Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse

by Amanda DeWees

  His ward frowned slightly as if perplexed at so vehement a response. “I was merely making a historical allusion,” he said. “I meant no harm by it, I’m sure.”

  His guardian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a liar. You said it because you…”

  But he fell silent without finishing the thought. It was just as well, for I had caught Mr. Lynch’s tensing at the word liar. The conversation might all too quickly become fisticuffs, it seemed to me.

  Mr. Durrington must have felt the same, for he cleared his throat and said in a soothing tone, “Now, Mr. Burleigh, I’m sure your ward wouldn’t lie to you. I think perhaps the strain of your dear mother’s passing may be inclining you toward, shall we say, a heightened state of emotion.”

  This was enhanced, no doubt, by the quantity of wine he had consumed. The lawyer was too tactful to mention that, however, even when my uncle pushed back his chair and stood so abruptly that he had to clutch at the table to keep his balance.

  “I don’t have to listen to any more of this,” he announced, squinting at us each in turn as if he suspected us all of collusion. “I won’t sit here and be insulted at my own table. I just hope you all have more civil tongues in your heads at the funeral tomorrow. If you won’t respect me, the least you can do is show respect for the sorrowful occasion—and for my mother, may God rest her soul.”

  Grabbing the claret decanter from Mrs. Furness, who had stood silently by, he strode unsteadily from the room. His ward observed his exit with an expression that made me wonder whether he felt, as I did, that this behavior might well be significant. Was my uncle merely concerned with presenting a respectable appearance to his neighbors when he tried so hard to dissuade me from attending the obsequies? Or was there a more urgent reason that he wished me elsewhere? His behavior seemed so unstable that I wondered if we should expect some kind of outburst from him.

  The funeral service the next day proceeded smoothly, however. My uncle looked nearly respectable in clean white linen and a suit of sober black, and I surmised that Grigore or Thomas had shaved him and made him presentable. He made no objections to my presence beyond a hostile glare, but even this lessened in intensity over the course of the proceedings. The eulogy struck me as being impersonal and vague, as if the priest either had not known my grandmother well or was deliberately glossing over the incidents of her life in order to cast her in a better light. I realized that I would not have been able to supply him with anything more favorable to say about her, and that, too, depressed me.

  There were few enough people in attendance at the church, and I wondered if that was another reflection of the general movement away from the vicinity toward the towns and cities, or whether the decline in the Burleigh family’s social importance meant that they numbered few acquaintances now who would travel to Coley for a funeral. I could understand why he had hired mourners… who, I was pleased to find, behaved with a reasonable degree of decorum and did not require any correction from Atticus. He remained by my side to give my hand a comforting squeeze at intervals, and I was grateful for his reassuring presence.

  The mausoleum on the Thurnley Hall grounds was a dignified affair of once-white granite, which had sadly been discolored, like the house. Inside there was room for only the priest, my uncle, Mr. Lynch, Atticus, and me. Two candles in wall brackets cast a sickly light, and I let my eyes roam over the inscriptions marking where my progenitors lay while the priest spoke his last words. When he bade us all bow our heads and join him in prayer, our every word echoed from the domed roof, creating a gloomy clamor.

  After all was done and we filed outdoors, the overcast day seemed almost bright compared to the gloom inside the house of the dead. I turned to look back after all of us had exited and found my uncle closing the iron gates that served as doors. The noise was so great it might have been a giant discordant bell.

  Then, to my surprise, he drew a length of chain through the bars and snapped a padlock on it to secure the gates. When he noticed me observing him, he gave an unconvincing smile.

  “So many vandals hereabouts,” he said. “I dare not leave the mausoleum open. If anyone desecrated my mother’s resting place I would never forgive myself.”

  This was the first I had heard of any vandals in the area, and my skepticism must have conveyed itself to my uncle, for he turned and led the way back to the house. I dawdled at the end of the procession, looking back at the locked mausoleum. The chain and padlock seemed to me like my uncle’s final attempt to prevent anyone from examining my grandmother’s body for signs of foul play.

