Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse

by Amanda DeWees

  Atticus was holding his own against the giant, but I was not going to make him fight alone. I snatched up a handful of gravel and aimed a stone at Grigore’s head as he advanced on Atticus, and when the bigger man turned his head to look for what had hit him, Atticus delivered a magnificent blow that made Grigore stagger back and lose his balance. He fell heavily to the ground, throwing a hand in front of him as he had done once before. Then he fumbled at the neck of his smock and drew out a cross on a leather thong, holding it up as if it would protect him.

  “Heaven protect me!” he groaned in heavily accented English. “Begone, strigoi!”

  Atticus was breathing hard with exertion, but his stance was confident and he scarcely limped at all as he advanced on the cowering figure. “You idiot,” he said. “There are no such things as vampires.”

  Then, with one more swift blow, he leveled the giant. Grigore lay unconscious on the gravel.

  With a sob of joy and disbelief I ran to Atticus. He caught me in his arms and held me tightly, burying his face in my hair. “Clara,” he whispered. “My dearest love.”

  “I thought you were dead.” I was desperate for the tangible reality of his body against mine, his hair under my hands, his rough beard against my cheek. I ran my hands over his shoulders and chest, reassuring myself that he was truly alive and whole, and gazed up into his face. There were lines of weariness etched in his face, as well as bruises and half-healed places where the skin had been broken, but his dazzling blue eyes and their tender expression were unchanged.

  “You’re really here?” I cried. “I’m not dreaming, I know it, but… if I am, please don’t wake me, Atticus.” I said it again because it gave me such delight to be able to speak his name. “Atticus. My love.”

  The smile that curved his expressive mouth was a sight I had believed I would never see again, and I found my vision blurring with tears as he took my face in his hands. “There’s no need to cry,” he said softly. “This is no dream. We’ll never be parted again.”

  It was his kiss that at last fully convinced me that he was returned to me. At the touch of his lips on mine the grief and fear dissolved, and I was enveloped in a joy too profound for words. After feeling lost for all these dark days, I had found my home again… my haven.

  The sound of voices brought me back to the present. “Don’t try to run off,” came the stern tones of my uncle. “It’s futile to fight any longer, do you hear? Not now that the baron has returned.”

  “You’ve no call to treat me this way,” said Victor petulantly. It was understandable for him to sound put out, for his father held him firmly by one ear, a grip both embarrassing and, to judge by the young man’s fidgeting and glaring, more than a little uncomfortable. His nose streamed with blood where my elbow had struck it, I was gratified to observe. Seeing him so undignified, as if he were a schoolboy caught stealing apples, it was almost possible to forget how much power he had wielded over me and the entire household just minutes before. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” he insisted. “You can’t keep me here against my will.”

  “Until just a short time ago, I was saying much the same thing to you.” My husband’s eyes were steely as he regarded the younger man. “Burleigh, your son has held me prisoner now for more than a week. He slipped me a note to lure me out of the house in the night so that Grigore could abduct me.”

  So it had all been a smooth lie, Victor’s supposed ignorance of what had happened to Atticus. He had even persuaded me to delay our departure from Thurnley so that he could carry out his despicable plan. I had actually pitied him for his loneliness, when he was manipulating me all the while. Even the broken walking stick and the fabric torn from my husband’s waistcoat—which was otherwise intact—had been deliberately planted to make me believe he was dead.

  Rage ignited within me, and I wanted to run at Victor and make him bleed afresh. Instead, I held Atticus close. No revenge was worth parting from him.

  “When I regained consciousness,” he continued, “I found that I was locked in a cellar room. I eventually learned it was located in the ruined wing of the house.”

  “So close by all this time?” I cried, stricken. “I had no idea any part of that wing was still intact. Atticus, I’ll never forgive myself for not searching more thoroughly. To think of you, alone and suffering…”

  “Don’t torment yourself, my love. It was impossible for you to know. When I escaped, I found that the entrance was very carefully disguised with some quite convincing rubble. Besides, I’m certain that Lynch was careful to have Grigore or someone else in his employ guarding it so that he could draw off any searchers who came too close.”

