“Nicodimus, nay!” she cried. “It isna–”
Marten bit down hard, and she uttered a sound that was a cry of pain, but she knew it would not seem so to Nicodimus. To her husband. And even as she pulled against Marten’s hands and his mouth, she saw another form–a dark, hooded form–enter behind Nicodimus. Nathanial Dearborne! She cried a warning, but too late. The Dark One moved fast, lifting a blade, and plunging it into Nicodimus’s back.
He sank to his knees. With a sudden desperate push, Arianna finally jerked free of Marten’s embrace, and ran to Nicodimus, falling down beside him. His eyes were already beginning to glaze over.
“Nicodimus, ‘twas an act, all you saw! I vow, ‘twas only a trick!”
“And a fine trick it was, Arianna,” Marten called, his voice tinged with glee. “Our plan to lure him here worked perfectly, wouldn’t you say? You did it so perfectly. You shall be well rewarded.”
Nicodimus shook his head very slightly, his fading eyes holding hers. “How . . . why, Arianna . . . ?” he whispered. And then the light in his eyes died out.
“Nicodimus, nay! Nay! I love you, I vow to the Gods, I do. No one else. Only you!”
But he didn’t hear her. He was beyond her words now. Marten was laughing as he came forward. He said, “Your plan worked perfectly, old man. And I thank you. Now, at last, I shall have the most powerful heart in existence. And I will have vengeance on my dear brother-in-law as well.”
He yanked Arianna by her hair up from where she knelt on the floor. “And for you, my little liar . . . Gods, you know you almost had me believing you.” His fist smashed into her face, and she crumbled to the floor atop Nicodimus. Consciousness fled in a sudden rush of blackness. Gods, if only she would never have to wake again.
Chapter 15
I COULD NOT believe my eyes when I saw her in the arms of another. Not after she’d sworn to me that she would never give herself to any man but me. Not after she had spoken of her love for me so many times. And when I glanced to the side and saw that the man who held her was none other than Marten, I drew my blade. He must die! My mind screamed the command. He had stolen the hearts of innocents and fed on their power for seven long centuries. He and his brother, both determined to kill me, to have their vengeance, had murdered Joseph Lachlan, his entire family and clan. There was nothing they would not do to destroy me.
And nothing they could have done to torment me more than what Marten was doing now. Ravishing Arianna–my wife–right in front of me. My mind exploded in a blinding rage, so white hot I ignored the senses I should have been heeding. And the attack came from behind.
As I lay dying, Marten congratulated my wife on her plan having worked perfectly. I looked up into her eyes, which were wide and afraid. Her entire body trembled as she held together the gaping front of her dress and shook her head slowly from side to side.
It did not fit. The way she looked, simply did not fit with what she had done. But there was no time to ponder that, indeed, no time for anything at all. My time was over. I died as the blood drained from my body, and knew as the light faded that this would be my final death. For the bastard would have my heart this time.
Marten would have my heart . . . or as much of it as Arianna had left for him. For truly, she had the bulk of it. I could feel it bleeding in her small, slender hands.
* * * *
WHEN ARIANNA REGAINED consciousness, it was to see Marten lying dead upon the floor. And farther away, near the door, Dearborne, that frightening old man, was just straightening away from Nicodimus, a bloody, still-beating heart cradled in his palms.
She screamed her husband’s name and raced forward. But the old man only backed away as she hurled herself down upon Nicodimus’s bloody form. The gaping wound in his chest, the scarlet wetness staining his clothes, the utter lifelessness of his body, all of it too terrible to look upon. And there was his dagger, still clutched in his fisted hand.
“Do not be so upset, child. You’re young. You’ll find another,” Nathanial Dearborne rasped.
Rage welled up in her. Rage and violence, and a burning lust for the killer’s heart. “You tricked him,” she whispered. “You and Marten. This entire scheme was created just so you could kill Nicodimus.”
