“She is truly lovely, Talan. Almost as radiant as Sophia was before you soiled her. You do remember my sister, yes? You do remember that night when you left the celebrations, when you left me, to go to her bed?”
Wyldelock tried to lift his head but fatigue rendered him immobile. His eyes darted to every visible corner of the room, frantically searching for the source of the taunt. Nothing.
“Ah, brother. It was a pleasure to watch you strut about like a boastful peacock, to listen to your fine rhetoric, to breathe deeply the stench of your impotent seduction. She harbors suspicion, Talan, passed down through generations of madness. But now she holds the reins on this chariot of damnation and I am the steed that will supply your quick delivery into the pit if fire!”
The voice moved from left to right.
“She carries the mark, does she not? You smell it as I do. Now that I have made her acquaintance, Talan, I too find certain yearnings beginning to stir. Soon I shall acquire physicality and when I do, perhaps I shall be the first to pluck that virtuous flower from her womb. Then where would that leave you? As now, squirming to the sensation of failure, knowing your one last chance for redemption has been foiled?”
The laughter erupted again, pounding Wyldelock’s ears as thunder. Fury was once more beginning to constrict the muscle of his arms and legs. “To take her would be incest,” Wyldelock shouted, his shoulders trembling from the cold and the anger. “She is of your blood.”
“Yes!” Spittle sprayed into Wyldelock’s face from a mouth that had no existence. “She is of my blood. And if to unite with her would secure your destruction I will not hesitate.”
“Your hatred of me has blinded you, Dietrick. She is marked for me. You know this to be the truth.”
“Truth? You are not acquainted with the truth, Talan. Sophia slit her own throat once your son took his first breath. My grief prevented me from stabbing a knife through the infant’s heart there and then. The servants, superstitious ignorant peasants, left the child in the woods for the wolves. But it survived, Talan. The only offspring of the many you spawned that actually survived!”
Wyldelock seethed. A son. He had been buried, condemned to sleep, in the dungeon months before the event of birth. Sophia Von Der Weilde had been his last taste of pleasure, and although he knew she carried his child, he never considered with emotion what it would mean to him if the son lived. None of the others did. It was a pattern fate deemed payment for indiscretion. He had accepted this punishment, as long as his powers of seduction remained. Then he was sealed in the pit, Dietrick’s own doing of revenge. Sealed in sleep. Wyldelock believed his sins were paid in full and now he learned of the one child who survived? “You lie, Spirit,” Wyldelock challenged. “Your words are fouled. What proof do you bring that my son lived?”
Dietrick stepped from the air as though merely journeying over a simple threshold.
Wyldelock recoiled in terror, for his ancient friend carried a mighty sword, one which, if pressed into his chest, would open the emptiness within. Its hilt glowed, each of the three claws tipped with rubies. The rubies! The gift Wyldelock had presented to Dietrick as concession! A gift meant to appease spurned affections. They both knew a heart that could not love was empty, filled with nothing but stagnant air. The steel of this sword, the weapon encrusted with the Von Der Weilde crest, could puncture the foul organ, leaving Wyldelock to wither and rot, slowly and with excruciating agony. He inched backwards, cold now numbing his nakedness.
“Fear not. I am but a reflection of light, for my transformation to flesh has not quite been concluded. As much as I would relish thrusting this weapon through your ribs, I must wait, and consider this foreplay. No, brother, I want you to gaze upon the instrument of your only son’s death. It was a task not without trouble but I found him, forty years to the day of his birth. He died, almost to the minute four decades after Sophia bled to death because of you.”
“My son.” Wyldelock’s insides crushed. In the span of seconds he reeled to news of reproduction, and then the thrill was snatched away again with news of murder. “Why? Why take him when you had already broken me?”
“A clean house, Talan. Dust cannot be swept under the rug, no matter how lovely its weave. Dagaz demanded my name, my property, and my daughter. And his magic was increasing. No, Talan, he was too much like his father. He fought well--a gifted swordsman--but alas, it was my ear that witnessed his death rattle. And it was my declaration that sent him into eternal torment.”