  “The little boy who slipped,” I remembered. “Victor, you sent him to search there deliberately, didn’t you? You knew that if people were in danger of hurting themselves searching the ruins I would call a halt to it. And I played into your hands.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the young man calmly. “Grigore may have found a way to hide out on the property after I told him that my father was throwing him out with not a shilling to his name, and he may well have attacked the baron, but there’s no way to prove that I had anything to do with that.”

  “So you manipulated him into going into hiding and working for you,” I said. “What was the point of that?”

  “He was already planning to take me prisoner,” Atticus said grimly. “He remembered that I had been trained in bare-knuckle fighting, so he needed someone of Grigore’s size and strength to overpower me. Of course, Grigore took some persuading, but armed with enough garlic and holy water, he seemed to find the courage he needed.” He touched one of the scabbed places on his brow. “I owed Grigore a few blows in exchange for those he gave me,” he said with rueful humor. “I daresay we’re closer to even now.”

  “With all due respect, baron, your account makes no sense,” said my uncle. He was looking more sickened and subdued as the plot unfolded, but he evidently felt driven to stand up for his son. “If the boy’s purpose was to elope with your wife, he could have simply lured her away. Why go to the trouble of taking you prisoner and then waiting several days before taking her away from Thurnley?”

  “To study Atticus,” I said, as fragments of memory joined together and the dreadful answer took form in my mind. “Your son is fascinated by monsters, and he suspected that my husband might be one. If not a vampire, as Grigore believed, then something that he could observe and learn from. Is that right?”

  Atticus nodded. “He persists in thinking that my brother actually came back from the dead, though I’ve done my best to disabuse him of the notion, and is obsessed with the idea that my family possesses some kind of secret to immortality. If I did have any kind of supernatural powers, I would certainly have used them to escape.”

  “How did you manage it?” I asked, tightening my arms around him. I felt I could not be sure enough that he was with me again, that he would not be taken from me once more. As if sensing my thoughts, he smiled down at me and pressed his lips to my forehead before he spoke again.

  “Grigore was too cautious, in a way,” he said. “Earlier today when he passed me bread and water through the aperture in the door, he placed a metal crucifix just inside the threshold—to keep me secure, as he thought. It was thin enough that I was able to use it to pry the hinges off the door. I kept out of sight and soon learned that you were a prisoner as well.” He gave my uncle a hard look. “I’m still awaiting an explanation as to why you let that happen, Burleigh.”

  My uncle cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, my boy has a bit of a volatile temperament, don’t you know. I thought a feminine influence might be healthy…”

  “Don’t listen to him,” I said bitterly. “He’s been too intimidated by Victor to stand up to him.”

  “As well he might be,” said the young man. “None of you has yet seen the full extent of my power.”

  The menace in his tone gave me a flicker of doubt. As cowed as he
had looked minutes ago, he seemed to be recovering his resolve—and it might be dangerous to be so confident that he was defeated. But before I could suggest placing him under restraints, he continued, “As for you, Telford, you’ve no proof of any of this. It’s simply your word against mine.”

  “On the contrary,” Atticus said, “I do have proof, which you kindly provided.” Keeping one arm around me, with his other hand he reached into the pocket hidden under the lapel of his waistcoat. “This is the note he sent me,” he said, holding it out for my uncle.

  Victor’s dark eyes flared. “So that’s where you hid it. Only scoundrels have secret pockets, sir.”

  Whether or not that was true, I was thankful I had provided the waistcoat with that extra pocket. My uncle unfolded the paper. “‘Lord Telford, I’ve stumbled upon something that Grigore and my guardian are trying to keep secret, and it may have terrible consequences for your wife,’” he read aloud. “‘Their habit is to meet in the burial grounds in the hour before dawn so as to go unseen about their dark doings. I beg you to come see for yourself. Lynch.’ Pretty clear, I’d say.” Folding the paper, he made as if to place it in the breast pocket of his coat, but Atticus held out his hand for it. “I think it’s time I brought in the authorities,” my uncle said in a voice heavy with regret, yielding the note to him. “I’ve let you go unchecked too long, Victor. It’s time you faced the consequences of your actions.”

