by Beth Trissel
Head tilted to one side, he considered her with a speculative gleam. “After you, Miss.”
No doubt, this girl figured into his ancestry somewhere. The question was, when did the magic enter into the family? One of these people, unless it was David, must possess a rare gift to pass down to their descendants.
Ignus hadn’t said, but Avery doubted the magic originated with his parents. Who began it all? Did he know for certain?
Everything had its roots somewhere. Even Helen.
Chapter Seven
“Second chamber on the right at the end of the hall.” Head up, back straight, Anne led the way down the passage.
Brave girl. Did she have an inkling of what awaited them? Avery barely refrained from shouting ‘Run for your life!’ She’d rather do just about anything than walk through Helen’s door and would spare Anne if she could.
A glance at Stan confirmed he wore his I’ve steeled myself to enter the gates of Hell face. Avery’s expression probably mirrored his. Who gripped whose arm, wasn’t entirely clear. She held to him, and he maintained a firm grasp on her, while supposedly lending gentlemanly support. Neither of them were risking being torn apart.
Dear God. The moaning coming from the other side of Helen’s door was enough to freak anyone out.
“He never returned to me,” repeated in feverish, bed-tossed tones, tolling like a death knell in Avery’s gut. The same utterance that haunted the Burke household every Christmas Eve must have had its creepola beginning here.
Ignus acted as if approaching the chamber of a potential demonic witch was no biggie. However, he didn’t regard Helen in the same impending apocalyptic manner his companions did.
Avery’s hair practically stood on end beneath her inappropriate-for-the-time-period hat. Chills ran to her toes, curled in the black pumps intended for nineteen eighteen, or thereabout. Maybe the trio should head in that general direction, snag Ignus’ dad if he’d been stranded there, and beat it home before the next breaking Helen wave engulfed them. The bloodcurdling shrieks of a banshee couldn’t outdo her in full cry.
The well-worn expression, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ came to mind. But when had she been scorned?
Despite the incalculable risk Helen presented, Ignus would never agree to leave before they communed with the poor woman. Wrestling with an evil being was a far more likely outcome of the perilous encounter. But they had to see this mission through. Dang it.
The really strange thing, on top of the other abundant weirdness, is they were nearing Ignus’ present-day abode. When he and his mom remodeled, they’d directed workers to tear down the dividing wall between his bedroom and the adjoining room. The combined space formed his private quarters. In this sense, they were advancing on his own door.
Did his ownership of this part of the house give them an edge over Helen? Possibly, if he asserted himself. Big if.
Anne motioned for them to stop a little beyond the fateful room. “Please wait a moment.” Again, the formerly timid soul displayed unexpected boldness in stepping forward and rapping on the door. “Visitors are here for Miss Helen, Ida. Your father requests your presence downstairs. I’ll sit with her after they leave. You may go.”
“Bless you, Anne. Praise God and all the glorious saints in heaven.” On the tail of this muffled outburst, a young woman opened the door and staggered out. She shut the wooden barrier behind her, sagged against it, and closed liquid brown eyes as if to shut out the horrors within.
Anne laid a hand on her shoulder. “Help has come.”
“Yes.” Ida sucked in a shuddering breath. “As you said it would.”
Avery’s ears perked up at this revelation. How on earth had the girl known they would appear?
Smoothing chestnut tendrils with trembling fingers, Ida fluttered her eyelids open and gazed searchingly at the newcomers. “Thank you for coming.” She didn’t add, ‘It’s a nightmare in there,’ but her manner said as much.
Her coloring was similar to Horace’s. Unlike her bear of a father, though, she was petite, her slender figure gowned in green plaid with white lace at her neck and wide sleeves. Small but mighty, Avery suspected. Ida had fight in her.
“Be warned,” she breathed. “My cousin, Helen, is not entirely in her right mind.”
That was putting it mildly.
“It’s the fever. She’s rambling about Mr. Spencer, her beau who fell at Gettysburg. Tragic. It would seem she’ll not tarry long in following him.”
