Mists of Midnight

by Pillow Michelle M.

  “Nay,” he commanded harshly with a slash of his hand. “Do not even think it!”

  “Josiah,” she pleaded softly. “Please—”

  “Nay, m’lady,” he began only to stop and clutch his chest. The gaping hole over his heart began to open and seep. Josiah fell to his knees. Margaret froze in terror. Her lips worked as if she would speak. No sound escaped her. Shaking, she went to him. She tried to run her fingers into his hair. He pushed her back. Through blue lips he ordered her hoarsely, “Run!”

  “I won’t leave you,” she denied in agitation.

  “He is coming,” gasped Josiah. Falling onto his back, he writhed in agony. His body thrashed violently upon the dirt. His muscles strained with each striking blow his body dealt itself. In a wheezing groan, he uttered, “Margaret.”

  Margaret still could not run. She watched in helpless tears as the man she loved folded in on himself. She could see the death coming to his pallid features. The fine mist invaded the daylight, curling like a smoking fire. Drawing near him, she grabbed his hand tightly. Through her tears, she whispered, “I will never leave you.”

  “Go!” Josiah agonized over the bittersweet joy of her words. He drank in her comfort, but could not endure losing her to save himself. His dark eyes filled with pain, looking past her head. Feebly, he gasped, “Margaret… ’tis too late. He is here.”

  * * * *

  Imogen paused, taking a deep breath as she faced the line of trees. Leaning over, she patted her mare’s tan coat. She rode bareback. It was the way she preferred, and if she ever were to have an accident, it would be on one of her wild rides of anger.

  The mare became skittish. It pawed the ground as she slowly directed it into the trees. The animal’s head nodded in agitation, pulling against its reins. Imogen did not let the beast turn back. Nudging it in the side, she forced the horse slowly forward.

  As she crossed over the threshold leading to the stream a fine mist showered down from the sky like falling snow, coming over her like a blanket, making the pathway instantly fogged. Imogen swung her arm before her, trying to clear the air and see where the mare instinctively led her.

  Without warning the horse sped up. Imogen pulled frantically on the reins. The mare ran faster, its hooves pounding a hectic rhythm on the ground. Her heartbeat sped to thunder in her ears, the only sound in the deafening mist. She had wanted to take the journey steady and slow. The mare did not let her. Falling forward, she lost the thin straps of leather and was forced to grab the animal’s mane to keep from tumbling off the horse’s back.

  Suddenly, the horse’s hooves skidded to a nervous stop. Before her eyes the mist grew. It expanded and thickened until she could not see the trees in front of her. The pathway disappeared, claiming her feet with it.

  Imogen felt as if she was possessed. Her body acted on instinct, pulled through frantic motions like a puppet. Her eyes rounded in terror. Her head snapped to one side and then another, slapped by a will outside her mind. The trees faded completely. The water grew louder until she could not tell from which direction it came. She was lost and she could not move on her own.

  The palfrey turned around as she led it with possessed hands. It was urged to move forward by an unseen force. At first the mare resisted, pawing the ground. However, the urge to run became strong and the mare took off.

  Imogen grabbed its mane tightly. Suddenly, her possession lifted and she could again control her arms. She lay down close to the horse’s tan back, willing it to sprint home. She changed her mind. She didn’t want to discover what she had come for. She could feel that she wasn’t alone anymore.

  The fog thickened, growing heavily on her limbs. The horse’s movements were slow and cautious as she hugged it. The animal’s ears twitched to attention. Its head bobbed in nervous agitation.

  Imogen trembled. The flesh on her neck prickled. She hugged closer to the wary mare. She could feel the animal’s hot, sweaty flesh pressing into her gown. As they moved, she watched the white fog, willing her eyes to detect anything familiar. A tree limb passed close to her face. She jolted in surprise.

  And then she heard singing, the sweet song of a child’s voice ringing as if in play. But the melody was haunted and hard, despite its joyful laughter. It echoed in the trees. At first it was behind her, running through the mist. But as the horse moved faster, it was beside her, keeping pace with the swift mare.

  “Play,” she heard the childlike whisper near her ear.

