Without warning, the painting rose into the air. Imogen gasped, pulling back in fright. With a start, she blinked quickly only to see her mother carrying the painting back to the hallway.
“If Lord Sutherfeld thinks he is bringing this hideous thing to London, he is sorely mistaken,” fumed the Viscountess.
Imogen hastened to her feet. Chasing after her mother, she called, “Stop. Wait. Put the painting down.”
The Viscountess didn’t hear her. Imogen began to reach for the painting, hesitating for a moment before reaching to yank it out of her mother’s arms. The Viscountess screamed in terror. Her fingers flew to fan her cheeks as she stared at the floating portrait.
“My apologies, mother,” said Imogen. She reached over to comfort the Viscountess, but then stopped, knowing the woman couldn’t see her. Helplessly, Imogen ran from the hysterical woman, carting the painting under her arm.
“Mother,” Jane screamed, coming around the corner. She knelt beside the woman, helping her to stand. Looking around, she saw no one. “What is it?”
“The horrible painting,” mumbled the Viscountess incoherently. “I think it wishes to come with us to London.”
Chapter Sixteen
Imogen hefted the painting with her knee, trying to support the weight as she readjusted it in her arms. She refused to look at Josiah’s likeness, turning the faces away from her, and she was careful to keep her fingers off the paint, fearful of what might happen if she touched it
She ran through the garden. The mist grew thick as she made her way to the forest. The fog always appeared to grow out from the trees, and she decided the woods were as good a place as any to begin her search.
Coming to the tree line, she hesitated. The dim path was lightened by the sprinkling of moonlight forcing its way through the tops of tree limbs. The speckled slivers of light danced over the ground, illuminating the misty pathway before her.
It was not easy to face the sight of her death. So much of her wanted to take back the lost time. She cursed herself for her carelessness, her one mistake of charging from the house like a spoiled child bent on having everything her own way. How foolish she had been to act with such untamed impudence.
Her feet sped with purpose. The mist grew dense as she fought her way into it. She could hear the water from the stream. The noise poured over her like the pounding of a rainstorm. Imogen shook. The painting dropped from her fingers, disappearing beneath her. Stumbling to the ground, she felt around in the dirt. She could see nothing beyond the tip of her nose. The painting was gone.
Imogen crouched on the ground, the mist coming in from all sides to choke her. She fell onto her back, lying with her face to the sky. The world seemed to spin. Her body ached, her neck jolted in sharp cracks of the bone. She could feel her death creeping around her. She could feel the intensity of her fear. She could feel the power of evil as if the demon knight was again before her, trying to claim her soul.
Terrified, she began to whimper. Her purpose in stopping the demon slipped from her mind until she couldn’t think beyond the pounding of her fearful heart. She trembled as the mist grew thicker, taking over the air until it breathed like smoke into her lungs. She gasped for breath, pulling frantically at her neck as it constricted.
“Get up,” came a whisper like a voice from the heavens.
Imogen froze. The wide blue of her eyes darted all around. She could see nothing but the dense white. Weakly, she climbed to her hands and knees. Her limbs were heavy and fought her progress. Her voice trembling, she gulped, “What did you say?”
There was no answer.
“Dougal?” insisted Imogen, growing bolder at the sound of her own voice. As she stood, the noise of the stream lessened. She swiped her hands bravely through the mist. Defiantly, she yelled at the fog, “You cannot stop me. I’m not afraid. I have faced what you bring and I have beaten it.”
And as she said the words, she believed them. Panting, she searched around her feet, resistant to the pulling of fear that waited for her composure to waver. The painting lay on the ground. She picked it up and tucked it beneath her arm. With solemn resolution, she continued forward.
Her journey became easier as the mist parted to let her by. Imogen glared defiantly all around her. She could feel movement beyond her reach.
All of a sudden, a cold chill ran up the back of her spine. The hairs on the nape of her neck stretched out in warning. Imogen stopped. Quietly, she whispered, “Margaret?”
Her answer was silence.