  In the darkness I reached out for something to guide me. My outstretched hands met only stone. The walls on either side of me were rough against my fingertips, and with every step my stocking feet met with the same unforgiving rock. When I reached up, the roof of the passage was just inches above my head. I had no light, no companion, nothing to help me on my way, yet I hurried as fast as I could because somewhere at the end of this passage was Atticus, and he needed me.

  Pebbles skittered under my footsteps, and I winced as the rough surface abraded the soles of my feet through the flimsy protection of my stockings. My fingertips smarted from being drawn across the walls, but I relied on them to tell me which way to walk.

  But now the passage was narrowing. Whereas before my arms could stretch almost to their full length on either side, now I had to draw them in more and more. Soon I was holding them almost straight in front of me.

  With a bump the crown of my head grazed the roof. I bowed my head as my heart began to make quick, anxious thumps in my breast. I forced myself to take one more step, then another. Somehow I must reach Atticus. Richard had a pistol. If I did not reach them in time—

  The rock pressed down, and I crouched like an old woman. Still the passage grew lower, and soon I had to get down on my hands and knees and crawl. My skirt hindered my progress, tangling around my legs until I could have wept in frustration. Then my shoulders snagged against the rock on either side. I struggled to move forward, but the passage was too narrow; I was stuck like a cork in the mouth of a bottle.

  If I could make my way back the way I had come, I thought feverishly, there might be another route, a different way of reaching Atticus. But when I fumbled backward, my heels bumped against stone. There was no way of going back. Frantically I felt ahead of me with my hands in a desperate hope that the passage would widen again, but my fingers encountered nothing but cold stone. I was sealed in.

  Fighting the scream that rose in my throat, I hammered my fists against the unyielding rock until the warm blood trickled over my broken skin. Closer and closer the walls pressed, until I could no longer draw breath, and my lungs burned with the need for air. With a Herculean effort I strained against the encroaching stone, exerting all of my strength…

  …and awoke in bed, gasping for breath.

  My heart was galloping as if it would burst out of my ribcage. Still gulping great mouthfuls of the blessed air, I reached out in the darkness and felt a renewed dart of panic until my hand fell upon the reassuring form of my husband. With a gasp of relief I moved over until I lay beside him, feeling the comforting warmth of his body against mine. When I laid my head on his chest, the tickle of hairs against my cheek made me smile. The soothing, regular rise and fall of his chest and the beating of his heart brought me back to the here and now. I was safe. I was with Atticus.

  Though in the enveloping darkness with the bed curtains closed I might not be able to see him, my body knew the shape of his. The breadth of his shoulders, the round swell of muscle in his arms told me this could be no one but Atticus. This was still novel enough to be faintly miraculous. How astonishing that in so short a time I had become so intimately acquainted with this man that his body felt almost as familiar to me as my own. I could lie with him naked yet completely without shame or nervousness, as if we truly were two halves of one beautiful, inevitable whole.

  Yet less than a year ago I had been a spinster, with no idea that I would ever share m
y bed with a man—let alone that I should like it so well. The Clara of a year ago had slept alone in her narrow bed, and if she woke in the night with a frightening dream she had no one to make her feel safe and protected. Of course, not just any man would have made me feel this way. Only Atticus could have transformed my life—transformed me—like this.

  As if sensing my thoughts, he stirred and gave a sigh. His arms closed around me, and I could feel the words rumble in his chest when he said sleepily, “Clara? Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

  His lips brushed the crown of my head. “I was dreaming I was a knight in the age of chivalry,” he said. His fingertips touched my shoulder, stroked lightly down my arm and back up again. “I was in single combat with another knight. Every now and then I would catch a blow from his sword on my shield, and it would make the most terrific noise.”

  “That doesn’t sound restful.”

  “It wasn’t. Wait—there it is now. It wasn’t in my dream after all.”