Ignus nodded solemnly. “We understand. I’m your cousin, William Burke. This is Reverenced Guthrie and Miss Dunham.”
“My fiancée,” Stan emphasized, to Ignus’ evident annoyance. Sympathy warmed his blue eyes, and he extended his free hand to Ida. “Our deepest condolences, Miss Burke. May God uphold you in this time of sorrow. We are here to spread some Christmas cheer and assist with your afflicted cousin.”
His innate compassion made Avery think what a comforting minister he’d make, if he really were one.
Ida gave a watery smile and clasped his hand like a drowning woman. “Afflicted is indeed the word, Reverend Guthrie. I fear more than fever may be affecting our Helen.”
“What?”
She glanced down the corridor and returned her tearful gaze to him. “My cousin seems possessed,” she confided in the barest whisper.
Holy crap. Avery barely bit back the totally inappropriate utterance. “How disturbing.”
“Mightily.” The concentration in Stan’s expression reflected the rapid workings of his mind.
“’Twould vex Papa and poor Mrs. Butler if we share our alarming suspicions with them,” Ida whispered.
He frowned. “At the very least. We shall deal with Helen. Do not trouble your father or the grieving widow.”
Avery was a tad troubled herself. Were they prepared to tackle possession? It hadn’t gone well in The Exorcist. Didn’t they need holy water and a wooden stake, or was that for vampires?
“I concur with Reverend Guthrie.” Ignus broke into her conjectures. “Anything else we ought to be aware of before entering the chamber, cousin?”
Hesitancy flitted over Ida’s pale face like clouds scuttling across the moon. She nodded at Anne. “Tell them.”
“There is something.” Secrets shadowed the girl’s hazel gaze and lent her a mysterious appeal.
Again, Avery thought how much could be done to fix her up. The thick ginger-colored curls escaping her cap would be pretty if brushed out and styled. Ida was the obvious daughter of the household and Anne the servant/companion. But Avery sensed a bond between them and they were close in age.
Anne bent near the huddle. “Miss Helen’s beau wouldn’t have returned to her even if he had lived.”
“What?” Avery blurted, likely speaking for the guys.
“It’s true,” Ida affirmed. “Anne will explain.”
A pink flush tinted the girl’s cheeks. “I have been exchanging letters with David Burke for some months now, and he says Mr. Spencer, who fell at Gettysburg, had given his heart to another lady. They were betrothed, though the engagement was not officially announced before his death.”
A thought occurred. “Does Helen know he preferred another?”
Melancholy tinged the apprehension in Ida’s guarded demeanor. “We fear so. This has worsened her emotional state.”
Anger over rejection, viewed as betrayal, combined with grief leading to her death, made Helen the perfect fit for classic white lady lore. Only she was still alive and moaning on the other side of the door. She had to die first, right?
Ignus crimped his lips, then parted them. “Helen is fading and will soon pass. We must guide her to the light.”
His anxious cousin clutched at his coat sleeve. “What about the demon, or whatever it is, trying to take possession of her?”
“We shall banish the entity.” He displayed no doubt.
Lingering reservation clouded Ida’s gaze. She turned to the supposed minister. “Reverend Guthrie?”
He exhaled audibly, probably about as psyched at the prospect of dealing with demon possession as Avery was. “We will do as we must. I advise you to return downstairs. Try not to alarm the family. Anne may remain with us, if she likes.”
“Very well.” Ida dipped her head, the white bows in her hair shining in the lamplight. “She has my complete trust, as do the three of you. What a fortuitous hour for your coming, cousin. I cannot imagine how we would cope with this alone.”
“Nor I. Good evening, Miss Burke.” Ignus bowed, as did Stan, and the ladies bobbed a curtsy.
Good evening traveled the tight circle. An odd exchange, given what they were about to encounter.
Ida gathered her skirts. “Thank you again. My gratitude knows no bounds.” She hastened away, leaving Anne behind.
Stan saluted her. “You are a courageous young woman.”
A curious light glowed in her eyes. “And you are most singular visitors.”
“True.” Ignus probed her gaze, a deeply quizzical expression in his own. “You see what others do not.”