  “Margaret!” Imogen screamed fearfully. She could hear the tone of the child’s voice. Tears poured over Imogen’s cheeks. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in panic. The singing came from her side, growing louder. The fog became so dense she couldn’t see her hands on the mane.

  “Play,” the voice again, demanding and hard.

  “Margaret?” Imogen’s limbs shook. She was too afraid to move from the comfort of the horse’s expanding lungs. She could feel the mare shake and jolt with each ring of laugher, each start of an eerie ballad. “What are you doing here? Go home! Go to your father! Run! It isn’t safe here!”

  Suddenly, the laughing turned to tears. The mist seemed to press into Imogen’s skin. She breathed it into her lungs like the smoke from a fire. Her skin burned. Coughing, she wheezed for air. Almost instantly, perspiration dotted her shaking skin. The horse neighed in protest. Her fingers released the mane as they reached to pry at her throat. She was being choked by fear. Tearing at her neckline, she fought for breath.

  “I want to play with you,” called Margaret with a sulk in her voice. The sounds of her words were hollow, garbled by a roaring Imogen recognized as fire. She had heard it when Margaret died in her arms. Imogen coughed harder, desperate to get out of the fog. Sweetly, the voice called, “Are you my mother? Are you the girl from my bedchamber?”

  “No!” Imogen screamed. She kicked her horse in the ribs, urging it forward, not caring if she was still within the trees, not caring to discover what else was in the forest. She could feel a dark presence with her, taunting her, screaming for her. Desperately, she urged, “Margaret, run, find Josiah!”

  The horse began to gallop. Imogen saw a hand shoot out from the fog trying to stop her. The masculine fingers reached for the horse’s reins. It was the hand of a man, pale and strained and strong. She saw the ruffling of a shirt.

  “Dougal!” Imogen screamed, reaching for him. Her fingers darted out, but the mare was too fast. Dougal’s hand disappeared behind her. The horse pulled violently. Imogen reached for the reins, sitting up in the seat as she felt for them. She glanced behind for Dougal. There was nothing but mist all around.

  With a frightened sigh, she righted herself. They had to be nearing the end of the trail. Her fingers found the mane, but as she looked forward, a branch materialized out of the fog. Imogen’s eyes didn’t have time to focus. The thick limb struck her across the forehead, knocking her back with a sharp crack. Blood filled her mouth, choking her. Her eyes filled with blackness. Her head hit the jolting movements of the galloping rump, her feet loosened their hold and she flipped off the back of the horse to the ground. As her head struck the earth the blackness faded and the white mist turned to an enveloping bright light.

  Imogen lay stunned on the ground. Her temple throbbed violently. She could not move her limbs. She was frozen. Only her lungs appeared to function as she clamored nosily for breath. She no longer felt choked as the mist dissipated and cleared.

  “Get up!”

  Imogen heard her name coming from the side. Blinking slowly to clear her eyes, she glanced around the blinding light. The light faded and dimmed until she saw she was lying on the forest floor, surrounded by the normal look of trees. It was as if the mist had not been there at all.

  “Hurry,” urged the voice again. Imogen saw Margaret lean over her. “Get up, before he comes for you. Go!”

  Imogen tried to speak. She couldn’t. Her head throbbed with liquid fire. Her body burned and ached, and her neck felt as if it had been snapped. She c
ouldn’t move.

  Margaret looked down the path. Imogen realized her horse was gone. The animal had continued on without her. Margaret grew panicked. Agitating her hands, she began to fade.

  “Get up now!” the girl screamed in terror as she vanished.

  Imogen twitched, imagining how scared she must have been to see such a thing. She lay, looking up at the trees, wondering what was to happen next. She twitched her little finger, discovered the feeling slowly coming back to her hands.

  From behind her head, she heard the crunching of footsteps on the forest floor. Imogen sighed with relief, sure she was to be rescued. The footfalls grew louder. She heard a dark chuckling behind her head. Imogen choked on her terror. She couldn’t see the man who laughed, but she had a feeling she knew who it might be. The creepiness of his tone washed over her, making her skin prickle with apprehension.

