The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance)

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  His eyes narrowed, and she braced herself for a blow. He leaned toward her, and the effort it took to restrain himself was clear.

  “Renton, why are you here?”

  “To deliver you both to the count. It’s time you proved you’re worth all the trouble you’ve caused.”

  She realized the door to the wardrobe remained open, and since Renton had been unaffected as he entered, that passageway down should be shock-free.

  If she could get her sister and get past Renton, perhaps there was a chance . . .

  “Marit,” Hazel said in German. “Get up, and come to me. We are leaving.”

  Renton reached behind his back and pulled a long knife from a sheath. He twirled it in his hand as he advanced on her. “What did you say?”

  Hazel imagined Sally’s fear while running from the man, and despite her own rising anxiety, her anger built. “Killing Sally was unnecessary. My uncle would have quietly returned her home.”

  He shook his head. “You’re as stupid as he is. She would have eventually talked. I couldn’t let her go back to England.”

  Hazel took a step toward him. “Who would care for one poor servant girl? She could swear you attacked her, and nobody would lift a finger to look for you!”

  Renton’s eyes suddenly left her face, and his gaze darted over her shoulder. She realized Marit must be moving, and to her surprise, she felt her sister lock hands with her.

  “Bad, bad, bad, bad . . .” Marit chanted under her breath.

  Hazel stepped back with her and angled toward the wardrobe. She had no idea how to protect the both of them, but to her surprise, she realized her Marit-inspired urges for bravery over the past year now strengthened her resolve. They would not die at the hands of that odious man.

  He was huge, and he had a weapon. But this was their only chance. One step, two steps, three steps. She and Marit moved together as he advanced, and Hazel locked her eyes with his, trying to anticipate his moves.

  They were steps away from the open door in the wardrobe when Marit yelled “Run!” and pulled Hazel with her.

  Renton shouted and then snarled, his face red with rage. He grabbed Hazel’s shoulder and nearly took her to the floor. Marit held tight to her other hand and pulled, and, as Renton advanced, Hazel kicked as hard as she could between his legs.

  He bellowed and fell forward, and the tip of his blade caught her cheek, slicing across her skin. His grip on the weapon loosened, though, and she blindly grabbed at it, her hand landing on the edge where the blade met the handle.

  She yanked the knife from his hand, gritting her teeth as the blade cut into her palm. Marit pulled her arm so roughly that Hazel feared it would pop from its socket.

  Renton, still bent double and swearing, caught the edge of her dress just as Marit hauled her into the small space. Hazel quickly scanned the walls, hoping to see a handle that would lower the lift.

  “There!” She shouted and pointed to Marit’s side. Her cheek was on fire, and her hand burned from where she had grasped the knife. Using her good hand, she managed to rip her skirt from Renton’s grasping fingers.

  The door began to slide closed, and Hazel gasped for breath when her head was yanked back. Renton had grabbed her braid and was pulling her back through the closing door.

  She cried out and lifted the blade, and, desperate with fear, sliced through her braid, cutting it completely off.

  Renton stumbled back, and the door closed.

  Sam and Eugene circled the base, until they found a spot where a segment of the thorns appeared to have been disturbed. He looked closer, pulling a Tesla torch from his bag and shining it inside the mass of vegetation.

  “There it is.” He glanced up at the tower, praying that Hazel was safe, but knowing she was not.

  “A trap, perhaps?” Eugene shook his head. “That was a simple search.”

  Sam frowned. “Trap or no, I don’t see another way to do this.” He glanced at Eugene and tried for levity. “And those odds, remember?”

  Eugene lowered the heavy pack he carried and pulled out a long, sheathed knife. He gave Sam a look, and Sam took a large step back. Eugene whacked at the opening in the thorns three times, enough to give Sam room to wriggle through.

  “Thank you,” Sam said, checking his ray gun. “You’ll wait here, and—” He broke off as the thorns rustled and magically filled in again.

  “Bother,” Eugene said dryly. “It appears you will need to be quicker.” Eugene motioned him back and whacked again at the branches.

  This time when they opened, Sam shoved through with an arm over his eyes, wincing as the thorns tore through his coat and caught his neck and chin. He reached the tower and ran his hands along the side. The door was a mechanism that slid open along an interior track. That it was now open a scant five inches was testament to someone’s earlier haste in entering.

  “Not that I’ll complain,” he muttered and grasped the edge, shoving with his might to open it past the gap currently available.

  The thorns filled in behind him, tearing into his back and legs, catching his arms and hands until he was nearly immobile.

  “You must be quick, I said.” Eugene’s voice sounded muffled as he again chopped and hacked with the machete.

  “I was quick,” Sam muttered and winced as a thorn scratched along his arm.

  Eugene shoved his way through and stood next to Sam, who tried to shrug out of his coat, which was caught tight. Eugene pulled on the tower door, trying to slide it open wide enough for Sam to fit through. He finally managed it just as Sam muscled out of his coat.

  The thorns closed behind Eugene, and Sam winced as the sharp needles tore through the ’ton’s clothing down to his exterior covering. The tower was slowly inching away from them, and Sam’s opportunity to dive into the opening was going with it.