  This time I had heard it too: a harsh, metallic sound like a violent blow of metal on metal. It did not sound near, but it was nevertheless distinct. I sat up just as Atticus swung his feet to the floor and parted the curtains. “What do you think it can be?” I asked, as he walked to the window.

  “There’s a light. Not from any of the outbuildings, as far as I can tell.” Then he turned to look at me. “I think it’s coming from the burial ground,” he said.

  That was the last thing I would have expected. “But who would be there at this hour?”

  He reached for his dressing gown and put it on. “I’m going outside to take a look,” he said as he knotted the sash.

  “Wait a moment,” I said, pushing back the bedclothes. “I’ll come with you.”

  Soon the two of us were making our way to the burial ground with outdoor wraps thrown over our quilted dressing gowns to protect us from the chill that was so different from the mild climate of Cornwall. Atticus had his walking stick, which might be useful as a weapon depending on what we found, and I carried a lantern but had not yet needed to light it, since the moon was particularly brilliant. This made it all the more curious that someone would need a light to see by. But then, all depended upon what kind of work was being done… and by whom.

  As we neared the fenced area, we could see a figure at the mausoleum. For an instant I thought it must be my uncle, embarking upon some new and sinister business. Was he attempting to hide something? Quickly, however, it became apparent that the figure was Grigore. No one else of that height and bulk was known to us. The lamp that rested close by him cast a distorted shadow on the granite face of the tomb, imbuing the spectacle with an eerie quality, as if he were an evil troll in some old folk tale.

  Even though the reality was reassuring, the question remained: what possible business could he have at the mausoleum? It baffled me. Had he come to pay his respects in some rite unknown outside Romania?

  As we neared, he grabbed the chain that held the gates fast and yanked it fiercely, as if he were trying to snap it with his bare hands. Then, as we watched, he released it. Stepping back, he picked up an axe and swung it down in a swift arc. The jarring clanging noise rang out, making me start, and I realized he must be trying to break the padlock and get the gates open.

  “Good evening,” Atticus said pleasantly.

  The effect was astonishing. Grigore whirled around at the sound of his voice and gave a short, hoarse cry as he recognized Atticus. He was dressed in his usual garb of smock and trousers, but with a coat of fur skins and a strange garland of white objects around his neck. It was peculiar to see a man of his size and evident strength shrinking before us. He dropped his axe and plunged his hand into a pocket, then made a gesture as if he had retrieved something and thrown it toward us.

  Atticus and I both flinched automatically, and in that instant the manservant took to his heels and ran. Soon he was out of sight.

  At first I could not tell what he had thrown at us, for I had seen and felt nothing. Only a faint patter on the granite stoop of the mausoleum confirmed the presence of something falling to the ground. Bracing himself with one hand on his cane, Atticus stooped and felt around on the stoop.

  “Peppercorns,” he said, and the confusion in his voice mirrored what I felt. “Or some kind of seed. I need better light to be certain.” Rising, he extended his hand to me, and in his palm I could see what looked like beads or tiny pebbles.

  “Is the man mad?” I exclaimed. “Why would he throw such a thing at us?”

  “Lady Telford?” said a new voice some distance away. “Lord Telford? What brings you here at this hour?”

  Victor Lynch was approaching us. Despite the advanced hour, it seemed that he had not yet retired, for he was wearing his caped topcoat over what appeared to be his daytime garb. In the moonlight, which leached all color from the scene, his skin was as pale as marble. He might have been a sculpture that had wandered here from some other graveyard monument.

  As he neared he tipped his hat to us, an incongruous note of formality in the circumstances. “Good evening to you both,” he said, and the pleasant, mild voice was a welcome dose of normality. “Or perhaps I should say good morning.” When he bowed to me I felt a flush of self-consciousness, realizing how I must look with my hair falling loose down my back and wearing my dressing gown beneath my mantle. But he was too polite to take notice of that. Instead he asked, “Was that Grigore who went haring off just now? What was he doing out here?”