A malevolence smirk teased the transparent cheekbone.
“Your son, my nephew, dead by my hand and soon I will ensure you join him in eternal torment. We have Olivia to thank. My blood, generations of enchantment, laying dormant and unscathed, waiting for her to be born. You woke because you smelled Sophia in her blood. And you think you will win her, be her master, grow ever stronger. No, Talan. The call went first to you and then to me. Thanks to the suffering of generations of those with the mark this curse on my descendants will finally come to an end. I will thrust my sword into that putrid mass of stench you call a heart and then Olivia will be mine. She will be my slave.”
He tipped his chin and laughed. Dietrick dissolved taking the mocking laughter with him, dimming into the darkness that had crowded into the hallway.
Wyldelock shuddered. Dagaz. His son, murdered, all because of Dietrick’s hatred. Sophia, dead by her own hand, his son, dead from the sword his old friend had carried, their existence ruined. And now he meant to grow stronger, ruin Wyldelock, enslave Olivia. History could not be allowed to be repeated. Dietrick had to be stopped.
He had to lay with Olivia, and soon. Soon Dietrick would have substance, the sting of the sword real. The Von Der Weilde sword. The curse. Dagaz had claimed his rightful inheritance--he was the one who had initiated the curse--the family who scorned his existence was marked. The first born of each generation carried the bird of prey’s talons, doomed to die at the age of forty. Wyldelock took courage. His son had been a great sorcerer to inflict such damnation. This was all the proof Wyldelock needed to know his son had breathed and worked such prominent powers.
Olivia had that mark. She was the gift sent to Wyldelock from his son. And he would accept that gift, rescue her and condemn the others.
He had much to do. Wyldelock crawled to his feet, raising his arms, lifting his face to the expanse of the night sky. “I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft. I will survive.”
Chapter Five
Burdock, a weed needing no care, flourished well along the side of the house, while chamomile, dill, elderberry, hyssop, parsley, and sage were a few that made up the herbs in Gran’s garden that Olivia loved to tend. Pleasant teas and flavoring for food Olivia believed to be their most important function. Mystical functions had roots that wound deeply into folklore. Attending the garden, digging her hands into the earth, being close to nature, all was far more favorable an aspect than reaping a crop for magical purposes. Still, for as long as Olivia could remember, her grandmother had looked forward to late spring, seeing the garden begin to show signs of rebirth. It had become a delightful habit, a place to go to collect thoughts, and Olivia needed now, more than any previous spring, to collect those thoughts.
It seemed the Keep was as haunted by madness now that it was lived in as when it echoed with nothing more than the cold Atlantic wind. And no less perilous. Olivia ran the events of her visit, over and over, through her mind. So many beautiful antiques, the warmth of the fires, the tastefulness of decoration, and a debonair collector who treasured it all with gleaming pride. No ordinary building. Certainly no ordinary keeper. How could he exist there without being touched by its individuality? And why such profound illusions?
Paintings were not permitted to move. Unwritten laws of normality forbade it to be. Like photographs they were snapshots of time, meant to remain motionless within their prisons, to be observed, not to interact. Their voices were meant to speak to an observer through the talent of the creator, and then only to those who h
ad the zeal to see the subtle flows of light and color and interpret beauty in subjective appraisal. It had to be madness if the image turned, or wept, or reached out for attention. Or changed completely and begged assistance.
Olivia patted the warm earth around the small sprouts near her knees and sighed. Her eyes had told her what her mind insisted impossible. If this was the case, then she suffered ill will. Why would he create such confusion? Everything about him was eerily daunting--his attire, his speech, his unusual handsomeness--all so attractive. Regardless of this talk of destiny she had forbidden herself from ever seeking his company. Even that would be difficult, seeing he had taken a stance as owner, and the house was so close by. Worse, his affections had been issued with such gravity. Would her hasty escape mean he would suddenly submit to defeat? Olivia had little doubt William Talbot would enter her life again. She would have to be direct with him. He had damaged her integrity with his hurried advances. Careless men. They were all cut from the same mold.