  Suddenly, a malevolent beast was above her—snarling viciously. Imogen willed herself into the ground as the dog neared her face. She recognized the animal from Margaret’s room. It could only mean the master was with him.

  Does the demon come for me as he did Margaret? she wondered in horror.

  Imogen blinked, unable to turn her head away as the dog’s foul breath wafted into her nose. The mist grew from his nostrils, smothering the air from her lungs. Her throat worked, strangling in protest when she couldn’t scream. Her blood sped through her veins, racing her pulse like the rushing of floodwaters. The heated fog coming from the dog’s bark hit her skin in blistering surges. Appallingly long fangs bit through the air, inches from her nose. Spit flew from its mouth, splattering her face until it was wet with the foul, syrupy liquid.

  And still, Imogen couldn’t move, couldn’t lift more than the tips of her fingers to fight the beast off. All she could do was lie still as the animal decided whether or not to devour her.

  Her lips trembled, but there was no voice in her would-be terrified screams. She couldn’t yell.

  “Back,” she heard in a demonic growl. The dog did not listen.

  The dog’s dark eyes began to radiate a fiery red and orange. Looking into the barren depths, Imogen could see a black eternity within the animal’s deadly gaze. He wanted to devour her soul. She felt herself being pulled into the void. She felt the pain of eternal worlds colliding. She felt the death of millions living forever within the fiendish beast. It was not a dog that stood above her. It was a demon, a portal into hell.

  And within the demonic eyes she saw what death really was, what torment and anguish could be. The beast had no mercy, no feeling or heart. He exploited every fear of his victim, used it, magnified it, and fed off it until the soul was drained completely into nothingness.

  Imogen’s heart pounded loudly in fear, ringing in her head as her eardrums began to bleed with the loudness of the barks. Blood trickled from her ears, her throat, her nose, her eyes, pouring over her, mixing with the animal’s slobber. The beast wanted her. It had come to scoop up her soul and she knew that she would not be able to resist it. He wanted her to join in the agony.

  Imogen coughed in protest, the force pushing her shoulders from the ground in a shallow jerk. It was a faint sound, but it drew the beast back. Her body was trying to hold onto life. The pain was unbearable.

  “Back,” the dog’s commander ordered viciously. The animal crouched away. It’s low snarl indicating its displeasure at being so dictated. She felt the coolness of air bathing her skin, drying the saliva from her flesh.

  Imogen saw the demon knight before her, his face hid from view by his helmet. His eyes were swallowed up by blackness, and though she could not see it, she felt as if he smiled at her. There was no joy in his pleasure as he leaned closer to her face.

  “Where is the child?” he asked. His tone rumbled as if impeded by gravel. A gauntlet clad hand reached to touch her cheek in a caress that belied tenderness.

  “No,” Imogen uttered, barely able to wheeze the words. “You… to kill me first.

  The man chuckled, unamused by her show of bravery.

  “Do not fret little one,” he whispered. Lifting his fingers to his nose, he smelled her blood. The black, soulless gaze glossed over until it shone like polished metal. “I will come for you soon enough, when you are ready. But right now I want the girl. Where is she?”

  “I do… not… know,” gasped Imogen. She felt some of her strength returning. But, even in her strongest days, aided by the use of numerous weapons, she could not have thwarted the creature before her.

  “Then that is too bad for you,” growled the demon. His gauntlet hand slipped beneath her head to lift her broken body up to his face. He pressed himself next to her cheek. She felt the spiked plates of his helmet against her skin, scratching her as he spoke. Imogen moaned as she felt herself sucked into the bewitching spell of his heated body. Within his hold there was no escape.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dougal frowned. He looked out into the gold-tinted garden. The sun had journeyed over the blue sky, working its way toward a gentle evening. He could not see Margaret. He waited as he willed her to emerge from the spots in the pathways hidden from his view.

  Loath to leave the library in case Imogen came back, Dougal reminded himself that Margaret was changed from the child he knew. She looked the same, down to each dimple and fluttering eyelash, but inside she was grown. He had noticed it the moment he sat her down to talk.