Taking a deep breath, she quietly hummed Margaret’s song. She stopped midway to listen. A terrified whimper finished the notes with shaking uncertainty. Peering toward the sound, Imogen willed the mist to part before her. A trail opened as she navigated her way toward the child.
Imogen passed through a cleared tunnel in the mist, moving over the cluttered floor of the woods. She stepped over fallen logs and rustling leaves. They crunched beneath her feet. The mist curved about her, to her sides, above her head like an arched passageway.
Imogen stepped though the fog, feeling the mist close in behind her. Abruptly, she stopped. At the end of the tunnel she saw trees reflecting the eerie orange glow of firelight. The glow bounced down her misty passage, reaching for her with its warm light.
“Help,” she heard Margaret moan. Imogen rushed forward.
A fire burned bright and high, its flames licking toward the sky as it spouted sparks over the earth. It burned within a small clearing in the shape of a circular chamber. Long, old tree-trunks formed the rough mossy walls, their leaves the ceiling. And in the middle of the roof was a small stretch of heaven peeking in with starry eyes.
Though the dancing flames, Imogen discovered Margaret. The child cowered on the ground. There was no one else. Hurrying around the fire pit, Imogen went to her. Margaret’s hands were bound to a large stone with chains. Her bright green eyes found Imogen who motioned for silence. Margaret nodded obediently. Imogen dropped the painting on the ground.
The chains grew out of the smooth stone. Imogen grabbed the shackles binding the girl’s wrists and pulled until her hands scraped raw along the old metal. The chain would not loosen.
Imogen winced. She dropped the rough iron as it stung into her flesh.
“Imogen?” Margaret wailed softly.
“Shh,” Imogen hushed, wiping her hands to her gown. The scrapes were minor so she ignored their sting. “I won’t leave you. Where is the key?”
“He has it,” whispered the girl.
“Who, Josiah?”
“It is not him” Margaret persisted. “He tries to fight it, but the evil is too strong. It is not him.”
Imogen nodded, seeing the girl getting worked up on the point. Josiah or not, it was he she must stop. Even the knight understood that much. Margaret’s already pale face became wan with fright. Hoarsely, Imogen uttered in mounting dread, “Where did he go?”
“Ah, m’lady, how good of you to join us.” Josiah’s voice was punctuated by the bark of his snarling dog. “The fire will be most pleased to receive you.”
Imogen felt the terror once again rack her body. The dog growled a dark warning. Spinning on her heels, Imogen stood. She stepped to the side, blocking Margaret from the creature’s view.
Josiah awaited her in armor. The silver plates gleamed in the firelight. His helmet hid all but the deathlike stare of his eyes. The black orbs were mercilessly cold. The old knight’s body stood transformed into a being of hate. It was no longer the Josiah she knew. The man was gone, replaced by a monster.
The beast at his side growled, barely restrained by an unseen force. The animal’s eyes glittered a fiery red. Blood dripped from his long, yellowed fangs.
“I told you I wouldst be back for you, m’lady,” said Josiah. If she could see his face, Imogen was sure he would give her a cold smile. The knight drew out his sword with slow precision. Angling the tip at her, he tilted his head to the side, daring her to try and run.
“Josiah,” Imogen
beseeched, hopeful that the man inside the creature could hear her. Her flesh would be no match against the steel of his blade or the bite of his dog. And her agility might not ward off the tempered swings of a knight trained for centuries to kill.
Frantically, Imogen looked at the ground, scanning for a weapon to fight him off with. There was nothing overly useful. Grabbing a fallen branch, she turned back to him. She held it before her like a sword, widening her stance to match his. Taking a deep breath, she waited for him to attack.
Josiah’s laughter was mockingly cold, but his sword arm never wavered, his eyes never turned away. Imogen swallowed nervously. Her heart thudded, bouncing crazily throughout her chest. Her stomach twittered and clenched, spinning nauseously into knots. She could not stop the panting of her uneven breath, but she could control her chin as she lifted it into the air.
“Let Margaret go,” she ordered, tightening her lips.
His dog barked violently. Imogen recoiled. The knight’s eyes hardened into blackened pits. His laughter died.