So why did she mourn the failure? Why did her heart ache as never before?
A tow truck had backed into the yard. Mother fretted as their car was hitched onto the back and driven away. She watched the derelict being taken and then slowly made her way to the edge of the garden. “Transmission,” she said, crouching beside Olivia, absently pulling at a few weeds. “I guess we’ll be eating porridge for awhile.”
“We’ll manage,” Olivia encouraged. “We always have, we always will.”
“Whatever the cost, we need a car. Especially if an emergency arose.” Mother had a far away look in her eyes. “Your dad was great at fixing things,” she said sadly. “I miss him so much.”
Olivia felt a tug at her heart. “Me, too.” It had been so unjust, a man in his prime, being eaten by a disease that had aggressively sucked out his life. Six years had passed and Olivia sensed her mother still mourned. It had taken many years for Olivia to get over being angry--angry at her father for becoming sick, angry over how delicate the human body could be, angry at fate for casting such a dark cloud over their lives. That had been such a difficult period for all of them. In many ways they would never recover. But life went on and they had to be brave, for each other.
“How did you know when you were in love?” Olivia asked, hoping a brighter memory would lighten their moods.
“I just knew,” Mother said, smiling. “He was so handsome and witty and such fun to be with. When I was with him he made me feel as though I were the only woman in the world. And when we were apart, all I could do was think of him, and count the minutes till we were together again.”
“Sounds romantic,” Olivia mumbled.
“He was that and so much more. Ours was a whirlwind courtship. We were married shortly after we met.”
Olivia shot her mother a hard stare. “Why was that?” she teased, knowing full well what the answer was.
Mother flushed. “You’re embarrassing me,” she said. “So it was a shotgun wedding.” She laughed. “Didn’t mean we felt any less about each other.”
“You didn’t regret it then?” Olivia proceeded with caution. “Getting pregnant with me, I mean.”
“Not for one second. We were delighted. You were our bundle of joy. You still are.” Mother startled. “Ollie, you’re not pregnant are you?”
“No!” Olivia admonished. “I am not.” She went back to digging into the earth, with more ferocity than needed.
“Honey,” Mother said. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“No.”
Mother didn’t let go, however. She had teeth of curiosity firmly planted into the subject, and slid closer, peering into Olivia’s face. “You were home early last night. How did your evening with Mr. Talbot go?”
“It didn’t go, so don’t bother quizzing me.”
“Oh, I see.”
Olivia wanted to talk however. She rubbed her dirty palms on her jeans and sighed in discouragement. “Why is it they only want one thing?”
Mother’s brow shot up with surprise. “What might that be?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Olivia scolded. “Not that I’ve gone on many dates but the ones I had all seem to think with a one track mind.” She hoped her mother would understand without going into greater detail.
“It’s their nature I suppose. Am I right in supposing our new neighbor tried to get overly friendly?” She pinched her lips together to keep from grinning.
“This isn’t funny.” Olivia felt like screaming. A great ball of frustration pulled so tightly in her chest that if it popped she was certain it’d fling her into outer space.
“I take it then you weren’t impressed.”
“That’s part of the problem,” she confessed. “I was very impressed. But he ruined the whole evening.”
“What happened?”
“He scared me, Mother. I heard voices, when there shouldn’t have been voices. And he had a painting that shifted before my eyes. There’s something terribly wrong about him.”
They sat quietly a moment. “Ollie, what were you drinking?”
“Oh, for goodness sake. I had one glass of wine. I don’t think that would cause me to hallucinate.”
“It might if it was red wine,” Mother said with a hint of unease. “Sweetheart, you’re allergic to red wine.”
Olivia’s heart dropped.
“Don’t you remember that Christmas your dad decided to have lamb instead of turkey? He brought home a lovely bottle of red wine and thought you’d be old enough to have one glass. For the whole afternoon you kept rushing to the window to tell us that Santa was right outside. We got a great laugh out of that till we realized what happened. After Dr. Philips gave us a lecture on underage drinking he told us about your allergy.”
