The Hallowed

by Lani Lenore

  Celia stood slowly, not taking her eyes off the hood until a false step led her to nearly trip over Maynard’s body. His blood was soaking into her shoes and the hem of her dress. His face was contorted against the rocky path.

  How could this happen? Didn’t he have good intentions?

  She stepped back from the body, and the hooded figure moved quickly. He shifted himself behind her, and she realized what he was trying at. He had positioned himself between her and her escape down the mountainside. She could have attempted to run away, but first she would have to get past him and his blade.

  “He won’t like for you to flee, sweet Celia.”

  The call came echoing down from the house, startling her so that she jumped inside her skin. Though she didn’t wish to take her eyes off the hood and his bloody blade, an involuntary reaction led her to twist her face up toward the house, and there she saw Irving. He was standing on the steps, holding a lantern.

  “I tried to tell you not to leave,” he said to her. “Come back to the house.”

  “But, who…” The girl knew that her mind was struggling—breaking. “He killed your brother!”

  Irving was unfeeling toward this fact.

  “Come back to the house now,” he continued to insist.

  There was no choice. Celia turned to the hooded figure, seeing that he was stationary, blocking her path. She had to turn back—turn back or die now. She didn’t want to die.

  Reluctantly, Celia pushed wet hair from her face and began to walk up the path to meet Irving. The hooded man did not follow, though she kept nervously turning her head to look. She was frightened and confused, but sorrowful, and also angry. There was no need for things to have turned out this way, and at the moment, she considered that it was partially Irving’s fault. Celia glared at him as she passed him on the steps and was not surprised when he fell into step behind her, forcing her toward the front door.

  Inside, her dress and hair dripped upon the floor, and she waited as Irving closed the door and locked it behind him. He locked out the rain; he locked out his brother’s dead body. And he locked her in. When he was done, he turned to her, and she made sure that she was looking him squarely in the face. Her expression was solid, but helpless tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Who was that man in the hood?” she demanded to know. “Maynard… He shot that man numerous times and yet he didn’t die.”

  “Oh, none of those bullets hit, my dear. My brother was a terrible shot,” Irving said gently. He smiled earnestly and placed his hands on her shoulders as if to comfort her. His touch was like white-hot pain, and she recoiled from it immediately.

  “But I saw them hit,” she proclaimed adamantly. “I saw the blood!”

  “You were mistaken.” Irving’s voice was soft, as if she was a fragile flower that would wilt beneath his breath. Would he be allowed to turn her mind around so easily? She would not be fooled by his charm.

  “Who was the hooded man then?” she persisted.

  “A gardener in my employ,” was the simple answer. “He trims by day and watches the grounds at night to keep things in order.”

  “Why have I not met him?”

  “You have not been to the gardens, have you?”

  Irving’s face revealed—only around his eyes—how he was tiring of this game she was playing, but it was a crucial strategy to her.

  “He killed Maynard—your own brother. You let him.”

  “But that stupid boy was trying to kidnap you,” Irving reasoned. “To take you away against your will. How can you feel sorry? He got what he deserved.”

  Celia was silenced. What he said was true, but she understood that he was trying to twist her way of thinking along the lines of his own. She realized that it was pointless to carry on with this conversation; it would not bring Maynard back. She began to think of so many other things that she could have confronted Irving with then, like how they were trapped, the lies, and the dead woman in the locked room. The only thing that kept her anger from seeping out through her mouth was the thought of Adam. He would not be pleased if she showed Irving all their cards. They were partners, and had to work together.

  Taking a deep breath, she wiped tears from her face with her fingers.

  “I want to see Adam,” she said abruptly.

  Irving stared into her request, but then smiled with sympathy that would rival that of a priest.

  “Of course,” he consented.

  Celia was surprised that he did not deny her, but did not try to see into his reasoning. She was too weary. Irving took her arm and led her up the stairs—as if she had anywhere else to run.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Moving along the third floor corridor with Irving as her escort, a distressed and ruffled Celia wondered how many bruises she would have in the morning. Irving was dragging her along with a rough grip, and Maynard—poor Maynard. She truly pitied him, and hoped she would not begin to feel responsible for his death. Nothing could be done about it now. She only wanted to see Adam, and to tell him everything. Perhaps then she would not feel so hopeless.

  When they reached Adam’s door, Irving stopped in the hall and dipped his hand into his pocket, withdrawing a set of keys that looked familiar to her. She could not be sure, but she believed them to be the same ones that she had stolen from his study. Did I drop them? If this was true, she was once again at a great disadvantage.

  “Here we are,” Irving said to her. “Try to keep out of trouble for the rest of the night.”

  Celia only glared at him with a sullen mouth and teary eyes. As soon as the door was unlocked, Irving opened it and gave her a gentle push inside. He said nothing else, and soon she heard the door closing behind her. There was no question about the grating sound that locked her in.

  Just as I tasted freedom, I am once again a prisoner, she lamented.

  She had not even been given the chance to fear that Adam was present before the man was in her sight. He was sitting on the end of the bed with his face lowered, massaging the back of his head, but he looked up when he heard the disturbance at the door. Celia couldn’t guess whether Adam had seen Irving, but he saw her.