“You cannot fight me.” The knight stepped forward. The firelight moved over the polished steel plates of his armor, the orange contrasting with the blue tinted gleam of metal. The dog took a menacing lunge forward, his mighty jaws snapped. The knight ordered him back with a wave of his hand.
“Let the child go,” Imogen said. Margaret whimpered, cowering against the rock.
“I cannot,” he growled. “Her father is lost to me. I heard you say he was gone. I cannot spare her.”
“She is just a child. Let her go and face only me,” pleaded Imogen, sensing that the man inside might be wavering.
“Why spare one when I can take two?” The demon laughed.
Her arm grew fatigued under the weight of wood. She dropped the branch, knowing it would do her no good. She stepped away from the child, drawing his attention with her. “Josiah, I know you are in there.”
“Argh,” shrieked the knight. His mouth opened at the sound, displacing his helmet as his jaw stretched beneath the edge. His head tiled back to the sky as he warred within himself. The demon was too strong. The helmet fell from Josiah’s head to the ground. The demon within rushed him forward. Lifting his giant sword above his head, he swung it through the air.
Imogen ducked, scurrying away from the blade. Her feet tangled in her skirts as she tried to jump over her discarded branch. She landed on the hard earth. Her shoulder jerked in shooting pain. Her raw hands ground into the dirt.
Scrambling to her feet, she cradled her arm. She barely looked up when another blow swung past her head, singing past her ear. Josiah charged forward, chasing her around the fire. His companion barked in encouragement, coming up at Josiah’s heels. The knight swung again and again. His blade hit the fire, sending it sparking over his prey. Imogen screamed. Brunt embers showered her arm and head. They chafed the side of her face.
“Josiah,” she tried to reason. “This is not you. You don’t have to do this.”
“Yea,” he growled, taking another swing toward her head. “I do.”
Imogen could see that it was useless trying to talk the knight from his dark purpose. It was not the man she knew staring at her. It was someone else taken over his form. She was fighting a demon.
“Demons come from fire,” she whispered, dodging another blow. She recognized the sound of the roaring flames from her memories of the demon knight. Every time she watched him appear, he was followed by the horrible sound.
“What?” the knight howled.
Coming full circle around the fire, she glanced at Margaret. The child pulled at her bonds, her feet planted against the rock. One of the girl’s hands slid free from the shackles. Next to the child, on the ground, Imogen saw the portrait.
“That is his haven,” she muttered in sudden clarity. “I must send him home.”
Imogen lunged for Margaret. Grabbing the painting, she turned just in time to see Josiah and his dog march around the flames. Imogen tugged at the painting, dragging it weakly to the fire pit with little help from her injured arm.
“No,” shouted Josiah, his command chillingly loud.
Imogen saw the glitter of his blade as it swung. She lifted the portrait to block his attack. Josiah struck the portrait. Imogen froze waiting for the thrust of blade that never came. The painting jerked from her hands. The blade glanced off of the canvas as if it were stone and flew from the knight’s hands to land several yards into the forest.
“Give it to me,” ordered the knight, ignoring his fallen blade. Imogen pulled the painting from the ground. She held it before her like shield.
“No,” she spat. Josiah charged forward. His hand lifted to wrestle the frame from her. Imogen knew if he got ahold, she would not win. Her strength would be no match.
“Josiah!” screeched Margaret.
The knight stiffened at the terrified sound. Imogen saw the hard black pit of his gaze soften somewhat at the call. Both their heads snapped toward the child. The dog had her trapped beneath him, his paws on her shoulders as he growled into her face.
“Nay,” yelled Josiah. The animal didn’t listen. And with a lunge, the knight forgot his portrait, forgot Imogen, forgot himself. He flew through the air, his arm sliding over Margaret’s throat to block the dog’s bite.
The beast’s lips found flesh, tearing and ripping with abandonment. Josiah screamed in torment. Margaret’s bonds were lifted into the mist. The child screeched in horror, crawling away from the attacking beast.