  “My wife and I wondered the same thing,” Atticus said. “It was a noise that first caught our attention. He was evidently trying to break the lock or chain with that axe, and the sound woke us.”

  Mr. Lynch bent to retrieve it, but it looked like any ordinary axe as far as I could tell. “I suppose he was trying to get inside the mausoleum,” he said. “Otherwise he would not have needed a lantern, for outdoors the moonlight is quite bright enough to see by.”

  “What could he possibly have intended to do inside?” I wondered. I took up the lantern, which the manservant had left behind in his hurry, and held it out to cast its light around us in search of other clues. I saw nothing at first, but then the glint of the light off metal captured my eye, and I pointed.

  Atticus picked the thing up, but cautiously, for the light gleamed on a sharp, curved edge. “A scythe blade,” he mused. “I don’t see a handle anywhere about. What could he have planned to do with that?”

  “And this,” I said, bending to pick up a half brick that was rough with age but untouched by moss. “I don’t think it can have been here before; we would have seen it when we were all here earlier. And it can’t have fallen from the mausoleum, for it isn’t granite.”

  “Between that and the seeds, it’s a motley enough assortment.” Atticus shook his head in perplexity. “Lynch, you mentioned before that this fellow was a bit… touched, did you say? Is some mania of his at work? I confess I find myself baffled. And he fled from us—well, from me—as if I were death itself.”

  “Seeds?” the other man echoed. “Did I hear you aright?”

  “Yes,” I said. “At least, we believe that’s what they are. He threw them at us just before he took to his heels.” I offered Mr. Lynch the lantern, and he squatted down to observe the tiny objects that were scattered on the stoop. In a moment he straightened, and I was startled to observe that he was smiling. “Do they have some significance to you?” I asked.

  “They do,” he said, and I was surprised at the amusement in his voice. “You recall, sir, how Grigore shrank from you before, calling you a strigoi. I’m afraid that all this is a sign that his fear is stronger than ever. He is convinced that you are a vampire, Lord Telford.”

  “But that’s preposterous!” I cried, my voice rising with indignation. “How can he not see that my husband is the furthest thing on earth from some vicious, bloodsucking demon?”

  “My love, your loyalty is very touching,” Atticus said more qu
ietly, putting his arm around my shoulders, “but perhaps we should avoid waking any more of the household. Lynch, why do you say that?”

  The younger man gestured to the blade of the scythe. “It looks very much to me as though Grigore believes that Mrs. Burleigh was attacked by a vampire and might rise from her coffin. According to the primitive beliefs of men like him, a stone or brick placed in the mouth of the deceased may temper their taste for blood. But if she was still inclined to rise”—he raised the scythe blade, which shone eerily in the moonlight—“this was to be placed across her neck to trap her in her casket.”

  Anger flared in me at the thought of Grigore breaking open my grandmother’s coffin to defile it with these objects of primitive superstition. “My uncle must be told of this,” I said, this time remembering to moderate my tone.

  “Why did he throw the seeds when we drew near?” Atticus asked. “What meaning do they hold?”

  “I suspect he was trying to fend you off,” Mr. Lynch mused. “Some peasant folk believe that vampires are compelled to count things. By throwing a handful of small objects at you, Grigore hoped that he could confine you to this spot long enough to count all of them, giving him time to make good his escape.”

  Atticus sighed. “This must be brought to a halt. He might have done real damage to the mausoleum if we had not happened to notice the disturbance.”

  “Monuments can be mended,” I exclaimed, “but think how gravely he might have injured you if he had chosen a more effective weapon. What if he had decided to use the axe against you, Atticus, or the scythe blade? This man has become a menace.”

  Mr. Lynch nodded heavily, rubbing his chin. His smile had vanished, and with it his mirth. His gentle voice was entirely serious when he said, “Your wife is quite right, Lord Telford. I’ll take these objects into my custody for the night and will escort you to your room. In the morning we must speak to my guardian and tell him that he must take action. Grigore is too dangerous to remain at Thurnley Hall.”