“How very astute of you, Arianna. Yes, indeed, I’ve been planning this for a very long time. I was there, you see, when the brothers learned of their sister’s death, and heard the tales of their brother-in-law, whom they detested, having apparently risen from the dead on a field of battle. It was I who told them the way to gain immortality for themselves. I, who showed them how they might live long enough to have their vengeance. Of course, Marten’ believed Nicodimus’s heart would be his.” He glanced at the dead man. “He had no idea I was only allowing him to do my work for me, nor that I would collect the prize for myself. And his own heart will be my bonus in just a moment. I win,” he said. “I always win.”
Arianna’s fingers inched forward, and she eased the blade from Nicodimus’s dead hand. Then she turned her head slowly. Dearborne had placed her husband’s heart in a small box, and this he dropped into a drawstring sac that hung at his waist. Then he pulled out his blade, already stained with Nicodimus’s blood, and started toward the dead Marten.
“You’re mistaken,” Arianna whispered, straightening to her feet. “You dinna always win. You willna win today.”
Dearborne stopped where he was, facing her, his silver-gray brows lifted high. Then he smiled. “Child, you cannot mean to challenge me. You’re barely a newborn.”
“You’ll nay leave this castle alive, Nathanial Dearborne,” she whispered. And then she charged him.
Nathanial’s eyes narrowed, but he drew his dagger to defend himself. However, he had obviously not expected so furious an attack. Arianna was driven by rage, a fury more powerful than his need for a living heart had ever been. He fought, yes. To preserve his life. She fought for the loss of her love, and there was no power stronger. Her anger seemed to surge from her in waves that sent him staggering. She had no care for her own life, and was so numb that she did not feel the blows he returned. There was nothing, nothing but rage, all of it directed at the old man.
“He died thinkin’ I betrayed him,” she said, panting, slashing with her blade. Tearing through the old man’s robes, and his flesh more than once. “I’ll ne’er have the chance to tell him the truth. An’ all because of you!” She slashed again, slicing his chest clear to the bone.
Gasping, staggering backward, the old man shook his head. For the first time, Arianna saw fear in his eyes. He continued backing away until he reached a heavy chair, then he spun, snatched it up, and threw it at her.
The piece was far heavier than a man of his age should have been able to so much as lift, much less use as a weapon. She hadn’t been expecting it, but should have recalled what Nicodimus had told her about the increased strength and honed senses of immortals. The chair hit her hard, and drove her backward, smashing her into the wall. She shook herself, shoving it away and surging to her feet again, only to find Dearborne gone. He’d fled from her, leaving the door wide open on the carnage he’d left behind.
Gone. And Nicodimus’s heart gone with him. So final. It was so final. Her husband was dead, and the enormity of that was more than she could bear.
A sob was wrenched from her breast as Arianna once again went to her husband. Her fault, she realized. Her fault, all of this. If only she had obeyed him, if only she had stayed safe in the Stone Circle as he’d bade her do. Oh, if only. . . .
But he was gone now. He had explained enough to her so that she knew this. He would not revive. His heart had been taken from him and he was lost to her now. Just as Raven, her sister was lost to her. And just as her dear parents were, as well. Arianna was alone. More alone than she had ever been.
A low moan made her turn fast. Marten! His heart had not been taken, and he moved slightly now. Slowly, he opened his mouth as if to draw a breath—and she recalled that stunning, painful first gas
p she herself had drawn, upon waking from the dead.
She lunged toward him, flipping the dagger in her hand so she held the blade end, and brought the jeweled hilt crashing down on his head.
He did not move again.
He would, though. Unless . . .
Biting her lower lip, she bent over Marten, and with her dead husband’s blade, she sliced through the fabric he wore, baring his chest. She positioned the blade, point down, above his heart, closing both fists ‘round the hilt. Grating her teeth, she closed her eyes tight, and drove the blade deep into his chest.
The body went rigid, and when her eyes flew open wide she saw the blood bubbling forth from around the embedded blade. She saw his eyes bulging, pain burning in them.
Shaking her head slowly, grimacing and trembling, she jerked the blade free of him, and rose, backing away. “I canna,” she whispered. “Gods forgive me, but I canna cut a livin’ heart from a man’s chest!”
