Chapter Twelve
Mercy peered out the porthole at the raging sea, its waters as dark and bleak as her emotions. It had been hours since their departure, and Devil’s Cove no longer appeared as a speck on the horizon. Any chance of escape was torn away the moment they set sail. Frustrating man! He should’ve released her the minute he discovered the truth about the counter spell. At least Cecelia and Henry were safe at home.
But why did Victor cling to the ridiculous notion that she might forgive him before his birthday? Oh, Eveline had played a part in that debacle, to be sure. She was a woman of strong faith. Somehow, Mercy had to make her friend see reason and come to her aid.
“Please come have a bite to eat,” Eveline said from the head of the table, where she was preparing two plates of simple fare from a platter.
Mercy had little appetite, but Eveline had been kind since discovering her locked in Victor’s trunk. The least Mercy could do was keep her company while she ate and perhaps pass the time by thinking of something other than her predicament.
“Are we all destined to perish at sea?” she asked, stalking to one of the stately upholstered chairs at the captain’s dining table. “The sky is black with angry clouds, and the waves toss us about like a child’s boat in a bathtub. It’s a wonder you’re able to eat a single bite. You must possess a strong constitution.”
Eveline placed a plate full of bread, cheese, ham, and fruit in front of Mercy and sat down across from her.
“Apparently so,” she said, plucking a grape off the bunch. “You don’t appear sick either. Or at least not due to the weather. But please, you mustn’t allow yourself to become ill with worry.”
“I’ve little control over the matter,” Mercy said. “My resources are drained. First Emma’s death, and now I’m abducted by my worst enemy.”
Eveline sighed. “You do not wish to hear this, but Victor has many redeemable qualities. Don’t you think he has suffered all these years as well?”
“I cannot forgive Victor for killing my mother,” Mercy said, staring down at her untouched food. “Surely, you can understand that.”
“Mercy, forgiveness is the most precious gift you can give. It will set your soul free. I’ve witnessed the power of God and faith. Dominick’s mother sold him into slavery. He endured unspeakable torture, but with time, he found it in his heart to forgive his mother. The road is fraught with complications, yet it is possible if you search deep within your heart and accept God’s loving grace.”
Mercy fought to mask the bitterness swelling in her breast. She needed Eveline’s help, so offending her would serve no purpose. “Lord Sommerset is to be admired, but what of my pain? Who will see that my parents receive justice for their murders?”
“Trust that God will deliver justice.”
And where was God when her parents were slaughtered like pigs? Justice would be delivered on Victor’s twenty-seventh birthday. All she had to do was wait and watch.
“Forgive me, Eveline, but I do not share your faith. The Blackburn curse serves as his rightful justice.”
Her friend shook her head. “No, Mercy. That’s a cruel and unjust punishment. Victor was a child of ten years, abducted and tortured himself, and acting under duress. He cannot be held accountable as an adult for his actions.”
“And I was but seven, forced to watch my parents die through the scrying bowl.”
Mercy closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. Her blood boiled with anger at the memory, still so vivid in her mind’s eye. She whirled around and stalked across the chamber, her fists tight as she recalled her mother’s desperate instructions before she sent Mercy to live with her relatives in Devil’s Cove. Be a good girl and study the counter spell . . . Protect the amber tears of Freya with your life . . . Know your mum and dad love you and wish to see peace restored . . . Do everything in your power to help the Blackburn family.
“Victor did nothing to save my parents! He cowered in the corner of the room as the Butcher slit my father’s throat, and he plunged a knife into my mother’s heart with his own two hands. My parents sacrificed everything in an attempt to save his life from the Blackburn curse. They shared the secret of the tears of Freya and the counter spell. And how did he repay them? He murdered my mother!” she shouted, her heart splintering under the weight of those words.
“Oh, Mercy,” Eveline said, racing to her side and embracing her. “I feel your pain. My heart aches for both of you.”