“I always have.”
“Upstairs Anne is remarkably different from the downstairs version,” Stan observed.
She smiled with the intrigue of the Mona Lisa. “Quite. Surprises abound.”
“About ours.” Avery took the soothing lotion and lip balm from her purse and held them out to her. “These will help heal your skin. I wish I had more for you.” She glanced down. “Oh, look. I do.” Mrs. Burke had increased her purse to hold a second bottle of Dr. Holt’s Rose Water Astringent Lotion and another lip balm. She passed them to Anne. “Tuck these in your pockets so the others aren’t suspicious. Heaven knows when you’ll come by this stuff again.”
Wonder in her eyes, the girl turned the bottles over in her chapped hands. “Made in nineteen hundred and eighteen?” She scanned the three of them, pausing on Avery. “You’re from the future, aren’t you?”
She appeared calm for one posing a question normally lumped in with Big Foot and space alien encounters.
“Yes. We are. But a more distant future than the date on the bottles I gave you. We have returned from December, Twenty Seventeen in this same house to battle the evil lurking here.”
Anne nodded slowly. “Your sudden appearance in the hall, strange attire, and the inexplicable presents when goods cannot be obtained… None of these made sense, until now.”
Avery managed a wry smile. “If time travel makes sense, then yes, that accounts for it all. You will keep our secret?”
“She can reveal the truth to David and Ida,” Ignus interjected.
Stan studied him from behind his glasses. “Why that?”
“Because, Miss Anne Phillips will marry Mr. David Burke after the war. She’s my great-great-great grandmother, and rarely gifted. Ida already sees this. No doubt, David also does.”
Astonishment enveloped the small circle.
A pink flush colored Anne’s cheeks. “David and I are sweethearts, I confess, though his father does not yet know. He desires a girl of higher social standing for his only son. Will I truly wed David?”
“If not, I wouldn’t be here,” Ignus pointed out. “And don’t worry, Horace will come round.”
Relief flooded her eyes. “This is why you’re certain David survives the war.”
“I’ve seen the wedding portrait.”
So had Avery, come to think of it. “Very nice.”
One overriding question prodded her. “Wait. You mean, the magic in your family begins with Anne?”
“Don’t you sense it in her?” Ignus asked.
“Yes. I do.”
“So do I,” Stan admitted.
Conviction firmed the soon-to-be family member’s demeanor. She met each of their eyes with her steady gaze, then turned to Ignus. “This is why I must enter the chamber with you. But you should know David is not without gifts.”
“Both of you?” He started to give her a high five and settled for the air. “Awesome. A double whammy passed down through the family. I shall value your intervention with whatever is possessing Helen. Good to have another magical person on board.”
Anne stared hard at him, and gestured at Stan and Avery. “Your friends are also magical persons. Do you not realize?”
Ignus shook his head in confusion. “I suspect I am not entirely myself.”
“Heavens no. You are under an enchantment.” His youthful ancestor was matter-of-fact.
Finally! The truth from someone he’d have to hear.
“Whoever grips Helen has laid this spell on you,” she enlightened him.
Stan gave him his ‘we told you this, like a dozen times,’ look. “The enchantment thing we mentioned, bro. One of your memory lapses.”
“All right.” His gruff tone likely reflected his embarrassment at being called out in front of his future—or was it past—relation.
He curled his fingers around his walking stick. “Take hands. We mustn’t be separated. I’ll go first, then Anne, Avery, and Stan will bring up the rear. We don’t know what lies ahead, so be on your guard.”
Absolutely. “Better to be prepared this time. There’s something I want to get first, and I need a free hand.” Avery dipped into the purse and removed the carved whistle.
Ignus glanced at it with recognition in his eyes, as if sighting something from his childhood. “Mom gave you that? I haven’t seen her use it in years, let alone share.”
“She sure did. This should rev up my wind summoning ability.”
“You slept through an impressive display earlier, Wonder Boy.” Stan picked up the carpet bag.
“Seriously?” He seemed perpetually astonished.
