he never heard her complain. God’s truth, the woman probably still held tender feelings for the bloody blighter she called father.
A twinge of uncertainty wriggled under his skin. How would she feel when she learned of her father’s death and, worse yet, that it had occurred at Devlin’s command? He jumped to his feet, raked his hands through his hair, and cursed under his breath, despising himself for the monster he’d become. Is that what Grace envisioned when she thought of him? The possibility soured his gut.
“Don’t kill him,” he said, balling his hands into fists at his sides. “Beat some fucking sense into him so he’ll think twice before opening his mouth again.”
Victor and Hatchet shared a surprised glance, undoubtedly shocked. He was never indecisive, but that damned woman was wreaking havoc on his conscience. And though he had no doubt his men would carry out his wishes without questioning his motives, he respected them enough to share the truth of what he’d learned from Grace while visiting in her bedroom.
Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) Page 11