Tears of frustration prickled Mercy’s eyes. It was hopeless. She could not draw Eveline to her side. Having been raised by Brother Anselm at the priory, her faith in God and the power of forgiveness was too strong.
Mercy had to devise an escape plan herself, and for that, she must think. Thinking required a clear mind. Quiet reflection. If they ate, they could not chat. It would afford her precious minutes of solitude.
“I’m suddenly quite ravenous,” she said, pulling out of Eveline’s embrace. “May we eat now?”
Eveline nodded and led the way back to the table. In the companionable silence, Mercy ruminated over her options. She needed negotiating power. Something valuable to either Victor or Lord Sommerset—or both. With her spell book sitting on her bedside table at home and her box of draughts and potions packed in her luggage, she must rely on her memory and Eveline’s goodwill to brew new stores. Oh, it was useless. At least until they reached Blackburn Castle. Then perhaps she could sneak into the kitchen late at night.
Resigned, she cut into her ham. The pressure of her wrists against the table caused a dull ache, and she winced. Her skin was still red and raw where the ropes had bound them together.
“Oh, dear.” Eveline moved closer and inspected the wounds. “Are you in a lot of pain? Perhaps I can fetch something from the galley to soothe your skin.”
If she were honest with herself, the burns were hardly noticeable. Still, she would welcome some relief. “Pity I don’t have my belongings with me,” she said. “I always carry aloe, an excellent ointment with varied uses.”
“Well, I’m sure I saw a carpetbag beside the trunk earlier. Shall we investigate?”
Mercy nearly toppled her chair in her haste to stand. Were all of her draughts and potions within her reach? Just as Eveline said, the flower-patterned carpetbag lay nestled between the wall and the trunk. Mercy swallowed past the shout of joy screaming to be released and hauled her bag on top of the trunk.
Victor had brought her packed luggage! Her fingers worked the latches open with ease, and a few moments later, she lifted the Tome of the Accursed from the top. Had he known the significance of the spell book when he discovered it on her bedside table and packed it with her other belongings?
And why would he have taken the time to bring her luggage at all? Every minute spent in her bedroom was another minute he risked discovery. He couldn’t care about her comfort, could he? She bit her lip. No, that didn’t reconcile with her opinion of the man. Perhaps he’d done it so her aunt and uncle wouldn’t suspect she’d left under duress. She closed her eyes and suppressed a groan. Her relatives would not be concerned about her until Edward contacted them with word that she’d never arrived.
“What a beautiful book,” Eveline said, peering over her shoulder. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Is that your family’s book of spells? May I browse through it?”
Mercy hesitated, rubbing her hand over the soft leather casing. No one outside of her family had ever seen the spell book, much less touched it.
“Forgive me,” Eveline said, stepping back. “I can see that it’s precious. You needn’t oblige.”
But if Eveline was engrossed in the book, Mercy would have an opportunity to search through her inventory of potions. A sleep serum might work. She could put Eveline into a deep sleep and threaten Lord Sommerset to leave her under its influence until they returned to Devil’s Cove. He was captain of the ship, after all.
Her stomach quaked as she handed Eveline the book, but she could not feel guilty. They’d all left her no o
ther options.
Eveline traced her fingertips over the intricately designed necklace carved into the leather cover and then glanced up with a twinkle in her eyes. “Brother Anselm will be envious when I tell him I held an ancient spell book. Do you know how old it is?”
“A little over four hundred years,” Mercy said as she rummaged through her belongings, searching for the small box of potions and ointments she had packed. Her heart galloped. “It’s been passed down through the generations, but it originated with Elizabeth Thorne, a formidable witch, if my family history is to be believed.”
Closing the book, Eveline handed it back. “And the cover? Is there a story behind the necklace? It seems a rather odd object for a spell book.”
Mercy nodded and tucked the precious treasure into the carpetbag while she relayed the brief history as she knew it. “It’s a replica of the Brisingamen necklace—the one the Norse goddess of love, Freya, received as a gift from the four Black Dwarves in exchange for a single night of pleasure.”