  Sighing resolutely against the windowpane, Dougal turned and grabbed his jacket off the nearby chair. He couldn’t abide waiting much longer. Imogen had been gone to the forest nearly an hour and his daughter a bit longer than that. His first impulse had been to run after Margaret and scold her, but he knew that she would not take kindly to his treating her like a child, as she had been kind enough to point out to him when he had tried. He had almost forbade her from leaving his side, until she laughed playfully and told him not to be foolish.

  “I have lived in this world longer than you.” Margaret had chuckled impishly. “And I know more of it than you. I will come back to you with the dusk.”

  Reluctantly, Dougal had agreed, not being given a choice to do aught else as she had faded from sight.

  Knowing Margaret should be able to find him anywhere, Dougal determined to walk to the forest in search of Imogen. She had been gone far too long.

  Reaching for the library door, he pulled it open as he shrugged his jacket onto his shoulders. Looking up, he gasped. Imogen stood before him silently, staring at where the doorknob had been. He wondered how long she had been there.

  “Imogen,” Dougal said.

  Imogen blinked at the sound. Her eyes moved to his face, staring blindly at him. She knew he was there, she looked at him, her gaze traveled his familiar features, but she didn’t really see him—couldn’t comprehend what he was doing before her.

  “Imogen?” This time there was panic in Dougal’s insistent tone. His fingers hesitated on their journey to her face.

  Oh no, he thought to himself. I have pushed her too far.

  Dougal’s face slowly swam before Imogen’s eyes. Her body ached bitterly from her fall. Her mind ached from the probing of the strange man’s eyes. But, even as she thought of it, the distinct lines of the man’s face blurred as Dougal’s cleared.

  Flinching as Dougal moved to touch her, she leaned back. Dougal dropped his hand, moving away from her.

  “Imogen,” he whispered. “Can you hear me?”

  Lethargically, she stepped around him, coming into the library. She stared at the fireplace—unable to feel its heat from across the room. A chill worked over her body. Dougal did not reach for her again. Quietly, he shut the door before coming around to look at her ashen face.

  Imogen did not take her gaze away from the flame. In a nearly soundless murmur, she said, “I fell.”

  “Imogen?” inquired Dougal, desperately wanting her attention.

  “I had an accident.” She blinked, the fire reminding her of the dog. The image tried to fade from her mind. She l
et it go. “My horse threw me. I walked back from the forest.”

  “Imogen, that was a year ago,” Dougal said.

  “No, it just happened. Could you fetch a physician? My head hurts.” Finally, she glanced at him. Dougal saw she was starting to come around. The depths of her eyes were beginning to clear.

  “No, it was a year ago.” Dougal turned from her and crossed over to the Viscount’s chair. Grabbing the London paper off the small table, he brought it to her. “Here look at the paper. Read the date.”

  “But…” Imogen started weakly. She took the paper with a trembling hand. Shaking her head in confusion, she read, “July the second, eighteen hundred and thirteen.”

  “Imogen,” Dougal said to get her attention when she continued to stare absentmindedly at the print.

  Imogen’s gaze darted to him. She dropped the paper. It fluttered noisily to the floor and she backed away. “No. It cannot be. What is going on?”

  “You had an accident a year ago,” Dougal said patiently.

  “No, it just now happened,” she explained. Swallowing, she tasted blood on her lips. Reaching her fingers to her mouth, she drew them away. They were smeared with crimson. “What are you trying to do to me?”

  “Imogen.” He made a move to hold her.

  “No!” she shrieked, holding up her bloodied hand to keep him back. Her gaze drifted numbly from his handsome face and kind eyes to the blood marring her white skin. “Stay away from me. You are confused.”

  “Think, Imogen. Reason. Why do you think you are never hungry?” he asked gently. “When is the last time you talked to anyone but us spirits?”

  “Charlotte,” she put forth vaguely.

  “Charlotte is a servant who worked here nearly a hundred years ago. She only appeared when you were in of need of her. All she remembers is how to serve as she did in life. She appeared to me soon after you,” Dougal explained. Imogen could see the truth in his eyes, but was unwilling to believe it. “She takes care of many here at the manor—many we cannot see.”