  “Celia…” He winced, closing his eyes briefly. “Thank God you’re… But you’re wet. Where have you been?”

  Celia tried to open her mouth, to release all that was inside her in an attempt to ease her pain, but now that the time had come, she was overwhelmed with sorrow and fear.

  “It’s Maynard. He…” Her words gave way to sobs and tears, and she began to tremble with the shock of her ordeal.

  Despite his own ailment, Adam rose up from the bed and urged her to sit with him on the floor in front of the fire. The warmth was pleasant to her damp skin, but it would take more than the fire to relieve her inner numbness. Adam sat patiently beside her, letting her cry until she had calmed enough to speak. When she was able, she told him everything that had happened—about Maynard coming to her room and trying to take her away, everything the young LaCroix had told her, and how he had been killed by the monster in the hood. Adam was silent, but his face promised that he was horrified and angered by the story. She told him about Irving’s callous behavior and about losing the keys. When she was done saying all she wished, he spoke up.

  “So now there is another obstacle in our path. A mysterious man in a hood who cannot be stopped by bullets.”

  Celia looked up, her eyes shining from the tears. His tone was strange. Did he doubt her?

  “I know what I saw,” she said firmly. “I just don’t know how it can be.”

  “I believe you,” he assured her, and she felt better. “I can’t explain it either, but things are not right here. In the beginning, I believed it was only madness—the family and the way I felt about it all. Now, I know that there is something unnaturally and inhumanly wrong here.”

  Celia watched him stare into the fire, deep in thought. What was he thinking that he was not saying? He had been different since they’d found the chapel—secretive. What had
changed in him? What did he know or remember?

  “Have you seen something?” she tried, hoping to pry open his mind. It did not take him long to make an effort in dismissing her worries.

  “Strange things, like you’ve seen,” he said. “The odd chapel, the unsavory behavior, the maids—so strange. But nothing that I can put my finger on.”

  He winced then, raising his hand to favor the back of his head, as she’d seen him doing when she’d first come inside.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He sighed, and when he didn’t look at her, she believed he wouldn’t answer. Yet after a moment, to her relief, he spoke.

  “I was downstairs in one of the rooms after dinner, checking on something. A hunch, as I told you before. Irving confronted me, and while I was giving him my attention, I was hit on the head with something hard. It knocked me out. I just woke up a few moments ago—here, on the bed.”

  This story struck an emotional chord somewhere inside Celia, and the note was sour. Everyone was working against them, and it was no secret anymore. She wondered if the family had estimated that it would be such a short time before their intentions were revealed. Maynard had tried to help her, and he was killed; one of their own. The thought upset her.

  “I don’t know what to think,” she gasped, unable to hide her desperation.

  “It’s alright,” Adam soothed her. “Not everything is lost. I did find out something new tonight.”

  “What?” she inquired, finding the notion a comfort.

  “About the master of the house.” His voice was mild and careful. “I don’t know what it means yet. But I’ll find out.”

  She looked into his dark eyes, and though she could have gotten lost there if she’d allowed herself, she was caught by unease. All those words that Maynard had said flowed back into her mind. Starting at the beginning, doubts about Adam began to form.

  Maynard had told her that the note she’d found upon waking was planted, and that he had written part of it himself. If that were so, that meant Adam hadn’t written any of it, which could have led to the troubling fact that he had never really loved her before now. But what about the watch with the engraving inside? It displayed her name and his—a gift from her to him. Had it been planted as well? Taking these things for what they were, she had to consider it possible that she hadn’t known Adam previous to a few days ago, and that he hadn’t known her either. They may have never been in a carriage accident. The memory she’d tried so hard to create for herself may have been completely false. But then what? Kidnapped? Drugged so that they would not remember?

  Adam touched her damp hair, and she felt a stinging pain run through her. The look in his eyes was like she had seen before—last night when he’d kissed her. But this moment did not feel the same to her. She stared into those eyes she had come to adore, and though he was so appealing in every way that she could have suggested, she did not want to be here sitting with him now. She couldn’t bear it, because she did want to be in his arms, to have his kiss and the features of his body that she craved, but as she watched his eyes, he was suddenly a stranger to her. When his attractive mouth came forward to meet hers, she turned her face away.

  She knew he was stunned by her action, but she could not reciprocate, and she could not look at him. Quickly, Celia pulled herself off the floor.

  “What’s the matter?” Adam asked, not rising up, letting her go.

  “My head is pounding,” she groaned, putting fingers to her temples as she stepped several paces from him. “I think I just want to go to bed.”

  Adam did not respond, and she stood near the bedside in complete silence, alone. She wanted to sleep, to dismiss him for now. She was sure that in the morning she would have a new perspective on things, but she’d had all she could stand for one treacherous night. The bed sheets looked comfortable—a cocoon—and all she wanted was to slip between them, to unfold in the morning as a new and more beautiful creature. Before that though, she looked down at herself, taking in her reality.