Eveline’s eyebrows arced high. “Quite a costly piece of jewelry.”
An indelicate snort escaped Mercy as she glanced at her friend. “Even more so than Freya imagined. Her husband was furious when he learned of her betrayal and abandoned her forever. As she searched the world for him, her teardrops fell into the ocean, crystalizing into blue amber and encapsulating her love for him. Elizabeth and her twin, Vivian, claimed to have been born to Freya out of her unholy union with the Black Dwarves. Presumably, the necklace and the tears were passed down through the generations, the necklace through Elizabeth’s line, the tears through Vivian’s line. It’s a shame there is no evidence of the necklace’s existence, because folklore proclaims it to have held mystical powers of youth and beauty. I should have liked to inherit it along with the tome.”
“If what you say is true, why does your family have two of the tears of Freya? Shouldn’t they belong to Victor’s family?”
“Ah, you’re astute,” Mercy said, grinning. She opened her box and pulled out the aloe, along with the sleeping serum, which she deposited into the pocket of her skirt. “Legend has it that the amber tears of Freya were originally one large stone. But when Vivian harnessed Freya’s love from the tear to create an unbreakable love potion, the stone shattered into four equal parts. Elizabeth stole the stones, using them to form the Blackburn curse in retaliation for Vivian stealing Elizabeth’s fiancé. My mother believes Elizabeth hid two of the stones within the castle and gave two to her kin for safekeeping.”
Eveline shuddered. “Does the Tome of the Accursed truly contain the counter spell? I can’t imagine why Elizabeth would’ve written a counter spell to her own curse.”
“It does,” Mercy said, rubbing the aloe on her wrists. “The counter spell is quite controversial. Upon close inspection, one can see it is written in a hand unlike the others within the book. Perhaps Freya wrote the counter spell, hoping that peace would one day return to the two family lines? I cannot say. But one thing is certain: I’ll never forgive Victor Blackburn.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Victor said, standing at the entrance with his inscrutable gaze trained on her. “Your reasons for hating me are valid; still, I would ask for your forgiveness. Come, it’s time we spoke in private.”
A volcano of frustration erupted in Mercy’s veins. Blasted man! Why must he thwart her every effort? Five more minutes, and Eveline would’ve been deep in sleep from her serum.
He strode into the room and retrieved her bag before gesturing for her to exit. If he believed she would accompany him anywhere, he was sadly mistaken.
She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m quite comfortable here, thank you.”
Other than a tightening of his jaw, he didn’t move a muscle. “This is the captain’s quarters, and as he is sailing aboard on this journey, we will retire to the quartermaster’s lodgings.”
“We will not retire anywhere together,” she said, lifting her chin.
Eveline’s wary gaze shifted between them. “Mercy is welcome to remain in this cabin with me, Victor. I’ve already spoken with Dominick on the matter.”
“This is not negotiable,” he said, his shoulders rigid, unyielding. “She is a fully actualized witch. And though I trust you, Eveline, I do not trust her.”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “We’re on a ship in the middle of the ocean. What are you afraid of?”
She clasped the vial of sleeping potion within the confines of her pocket, the weight of it like a ton of bricks under his accusation.
He glanced down at her belongings, his gaze lingering on the spell book poised on top. “Tome of the Accursed,” he read aloud, his tone low and menacing. “Need I say more, madam? Please, allow me to show you to our new quarters.”
And with that, he stalked through the door. His booted footfalls faded with every step.
“I will not!” Mercy shouted after him.
Oh, the nerve of the man. She would not share a room with the heathen. Who did he think he was to order her about in that familiar way? He was not her father, nor a male relation . . . at least, not a close one she had any intention of listening to anytime soon. With four centuries separating their bloodlines, their relation was almost nonexistent.
His footfalls paused.