“Sure did, dude. We met the she-devil the four of us are about to face off with and glad for the extra help from Anne if you lapse again. Even if you don’t. Helen’s lots of fun.” Stan grimaced and crooked his arm through Avery’s, leaving her hand free to lift the whistle.
At least they had a fighting chance with her ability, his and Anne’s yet-to-be-determined powers, and the wizard beginning to wake up. Someone, or something, behind that door was in for more of a battle than it expected.
Her stomach churned. The four of them might well be plunging in over their heads but plunge they must.
Ignus turned the knob.
Chapter Eight
Every sense on red alert, Avery entered the sickroom. Phew. One whiff and she wrinkled her nose at the stench of black magic. The herbal sachets and potpourri used to mask unpleasant odors in the confined space failed to disguise a lot of things, but the acrid scent from earlier in the day was unmistakable. Helen, or whoever possessed her, was at work.
Did the others notice?
She darted a glance at Anne to her right, still gripping her hand. The profoundly intuitive girl embodied wariness. On the other side of his youthful ancestor, Ignus sniffed the close air like a dog, his eyes narrowed in scrutiny. She sought Stan on her left, bringing up the rear of their column. His intent gaze told her nothing was getting past him.
Yep. They’d noticed.
Delaying the inevitable up-close Helen encounter, she studied the medicine bottles, some with strange labels, clustered on an oak washstand. A spoon dripping from use rested on a tin plate. Beside the old-fashioned remedies stood a blue and white porcelain pitcher and basin filled with water. Cloths for sponging the feverish young woman were draped over the narrow towel bar. A chamber pot, recently emptied, thank heavens, sat on the wooden floor by the stand.
She shifted her unwilling gaze to the bed where Helen tossed in a white nightgown between relatively clean sheets, apart from the blood spatters. The embroidered comforter on top added color to the modest room lit only by a bedside candle and the fire in the narrow grate. If the invalid chose, she could peer out a pointed Gothic style window at the snowy garden below. This attempt, as well as the leather-bound books stacked beside the candle, seemed beyond her distracted state.
The flickering light illuminated her coffe
e-colored eyes, sparked by fever. Her pale complexion had a waxen sheen. She swept the newcomers with a dismissive glance and fixated on the ceiling. Her thin fingers clutched a handkerchief stained red from coughing, and she picked fretfully at the edge of the comforter. Brownish-black hair fanned the pillow and framed her once lovely oval face, wasted by the ravages of the disease consuming her. The term consumption was vividly portrayed before them. Also known as The White Plague, it gave the sufferer a vampire-like complexion and was the largest killer of the nineteenth century.
The ceaseless moans about him not returning escaped Helen’s reddened lips in gasps, lungs crackling as she labored for each breath. Truly, she was a troubled soul, much to be pitied, and not the force they’d encountered earlier. But that parasitic entity hid somewhere inside this wretched being.
Her condition horrified Avery. “What has she been given for pain?”
Anne nodded at the bottles. “Laudanum, mostly. I cannot say for certain what’s in the patent nostrums.”
“Lord only knows. But I’ve heard of laudanum. Related to morphine, isn’t it?” She shifted her gaze to Stan.
“Yes. Strong stuff. Should knock back the pain.”
Sympathy welled in Avery. “Maybe we should give her some more? And remember, Anne, she’s contagious. Wash your hands and anything that comes in contact with her after leaving this room. Use lots of soap. Cover your face. Wear a mask.”
Ignus sidled impatiently. “She’ll be all right.”
“Maybe because of my caution. Perhaps we were meant to come here and warn her,” Avery asserted.
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “Our primary mission is to free this afflicted woman and see her safely across the divide.”
“She’s passing over soon, judging by the state of her.” Stan kept his voice low and his arm entwined with Avery’s. Apart from him and her, the four each gripped hands. They didn’t dare break the connection between them.
“A little more laudanum would ease her way. You could reach the spoon,” she prompted him. It would mean setting down the carpet bag and pouring a dose, awkward with one hand and their line strung together, but doable.