  Sam cursed and reached out to Eugene, but the ’ton was quickly trapped by the unnatural thorns and vines.

  Eugene still had use of one arm, which he used to roughly shove Sam into the tower. “Go,” he said as the door began to slide closed. “You are supposedly a surgeon; fix me later.”

  Sam dove into the blackness of the tower as it rotated, and the door slid shut behind him with a loud clang.

  In the resulting darkness, he wondered if he had indeed walked into a trap.

  Marit’s eyes were wide and terrified as the lift descended. Hazel’s legs trembled and threatened to give way, but Marit threw her arms around her and held tight. She said something over and over in Romanian, a constant litany in Hazel’s ear as her breath came in ragged, crying gasps.

  Renton’s roar sounded from high above, even over the sound of the clanging and connecting of the tower’s internal cogs and wheels. Hazel turned to face the door as the car reached the ground and shuddered to a stop.

  She sucked in a deep breath and rubbed her eyes with her sleeves. She clasped Marit’s hand, and holding Renton’s bloodied knife out in front her, she steeled herself to face whatever awaited them on the other side.

  The lift door opened, and Hazel struck swift and hard with the knife.

  “None of that now, Hazel,” Dravor said, wiping the blood from his face with a snow-white handkerchief. The red smear was a stark contrast, and Hazel’s thoughts flitted to Sally, to Renton, to Marit, who still clutched her hand and chanted like a frightened child.

  He pointed at her hand, and she dropped the knife against her will. When she bent to grab it, he pointed again and sent it flying into the tower machinery, which ground it into bent, mangled pieces.

  He ushered Hazel and Marit out of the lift, through an ancient door, which slammed behind them, and then, because they refused to descend the stairs, levitated them down and dropped them roughly to the stone floor of an underground crypt.

  “You ruin lives,” she gritted through her teeth. “I demand to know what you are about
this instant!” Her ragged shout echoed throughout the cold room and circled back.

  “You want to know what I am about.” He folded the handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket and looked down at his coat, where a single, dark stain dribbled down the lapel. Tsking, he removed the coat and set it on a stone lid, under which lay a box that probably contained one of her ancestors.

  “Have you not reasoned it through, yet?” He looked at her in mock sympathy. “Hazel. Do not disappoint me. Not after all of this.”

  Marit gripped tightly to Hazel’s hand. “Healing, healing, healing . . .” she murmured quietly, and Dravor’s brows shot high.

  “Now, that—that is impressive. She should not be able to recognize the time of day. Tell me, did my safeguards against her possible lucidity hold true?”

  Hazel’s eyes blazed. “You mean was she comprehending one moment and attacking me the next?”

  He smiled broadly. “Oh, excellent.”

  “You have us both, now. Release her from . . . whatever this is you’ve done.”

  “I cannot possibly do that. Those two brains working together? Against me? I dare not risk it. All I need is the two of you physically together, and one able to think through the process.” He paused as if only then noticing something. “Where is your hair?”

  “Renton,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Ah. He has always been a bit . . . unpredictable.”

  Hazel wondered if she should stall for time or simply press forward through to whatever end he had planned. She didn’t know where Sam was, and he stood no chance of finding them down here anyway.

  There’s no one coming. It’s just us. The thought ran through her head, and she glanced at Marit, who remained still, glassy-eyed. Hazel amended her thought. It’s just me.

  “Now, do not be glum.” Dravor raised his hand. “What do you know thus far?”

  “You are five hundred years old.”

  He tipped his head. “True, but gauche of you to mention age. What else?”

  “Your stepfather was Vlad the Impaler.”

  “Yes! You’ve done some research.”

  He’s a mage, mage, mage . . . Marit’s singsong voice sounded through Hazel’s head, and a cold realization washed over her. Marit’s voice was in her head, and Petrescu might eventually realize it. She steeled her thoughts, determined to keep the mind-reading gift to herself.

  “You’re a mage,” she said.

  “I am—because of my mother, but also because of the study I did with my father.”

  “Vlad?”

  “He was the only father I ever knew. By the time he married my mother, his impaling days were over.”

  “That did not stop his cruelty, however.”

  His face tightened. “No, it did not.”

  “Why did you study magick with him?”

  “What choice had I? I was a child!”

  “But then you were an adult, with a wife and child. You could have taken them away, left him behind.”

  His eyes flashed. “Why would I leave? With my natural ability and his resources—you have no idea of the power we wielded, the spells we worked together.”

  She looked at him silently, fitting the pieces together. “You were looking for eternal life and used a spell that blended elements of a fossilized creature and a rare plant from central Africa.”

  “Oh, you are excellent.”

  “So why are we here, in the family crypt, and one of us mad?”

  “Because, Vlad tampered with the elixir we created.” His jaw tightened. “The elixir required two different incantations—one from each of us. He did not trust me.”

  “Should he have?”

  “Of course not. I drank it as soon as I could and then ran him through with my sword.”

  Hazel smiled slowly, enjoying the irony in spite of herself. “But he had not spoken his half of the incantation. Not all of it, anyway.”