Imogen didn’t hesitate. She tossed the portrait into the fire. The flames sparked, growing so hot as to blister all those who stood within its light. Margaret fell into a ball. Imogen turned to block the light. The dog let his victim go—howling painfully as his image was scorched.
The flame shot out from the pit, pulling with a supernatural force at the beast. The dog tried to resist, striking his large paws defiantly into the dirt. The beast howled. The flames lassoed him, dragging him to his death.
Imogen ran to Margaret, gathering the child into her arms. Margaret fought Imogen’s hold, craning to see Josiah. Imogen let her go and, as the last of the dog’s howls echoed in death, the fire reached out again.
“No!” screamed Margaret, leaping forward. Imogen reached for her. She missed the flighty girl. Margaret jumped before the string of fire, blocking her face as the flames came near her. But the fire did not want her. It wanted its own child. The flames curled around her, dipping behind her back to reach for the fallen soldier.
A black force, as dark and formless as a shadow, was pulled from Josiah’s bleeding body. The demon screeched—a terrible sound that sent chills over their flesh. The fire consumed the shadow, trapping him with his dog in the bubbling and melting canvas of their portrait.
Margaret fell to her knees next to Josiah. Blood streamed from gaping wounds in his neck, his arm, his chest. There was a hole where is heart should be. They watched as the hole filled in, his heart forming within the wound to beat. Shaking, Margaret shouted, “Imogen!”
Imogen came forward, looking down at the trembling man. He had risked himself to save Margaret. Somehow, he was given back his heart, but the wound above the heart didn’t lessen. Josiah was dying. Of that Imogen was certain.
“Imogen,” pleaded Margaret. Tears streamed down her face. She cradled Josiah’s head in her hands. “Help him.”
Imogen shook her head helplessly. Tears poured over her cheeks, matching the child’s. She dropped to her knees next to them. Seeing a wound at his side, she tore her gown and pressed her hands to it. Josiah grunted. His eyes briefly sought Imogen. He nodded in approval. She had done what he asked. She had saved Margaret and sacrificed him. His approval did not lessen their sorrow.
“Why is he bleeding like this?” cried Margaret in a panic. Her small child hands pushed over his chest to stay the blood over his heart. She felt it beating beneath her palms, but there was too much blood, the wounds were too deep. “Imogen, he shouldn’t be bleeding like this. He is not a man. We
are dead. We do not bleed like this! What is happening?”
“He’s dying,” whispered Imogen. “He never got the chance before.”
Josiah’s eyes opened. Imogen stiffened. His eyes were the color of a storm-riddled sky. Their bluish-gray depths shone as he gazed up at Margaret. The black had left the orbs just at the evil had left his body. He lifted his hand to cup Margaret’s cheek, but the effort was too great and his fingers fell again to his side.
“Lady Margaret,” he whispered. A slight smile formed on his lips. His lids drifted closed.
“No,” she cried, shaking her head in denial. “Josiah, no! Stay with me.”
Imogen froze at the intense heartache that passed between the two. She could not doubt the look. She herself felt the effects of harboring a hopeless love. She thought of Dougal. He was gone. She had lost him.
Margaret leaned down. She pressed her mouth to Josiah. The knight’s eyes shot open in surprise at the unexpected contact. Margaret’s tears poured over him. The sorrow of her pain coursed through him. As she pulled her trembling mouth away, he smiled up at her—a kind, reassuring smile. Then, within the blinking of an eye, he disappeared, dissolving into the earth.
Margaret fell to the ground, atop the leaves that had once cradled his body. Her small hands dug into the ground, grasping fistfuls of forest litter in her torment. Imogen stiffly pulled Margaret up. The girl wailed as Imogen lifted her from the ground. Taking her by the shoulders, Imogen tried to lead the girl out of the forest.
“Where is my father?” cried Margaret. “Where did Josiah go?”
“I don’t know,” Imogen whispered. Her hands weakened with her knees. Margaret tore out of her arms, running away into the mist. Imogen tried to follow, but her body was too frail, her mind too tired. Instead of running, her body dissolved into the night air and she was carried away with its will.
Mists of Midnight Page 23