  Her clothes were wet, and there was blood on them. She shivered at the sight, and the fire crackled behind her. With trembling fingers, she unlaced the dress behind her back and pushed it away from her to the floor, freeing her body of its dirtied harness. Celia stood still, unmoving in the dimness, and unable to help herself, she turned her face back to peer at Adam by the fire.

  He was staring at the flames, disregarding her completely, unaware that the flesh he desired was presented so readily before him. Even though she had just rejected his advance, these thoughts made her feel sorrow. She’d pushed him away, perhaps unrightfully, and she could not have him back.

  With a shuddering sigh, Celia clasped the locket at her chest, her only adornment. She got into the bed and curled herself into a fetal position, needing sleep—needing to be birthed again on the morrow, anew.

  Across the black blanket of night sky, shadowy fingers crept, stretching and groping as gently as a secret lover. Hours passed on the face of the clock before Adam opened his eyes. He’d fallen asleep in front of the fire without knowing, and he’d seen no dreams. His neck was sore from being slumped against the bed’s footboard, and there was still a slowly throbbing ache at the back of his head. He’d had plenty of abuse today. Shifting his fatigued body, he pulled himself off the floor, aiming to put himself into bed and wondering why he was not already there, but standing up, he remembered.

  Celia…

  The girl was in his bed, breathing softly in her sleep. The sheet hugged her body in a beautiful curving shape, but she was miles away from him in blackness. She was an unexplored land, a new country. Though he might have liked to discover her, he had not forgotten what she’d done to him, turning him away as she had. Why had she refused his kiss when she had accepted it so readily the night before? She’d been upset tonight, he’d known that, but he’d meant nothing but comfort for her. Though he did not know the answer that lurked in her mind, he knew that her refusal had upset him. He’d swallowed it quietly as he’d sat by the fire, but he’d been unable to even look at her. She didn’t know the truth—of how the prospect of her love made him swell inside to the point of bursting. He’d tried to keep his lust managed to make way for more important things, but he’d been sure that her longing matched his own. If so, why had she run?

  Adam looked down at her resting there, so peaceful and unconquered, and his anger flared anew. She had lost her chance for his comfort on this night. He would lie beside her to sleep, but he would not touch her.

  He stepped up to the unoccupied side of the bed and turned his back to her form, unbuttoning his shirt. Through the window, rain was showering down once again in precise sheets. Would it ever stop, and did it matter? Feeling frustration for the answer that did not come to him, he tossed the shirt to the floor. He was chilled immediately by the air he’d stirred around him. He expected his skin to adjust as he kicked off his shoes, and looking up, he saw his own reflection in the window.

  There he was, as he’d seen himself before, reflected in the glass pane. Adam let his eyes trace over the contours of his own chest and down the musculature of his stomach. Who had chiseled him, and from what material? He was a perfect specimen, better than any human he’d seen, especially in this house. He was not ashamed to think this way. No being could rival him—except perhaps Celia, but they were different. He was a perfect man, and she was a perfect woman. He thought about her as he stared at his own reflection, and unbuttoned his trousers to examine himself further.

  He hadn’t remembered looking at himself beyond examining his face in the glass, but there was much more than that. Broad shoulders, an adequate chest, toned arms, strong thighs. He looked himself over, and he was pleased with what he saw. What a worthy half he would make.

  If only…

  Adam let himself look away from his own reflection, glancing back toward the woman on the bed. She was turned away from him, sleeping on her side. The slope of her waist and the rise of her hip made an attractive s
ilhouette. The silken sheet was wrapped around her, leaving her shoulder and part of her back exposed. He was observant to the way her skin moved across her frame as she breathed, and how the sheet contoured to her legs, allowing him to visualize the length and the spaces in between.

  And what a fine half she makes. Only together can we be whole. I wonder if she knows what I could do to her. I wonder if she anticipates it, even now.

  Was this the sleep talking? He was drowsy, and his thoughts were not in order.

  Adam felt a fire rising up deep within him, smothering him so that he could hardly breathe. He took in great mouthfuls of air, feeling his heart begin to pound forcefully, pumping blood to his extremities. He felt muscles tighten, and to his own surprise, he began to rise for a performance that he hadn’t rehearsed.

  What is happening to me?

  He turned from the bed, clenching his eyes and trying to catch his breath. He’d felt this heat before, but not so intensely. It had begun the night he’d kissed her, but that had been interrupted, the burn had faded, and he hadn’t thought much more about it after that.

  I need to calm down.

  Adam sat down on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. He would regain his control, and then he would sleep a long and untroubled sleep that would have him set right for the decisions of tomorrow. He waited until he began to trust himself, and only then did he open his eyes. It hadn’t helped. There was still an animal stirring restlessly inside him.

  One more glimpse.

  He turned back to Celia, looking at her with eyes that weren’t like his own, and he knew what had happened. Something had broken loose, and he was helpless to contain it.

  Celia was awake when she felt Adam’s weight on the mattress, but her face was turned from him. She hadn’t had much sleep as she lay there, worried about so many things beyond this room and this bed. Now that Adam was near, she was only in the present, afraid that he would not say a word, but that he would lay down beside her to be so close and yet so far away.