If Olivia hadn’t felt so foolish she would laughed. “Oh, Mother,” she bemoaned. “I had forgotten.”
“So I guess this means you owe Mr. Talbot an apology.”
“Not quite,” she snapped. “He still tried to put the moves on me. A gentleman wouldn’t have done that.”
“Don’t give up on him yet,” Mother said, getting to her feet. “Unless of course you don’t like his company.”
To justify her humiliation over forgotten allergies Olivia clung firmly to her damaged sensitivities, that his advances were not the actions of a gentleman. She touched her throat, remembering the kiss, so real and tender, and her embarrassment deepened when recalling her reaction to the kiss. She had wanted him to make an advance, from the minute he opened the door and issued invitation, and worse still, she had thoroughly enjoyed the prospect of being seduced. When she had turned to find the touch wasn’t real, he immediately read her disappointment. “He staged that little performance on purpose,” she muttered in disgust. “He was playing tricks on my mind. He’s like every other man on the face of this earth except for a talented use of illusion and charm. Well, that thick creamy tongue isn’t going to get me to....”
Mother stood, her brow raised in amused shock. “Go on,” she said. “Isn’t going to get you to do what?”
“How could he do something like that? I mean, I was so sure he was right there behind me. He even kissed my neck, and when I turned around he was sitting on the couch.”
“Ollie--red wine--remember?”
“No,” Olivia mumbled, playing the incident over and over through her head, like an investigator watching a crime scene video. “No, Mother. More than wine. Poison.” Divination. William Talbot was an expert magician. She was ready to say so when a noise caught their attention.
A sleek black car rolled into the drive. The driver got out, an older man, immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit.
“Oh-oh,” Mother said under her breath. “I hope we’re not being audited. That’s the last thing we need.”
“Good morning, ladies. Terribly sorry to intrude but I was wondering if you could help me. I want to get out to the lighthouse to take some pictures and this seems to be the only accessible drive. Are you the owners?”
“No,” Mother said. “We’re not. The property has recently been sold.” Ever shrewd, Mother gave away no more information than was needed, especially to strangers.
“This is the only road?” he asked, not giving up easily on his mission. He looked troubled that the drive, unkempt and rutted, might disagree with his sports car. “I’ll tell you why I ask,” he continued, his voice jerking in excitement. “I’m here from England, doing research on lighthouses along the coast. To confess, it’s actually the ghosts who haunt the lighthouses I’m interested in. Imagine.” He chuckled, winding his fingers into each other. “All the ghosts we reputably have in England and my editor sends me here. Selling coals to Newcastle.”
Olivia was charmed. She loved the soft vowel sounds of the English. One of her professors had been from London and it was her favorite class. Often she listened to the musical tones of his voice rather than the content and had to shake herself to attention to scribble notes.
“A ghost hunter. My, my,” Mother said, winking privately to Olivia. “We haven’t seen one of those around here before, have we Ollie? Well, Mr....?”
“Fillmore,” he said, warmly shaking mother’s hand. “Stephen Fillmore.”
“Well, Mr. Fillmore, you’ll have to discuss photography and the permission thereof with the owner. Leave your car here if you want to walk. It’s only about half a mile or so.” She stole a quick look to his polished shoes. “Don’t expect to come back without getting those roughed up a little. If you’ll pardon me, I must get to work. Ollie will be able to answer some of your questions I’m sure. Good-bye then.”
Olivia scowled. Not what she wanted to spend the morning doing, but protocol left her being as polite as possible, considering her wish to simply be left alone to sort through a mass of confusing feelings.
He seemed innocuous enough. His hair must once have been very dark but now it was peppered with gray, as was his manicured moustache and beard. Deep lines fanned his eyes. It all denoted an age that his agile frame contradicted. “Half a mile is it?” he said, glancing over the wide lawn. “I’m frightfully unprepared. Silly of me. I should have known.” His eyes returned to Olivia and she felt a glint of predator in his gaze. “The building associated with the lighthouse, it’s called Byrne’s Keep, isn’t it? For the owner, Horace Byrne?”
The Sorcerers Mark Page 9