  “You would see your own son hauled away in irons like some common criminal?” The young man’s voice was more affronted than frightened, and I was filled with sudden anger that he should act the injured party when he had done so much damage.

  “You are a criminal,” I retorted. “I will make certain you are put on trial for what you’ve done. For the murder of our grandmother, for a start.”

  His dark eyes were reproachful. “You wouldn’t do that to me, Clara,” he said, and his voice had taken on that deceptively gentle quality that had disguised his true nature for so long. “How could you live with yourself if they hanged me because of your testimony?”

  “If you are hanged,” Atticus told him, “it will be no one’s fault but your own. You are the one who killed her. The guilt is yours entirely.”

  A new voice said, “Victor did not kill Mrs. Burleigh.”

  Though the words were quiet, their unexpectedness made me jump. Unnoticed and unheard, Mrs. Furness had joined us. A parcel in her hands suggested that she had been preparing something for the journey that had detained her until now.

  “But he confessed,” I protested, recovering from my surprise. “He told me himself that he did it.” The memory made me hold more tightly to Atticus, who had been at the mercy of that killer for more than a week.

  Mrs. Furness set down the parcel and stood quietly with her hands folded in front of her in her usual docile demeanor, which made her words seem all the more grotesque by contrast. “Victor meant to kill her,” she said calmly. “He choked her until she lost consciousness. I saw it all from the doorway to Mrs. Burleigh’s sitting room, though he did not see me. But after he left the room, she came to.”

  “What?” Victor burst out. “Impossible!”

  “She was hoarse and had difficulty speaking, but it was clear that she remembered what he had tried to do to her—and she was going to tell everyone about it.” She lifted her chin proudly. “I finished the job that he had started. I couldn’t see my boy put away for trying to kill a miserable old lady who was dying already.”

  We all stared, shocked into silence. That she had killed my grandmother with such calculation, and that she could speak so calmly of it, made me feel ill. My uncle’s face had gone the color of putty, and he was regarding the housekeeper with a look so appalled that I knew he had had no knowledge of this.

  Strangely, Victor looked most shaken of all of us. His already pale skin had gone even whiter. “What do you mean by your boy?” he asked in an unsteady voice.

  The housekeeper’s bosom rose as she took a deep breath. “I am your mother,” she said in the same composed manner. “I never intended for you to know, but it seems that the time has come.”

  He recoiled from her. “But you’re a servant!” he exclaimed, and the scorn in his voice made the housekeeper flinch.

  “I can’t change the circumstances of my birth,” she said quietly, “or yours. But I want to help you in every way I can. You can call on me for anything, Victor. I only want your happiness.”

  For a moment he was entirely still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the only sign of his turbulent feelings. Then, wrenching himself out of the grasp of his father, he advanced on her—but the look in his eyes was not gratitude. The housekeeper fell back as he stalked toward her, her first sign of uncertainty.

  “You selfish old slut,” he hissed at her. “You’ve taken everything from me. My identity, my destiny—I was going to be feared. To strike awe into people’s hearts.” He was forcing her down the drive toward where it bridged the river. I wondered if his intention was to scare her off or chivy her away from Thurnley. My uncle hurried after, and Atticus and I followed, with him leaning on me in the absence of his walking stick. “Do you have any idea of the power that was almost mine?” Victor continued, his voice growing shrill. “I was so close to being the complete and perfect monster.”

  “You aren’t a monster, Victor,” she said pleadingly, but his steps did not falter, and she backed away more rapidly. “Don’t you see, that’s what this means: you haven’t committed murder. You don’t have that crime on your soul.”