“We shall see about that,” he said, his booming voice carrying down the corridor and into the cabin. “November on the Atlantic is quite cold. Books make excellent kindling, don’t you think?”
His threat chilled her to the bone. He wouldn’t dare! His future depended on the contents of her spell book. Except she had vowed never to help him, so he may view the book as disposable. Her heart leaped to her throat, and she lifted her skirt, charging after the knave.
She raced through the door and turned in the direction of his laughter. His broad shoulders disappeared as he skipped down a set of stairs to the next level.
Blood coursed through her veins as she picked up momentum, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of watching her run. Still, her breathing spiked with the effort of her long strides. Her feet flew down the steps, and she rounded the stairwell, desperate to find him. She stumbled and pitched sideways with the roll of a wave.
Victor stood at the entrance to his cabin, holding the door open for her with his brow lifted in challenge. She pushed past him, seeking her belongings. He had tossed her carpetbag carelessly on the bed, but the tome was no longer resting on top. She whirled around, confronting him.
“Looking for this?” he asked, holding the book hostage in one hand while he pushed the door closed and locked it, depositing the key in his trouser pocket.
Mercy stalked to his side and reached for the book. “Give it back to me. Do you have any idea how precious that is?”
But he only held it higher, out of her reach. She pressed closer and jumped, landing against his hard chest. He backed her into the wall, always keeping the book an arm’s-length away. The man was incorrigible.
“I believe I’m starting to understand exactly how precious it is.” His mouth quirked up, and he leaned closer. “Perhaps you care enough about this treasure that you’ll forgive me should I decide to give it back to you?”
The featherlight warmth of his breath tickled her neck, and his musky cologne wafted in her nose, reminding her of the last time his body had pressed against hers—at the tavern, just before he lifted her love potion to his lips. She had been blissfully ignorant of his true identity then and desperate for him to drink the potion. But she knew who he was now and wouldn’t wish him on any woman.
An exasperated breath pulsed through her lips as she glared into his teasing green eyes. “It isn’t that simple, Victor.”
Chapter Thirteen
Nothing in Victor’s life had ever been simple. Why would this be any different? All traces of humor evaporated, and he stomped away, seeking distance from the infuriating woman and her pointed reminders. The curse was a noose constantly around his neck, an unbearable weight on his shoulders. And he
was weary.
He folded into a comfortable chair next to the coal stove. Did the wench torment him needlessly out of spite? He wanted to believe her to be a filthy liar, yet, deep down, his gut told him all she had said was true. The answers lay within the spell book he held. All he needed was the courage to turn the pages. So why would his fingers not move? Oh, to live in blissful ignorance . . . to maintain some shred of hope that the curse could be broken.
Steeling his spine, he breathed deeply and began flipping through the pages of the book with care. Best he learn the truth and react accordingly. He examined page after page. Hadn’t he overheard her say that the counter spell was written in a unique hand? About one third of the way through, he found what he sought. Adrenaline spiked through him, and he could scarce draw breath as he examined the page, distinctive in so many ways.
He traced his finger over the drawing of four amber stones laid side by side in a perfect row. The blue hue was exquisite. But what struck him most was the color of the script. Blood red. A chill raced up his spine.
“Why do you suppose the counter curse is written in red?” he asked without any true expectation of receiving an answer from his companion. Perhaps it symbolized his ancestors’ blood shed over the centuries. “Could also signify love,” he whispered. “Speaking the words with love.”
He read the incantation, each word resonating deep within. As he studied the final verse, there was no doubt he’d found the counter spell. After scanning the passage several times, he rubbed his brow where a dull ache materialized in his head.
“It’s true then,” he said, glancing at Mercy, who sat in a chair opposite him. “We need all four of the amber tears of Freya to break the curse. And you must speak the words with love in your heart.”
She folded her hands on her lap. “As you can see, it’s hopeless.”
Blackburn Castle (Tortured Souls Book 2) Page 8