Marten slumped back into temporary death, as Arianna fought not to choke or faint. She couldn’t do either of those things. She was immortal. A High Witch, alone in the world. She would need to be strong to survive. She would need to eliminate her weak stomach as well as her soft heart. She would make herself hard and powerful, and no foe would ever take her. No man would ever use her.
But first. . . .
She looked at her husband once more. His face still and relaxed as if he were only sleeping. First she would see he had a proper burial. And it would be in the place he loved best.
The servants had fled. She would have to work on her own. She fetched a silken coverlet, tucked it beneath her arm and went outside to seek a horse and wagon.
SHE’D TRAVELED AN hour, Nicodimus’s lifeless body in the back of the wagon she drove. When she came to a stream, she stopped, and carefully, lovingly, she stripped away his torn, bloodied clothes. Then she bathed him, as much she thought, with her tears as with the cold water. As she did, her gaze fell upon the twin pendants he wore.
With trembling fingers, she lifted one of them, fingering it with sobs all but choking her. He must have found it. He’d had one like it, all along. It must be . . . it must be something worn by High Witches. And he’d donned hers . . . almost as if he’d cared for her after all.
Aye, and he must have, or he wouldn’t have come for her. Died trying to save her from Marten. But she’d made him hate her in the end.
Swallowing her tears, she lifted one of the two pendants from his neck–the one that seemed older, more dulled with age, for it was his–and lowered its chain over her own head. She pressed a kiss to it, and then to her own pendant, which she left upon the body of her beloved.
“Remember me, Nicodimus, wherever you are. And perhaps . . . someday . . . forgive what I did here this day. For I love you. I love you still.”
Tears rolling fresh down her face, she continued bathing her husband’s violated body.
When he lay clean and glistening with droplets, she wrapped his body in the silken coverlet she’d taken. It was a deep blue. A fitting shade, she thought vaguely. A sad color.
When all was finished, she reached for the wagon to pull herself once again into the seat.
“Arianna!”
She turned fast, finally realizing she was not alone, and saw Nidaba thundering toward her on a horse.
“I’ve just come from Kenwick!” she shouted as the mount slid to a hasty stop and Nidaba leapt to the ground. “There was blood everywhere, and no more than a quivering servant to be found. Gods, what happened there?”
Arianna opened her mouth to speak, but found the words would not come. Nidaba gripped her shoulders, shook her. “We were coming for you, Nic and I. He kept ordering me to stay behind, but I refused. Then he slipped away last night while I slept. Damn him for being so protective! He knows full well that I–” She stopped there as her gaze fell upon the silk-wrapped body in the back of the wagon. She fell silent, searching Arianna’s face. “Oh, Gods no. Tell me it is not him,” she begged.
When Arianna still said nothing, Nidaba rushed to the wagon, and pulled the silk away from Nicodimus’s face. “Oh, no,” Nidaba whispered, her voice gone soft and coarse. “Oh, please, no . . . .”
“I am sorry, Nidaba. ‘Twas my fault, truly. Marten . . . and this other immortal, Dearborne, they set a trap for Nicodimus. An’ it worked, just the way they both intended it would. I . . . I–”
“You cost him his life! Damn you, Arianna!”
Arianna lowered her head, unable to deny the charge. “If I could exchange my life for his, I would gladly do it,” she whispered.
Nidaba stepped away from the wagon, and stood facing Arianna. “I ought to kill you myself,” she whispered. Her entire body quivered with rage, her face was snow white and her dark eyes gleamed.
“If you wish,” Arianna said softly. “I’ll nay fight for my life. I ask only that you finish what I’ve begun. Bury him, Nidaba, at the Stone Circle he so loved. An’ if you’ve a hint of mercy in you for me, you’ll lay me to rest beside him there. For I loved him. I love him still.”
“You loved him so much you let him die for you,” she seethed. “The one servant I found blubbered that Nic had burst through the doors to find you in Marten’s arms. Marten, the man who hated Nicodimus above all others! What were you doing with him if you loved your husband so, Arianna?”