  “Crime!” His voice rose without warning to a near scream. His eyes were like charred holes in white paper. “That was my single greatest achievement, the apex of my power and magnificence, and you tell me that it was an illusion—that a woman had to finish my work for me because I was too weak to do the job myself!” Before any of us could stop him, his hands shot out and he seized her about the throat. “This time I won’t need anyone to finish my work for me,” he grated.

  “Let her go!” Atticus shouted, and my uncle gave a startled, wavering cry, but it was Grigore who unexpectedly hurtled across the gap to seize Victor.

  I did not know how much he had heard or understood about Victor’s schemes, but he knew enough to recognize that the housekeeper was in danger. The momentum of the impact sent the three of them staggering toward the bridge. He shook Victor by the shoulder, but the young man’s grip did not slacken, and I was horrified to see Mrs. Furness’s face turning dark red and her hands plucking at his fingers in an attempt to loosen his hold.

  “Stop him!” I cried, but Victor stepped back and away from Grigore’s grasp. With a guttural, ominous sound Grigore advanced and brought down a big hand on the slighter man’s shoulder. Victor twisted to throw his hand off.

  If he had not been so determined upon his grisly work, he might have saved himself. If he had only reached out to regain his balance, to clutch Grigore’s arm or hand. But instead, in that instant he lost his balance and fell backward off the bridge, carrying his mother with him. His head struck a rock, and I cried out as he and Mrs. Furness disappeared beneath the surface of the dark, churning water.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  My uncle gave a cry and ran for the riverbank, shouting his son’s name. I could have told him it was futile, but if he had not seen what I had, it was probably more merciful not to tell him of it. But then, perhaps he already knew in his heart that his son was dead and simply wanted to thrust the belief away from him for as long as he could.

  The sound of carriage wheels on the drive gave me all the reason I needed to look away from the swiftly running river. I had expected to see Thomas returning, but instead the coach drawing near was unknown to me. Scarcely had the driver reined in than the door opened and a familiar but unexpected figure came hurtling out.

  “There you are!” Vivi cried, her arms opening wide. She wore a mantle over her traveling dress that disguised her figure, but there was no mistaking those Titian ringlets
and wide blue eyes. “What is the meaning of that strange telegram you sent? And why have you answered none of my letters? I was so anxious that I insisted to George that we must come see you.”

  “Vivi, how glad I am to see you.” I released Atticus long enough to hug my niece, and over her shoulder I saw George Bertram descend from the carriage. Behind him were two men in police uniform, a sight that filled me with relief so acute that my legs almost buckled beneath me.

  “It is a relief to see the two of you as well,” said George, who had overheard my words to Vivi. He reached out his hand, and Atticus shook it heartily. “We’ve been most perplexed about you.”

  “Perplexed and vexed,” Vivi confirmed. “Why, Uncle Atticus, have you decided to grow a beard?” She wrinkled her nose. “It may take me some time to become accustomed to it.”

  Atticus’s laugh sounded rusty, as if he had not used it lately. Indeed, neither of us had had much cause for amusement for many days. He took her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead. “It isn’t a permanent addition,” he said. “I’m touched that the two of you came to seek us out. If you had arrived just a few minutes earlier you could have helped us fight off our captors.”

  “Captors, my lord?” one of the constables inquired. “What exactly has been going on here, sir?”

  Atticus started to speak, then changed his mind and shook his head. “The telling will take some time,” he said. “Perhaps we can save the complete details of our report for tomorrow, after we have had a chance to rest. For now, be sure to take Grigore here into custody.”

  “He has a great deal to answer for,” I confirmed. “In addition to attacking my husband, he conspired with Mr. Lynch to keep us both prisoner. As for my uncle—”

  But an urgent plucking at my elbow stopped my words, and I found that my uncle himself, unobserved, had made his way to me. He drew me aside a few paces.

  “Don’t have them arrest me,” he whispered piteously. “I beg you, niece.”