  Petrescu eyed her, and his fingers twitched. Her throat began to close, and she fought for air. He released her as suddenly as he’d captured her, and she gasped.

  “No, he had not. And although it took him some time to die, he waited until he breathed his very last, gurgling breath before telling me.”

  Her temper flared despite her fear. “I confess, I do find humor in it. And I might remind you that if you choke me to death, I’ll not be able to do whatever it is you require of me.”

  “My time is coming to an end,” he said. “The incomplete elixir granted me five hundred years, but no more. I have searched the world for talismans to prolong my life, but have gained only temporary time.”

  She looked around at the stately, ancient, and eerie stone coffins, visible in flickering torchlight, and her heart began to pound. She reflected on the fundamental elements of spell casting and magicks she’d recently studied. “You need an incantation spoken by one from Vlad’s lineage. But since he died without a direct heir . . . ” She swallowed. “You need him alive again.” Images of Eugene’s notes in her journal flashed through her head, and she felt faint. “You believe we are more than Healers. You believe we are Resurrectionists.”

  He chuckled. “You are Resurrectionists. I created you myself.”

  She clenched her fist until the wound from Renton’s knife throbbed. The surge of her rage that had carried her thus far ebbed, and she feared she would fail after all. After everything. After dragging Sam away from London and straight into this nightmare.

  “What do you mean, you ‘created’ us?”

  “The same elixir that granted eternal life, when altered the slightest bit, and given to a woman carrying an unborn child, will produce a Healer of exceptional powers. That child will be a Resurrectionist.”

  “You gave our mother the elixir.” Hazel narrowed her eyes. “Did you stalk the women of the village until you found one expecting a child?”

  “Don’t be daft. I couldn’t use just anyone. As it happened, Johanna worked in my gardens and thus was in close proximity. She was ill, and I caught her husband attempting to steal medication from my personal laboratory in the castle. I granted him leniency.” He placed a hand on his chest. “I, instead, provided medication that would be much more effective for his pregnant wife. The timing couldn’t have been better, as I had just procured the last of the African plant.”

  “You gave him the elixir.”

  “Indeed. And he gave it to Johanna. Tragically, he died in a hunting accident within a week.”

  “Convenient.”

  “It meant Johanna became my responsibility, of course, much like vassals of old who depended upon the lord of the castle. I told Johanna that I would help her and raise the child as my own. The baby would have a place in the castle to live, my undivided attention—everything a mother could want for her child and more.”

  Hazel finally understood. “But you frightened her.”

  His eyes snapped up to her face. “She had no reason to be frightened. I promised her I would give the child the world.”

  “Except there were two of us.”

  “Except there were two of you. At Johanna’s urging, the midwife spirited you away before I was aware you even existed. She would have given away Marit, as well, but I’d heard Johanna was in delivery and arrived just after your birth but before Marit’s.” He circled around to a stone box on the far end of the room. The lid bore the stone-carved image of a man in peaceful repose, hands clasped in prayer on his chest. Dravor looked at it and rolled his eyes. With a flick of his wrist, the lid flew off and crashed to the ground.

  “In the years that followed, I could not understand why my darling Marit was unable, despite years of training, reading, studying, and exposure to the world’s best learning, to raise even the simplest thing from the dead. Nothing!” He huffed out his irritation. “It was because I required both of you.” He scowled impatiently.
“Come closer!”

  Hazel moved forward reluctantly, and after a step, Marit joined her.

  We are holding the wrong hands, she thought, and wondered if Marit heard her. Our chains must touch.

  Dravor’s head came up sharply. “Are you talking?” he barked.

  Hazel wrinkled her brow, glanced at Marit, and then returned her attention to him as if in confusion.

  He watched them for a moment and then returned his attention to the body in the coffin.

  Hazel and Marit stepped closer, and dread grew in her stomach. She wished desperately for more time to think. “Did you kill Johanna?”

  He frowned, the flickering torchlight casting shadows on his face. Dravor’s eyes narrowed. “It was my herb garden, and descendant or no, she had no right to steal from me.”

  Hazel swallowed. “You knew she was your flesh and blood—and still you killed her?”

  “She looked like my mother. As do both of you.” He sighed. “Besides, a mother’s love is a powerful thing. I couldn’t have her interfering.”

  Hazel thought of the young, frightened woman—her mother. “She was familiar with Light Magick so she may have known you, recognized you.”

  He scoffed. “She couldn’t have known me.”

  “I knew you.”

  He looked at Hazel with narrowed eyes. “You did not.”

  “I did. I knew I had a sister, recognized the pieces of truth you told me. I even felt a . . . kinship . . . with you.” She shook her head and looked away from him. “I wanted . . .”

  “You wanted a father.” The mockery in his tone chased away any remaining traces of sadness.

  She straightened her shoulders and moved forward, pulling Marit with her. “This thing you are doing is dangerous, Dravor. We are Healers, not Resurrectionists, and there are no instructions for this procedure.”

  He smiled. “You forget I have access to your betrothed.”

  “He does not know where we are.” She swallowed.

  “He does. In fact, he is already upstairs as we speak. I heard the lift.”

  Oh, Sam. Hazel’s heart hurt. She’d led him to his doom.