Her shoulders slumped, Arianna whispered, “I was bargaining for my freedom. Like any common whore.” Hands trembling, she took the blade she now carried at her side, and held it out to Nidaba. “Use Nicodimus’s dagger,” she said softly. “‘Twill be fittin’, dinna you think?”
Snatching the blade away, Nidaba growled fiercely, and finally lifted it high above her head, and drove it downward, toward Arianna’s chest. Arianna stood motionless, awaiting the blow. But it never came. The blade sank instead, into the wooden side of the wagon just behind her. “Stay clear of me, Arianna Sinclair,” she whispered. “Stay clear of me, for if I see you again, I will kill you!”
Spinning away from her, Nidaba took a step toward her horse, only to fall to her knees. For a long time she remained there, sobbing so hard she scarcely breathed except to mutter “Nicodimus” over and over again, brokenly. She shook all over, and her cries grew louder all the while. Until finally, they abated, and she went utterly silent. It was as if there were nothing left inside her.
“The man who killed my Nic,” she said at last, “You said his name was Dearborne?”
“Aye, Nathanial Dearborne.”
Nidaba nodded. “The same who wanted me brought here as his captive for some sick reason. Well he shall have me then. He shall have me and rue the day he harmed my beloved Nicodimus!”
She lunged to her feet, mounted her horse and rode away at a murderous gallop.
Arianna felt no relief that Nidaba had left her still alive. It would have been easier had the woman simply ended it. Her limbs heavy, like lead weights, she tugged Nicodimus’s dagger from the wood. Then dragged herself into the seat to continue the journey.
She buried Nicodimus in the center of the ancient Stone Circle near the place that had once been her home. She covered his beloved, silk-wrapped body with earth. Then she sat upon his grave, drew his dagger, and grasping a handful of her long, golden hair, began sawing. Lock upon lock fell to the ground around her. And tears upon tears fell with them.
Eventually, she left that place. Left Scotland. Left all she’d known, and began her new life as an immortal High Witch. For the first time, she understood the pain Nicodimus had known so long ago, when he, too, had lost all those he’d loved, only to find that he must live on. No wonder he had been unable to love her. Unwilling to risk his heart that way. She understood now. She knew that she would never love again, either. But for far different reasons.
Oh, she feared the pain, the loss, just as Nicodimus had. She feared it. But it wouldn’t matter if she feared it or not. She was incapable of loving another as she had loved her Nicodimus . . . as she still loved him.
One day, she vowed, she would find Nathanial Dearborne again, and make him pay for what he had done. And one day, perhaps, if her long ago spell had worked, she would find her beloved sister again, as well. That dim hope was the one thing that gave her the strength to keep going.
Until then, she had nothing to do, except prepare. She would learn. To fight, to kill . . . to survive.
Part Two
Chapter 16
ARIANNA SPENT ALMOST two hundred years alone. More utterly alone, she thought, than the last star to fade in the morning. And in that time, she nursed a hatred for Nathanial Dearborne and for Marten, that rivaled the sun for its blazing fury. She didn’t see Nidaba in all that time, and didn’t search for her. The woman hated her with good reason. Besides, seeing her would only be a painful reminder of Nicodimus and the brief, sweet time Arianna had spent with him. In his arms. Loving him, even though he couldn’t return her feelings.
But that was history. She was no longer a seventeen-year-old girl in love. She was different now. She didn’t look the same; she’d kept her hair short and liked it that way. Though perhaps if she looked very deeply, she would find somewhere inside, buried in the deepest part of her being, the notion that she left her hair short in memory of Nicodimus. In some kind of meaningless penance for the long ago mistakes that had cost him his heart.
She didn’t sound the same. The lilt of the highlands had long since faded from her voice. She was hard, solitary, and she spent every moment she could honing her skills with a blade. She fought. She killed. She survived, with one thought foremost in her mind. Someday she would cross paths with Dearborne and Marten again. And when that day came, she would kill them for what they had done.
Eternal Love: The Immortal Witch Series Page 55
