He turned toward her. “We are mediators between the physical and spiritual world. We are the ones meant to protect against evil.”
“I think ye ‘ave the wrong idea, sir,” Ophelia said, managing to sit upright. But, deep down, she knew the identical markings were no coincidence. “Now if ye don’t mind . . . ”
She stood and headed for the door, her heart racketing in her chest. The man didn’t move.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
She wobbled near the doorway, gripping the doorframe for balance. “I’ve a letter to deliver.”
“That, my dear,” he said, “is going to take you a very, very long time.”
Outside the door, the land stretched out toward nothing. Just acres of dried grass, the world a wash of pale yellow in the moonlight.
She spun back toward the man. “Who are ye? Where ‘ave ye taken me?”
The smile fell from his lips, tension settling along his shaded jaw and the corners of his eyes. “Please,” he said. “Sit.”
“I’m fine standing.” The burning on Ophelia’s neck grew more intense, and she pressed her hand there to ease the sting.
“I can help,” he said, “but you have to trust me.”
“Do I?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“If you want that burning to go away, yes.”
She continued out the door, thankful the air had warmed. She must have lost her shawl in the struggle.
Which way to go?
“You’ll never make it back on foot from here,” he called through the open door.
“Well, certainly not if I stand ‘ere talking to ye!”
She started off, heading toward a horizon that glowed red like a fresh cut. She would go as far as she could before the night swallowed the sun. Maybe civilization was not too far past the horizon. She would find out where she was and how to get home—if Lady Karina’s estate could even be called such a thing.
Not to mention there’d be hell to pay once Lady Karina found the letter had been lost. Perhaps Ophelia might like this new town, stay there a while.
But something wasn’t right. Where were all the trees? The houses and people? The plant life was sparse and silver in the moonlight—not the usual greenery common to England. Even the air felt different here—warmer, heavier—and the breeze lacked the scents of oak and pine.
Ophelia righted the buttons on her gown, but left her apron unpinned. Her leather, high-button boots crunched across the dry grass, and a second pair of feet shushed behind her. She crossed her arms, about to turn around, but the man grabbed her first. Before she could take another breath, they were back in the cabin. It felt as though she’d fallen and thudded to the ground, but she was still standing.
“Ophelia,” the man said softly.
A lightness rushed to her head, and her heart fluttered, be it from nerves or the sudden change of location or just the gentle timber of his voice. She tilted her head, but couldn’t turn enough to see him. “Ye know my name?”
He reached past her and closed the door before releasing her. “I was sent for you, and, frankly, you’re better off with me. You won’t make it back to Great Paxton from here.”
“Won’t I?” she asked, turning toward him. She narrowed her gaze, scrutinizing how this man could have gotten her back into the cabin so quickly.
“No.” He stepped too close for comfort. “You won’t. You’re thousands of miles away, in Damascus, and you’ve travelled through time and space to get here. Going back is impossible.”
Damascus? Did he think her so foolish as to believe such a claim? She straightened her shoulders, refusing to back away, refusing to let him see the nerves that tingled in her chest and stomach.
“Nothing,” Ophelia said, “is impossible.”
The man smiled, amusement crinkling the lines around his earthy-brown eyes. “Good to hear that, as it will make my job much easier. Please, just sit with me for one hour and listen to what I have to say. After that, I will leave you alone, if you wish.”
Ophelia huffed.
“One ‘our,” she said sharply. “And only as I need ye to explain where I am and ‘ow to make my way back to the forest.”
Chapter 3
Damascus, 1808
With the descent of night came a chill. Ophelia huddled by the fire, a tattered wool blanket pulled tight around her arms. The man, who had introduced himself as ‘Ethan Forrester of Rome’ sat a foot away, his elbows resting on his tucked-up knees.
“Ye do not truly go by Ethan, do ye?”
The man chuckled. “Of course I do. You are referring to my origins, I presume. I was born Etán, but became Ethan over time. Forrester was my family’s name; they were British. I, however, hail from an orphanage in Rome.”
He said it lightly, like being abandoned by one’s own family meant nothing. Ophelia didn’t know how to respond.
“Do you know what became of your mother after your father’s passing?” he asked.
“My mother? What do ye know of my mother?” Ophelia’s inner walls shot back up. How could he possibly know anything about her family?
Ethan set his deep, maple-brown eyes on her. “They’ve been watching you since your arrival at Lady Karina’s estate.”
“Who’s been watching me?” The burning on Ophelia’s neck was so intense now that even the pressure of her hand would not ease the pain.
“Forgive me,” Ethan said. He reached for a small bowl of red fluid near the fire and scooted closer to her. A small cloth rested in the wooden bowl, one corner stained by the contents. “Let me ease the sting first. Then I will explain.”
As he kneeled in front of her, the fire casting his shadow over her small frame, her heartbeat quickened. Given his sudden proximity, his shoulders seemed wider, his physique more rugged. Ophelia repressed her urge to touch his arm and instead clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
Ethan rested the dish on the ground at her side, and she swallowed, lifting her eyes slowly to meet his gaze. He stared back for a long moment, then cleared his throat.
“Do you mind?” he asked, touching the top button of her gown. “I’ll need to treat the welt directly.”
The gesture was entirely inappropriate, yet with the pain working deeper into her neck, Ophelia found she didn’t want to move—didn’t want to risk the rub of her gown against the burning mark of the serpent.
The idea of him seeing her exposed in any way stirred unease in her stomach, but when she looked up at him, at his warm, gentle eyes, her worries came undone. She froze, unsure what to do, somehow persuaded by the pain of the serpent’s mark and the man’s close, gentle proximity.
Finally, she nodded, dropping the wool blanket from her shoulders to the floor, and held her breath as he slowly unbuttoned her gown. His fingers lingered on each button, his hands trembling. His demeanor suggested a gentleness—a concern—but his shallow breaths suggested something more, perhaps an effort to control a more intimate desire.
Ophelia’s heart raced, and when he reached the button between her breasts, her breath caught in her throat and warmth spread across her chest and up to her ears.
It was not fear she felt then, not as she should, but rather an attraction to this strange man from whom she knew she needed to escape.
“I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.” Ethan averted his eye as he finished unbuttoning her gown halfway down to her navel. He grabbed the wool blanket and draped it around Ophelia’s midsection, allowing her to ease the gown from her shoulders and slip out of her chemise and stays without exposing her breasts. “Perhaps a drink would help?”
Ophelia smiled weakly. “Please.”
Ethan poured her a glass of wine, which she drank quickly and set aside. She couldn’t seem to escape his stare, the way he looked at her as though he wanted to take her in all at once, to absorb everything from the hair framing her face to her very soul.
She stared down at her lap, trying to focus on the moth-eaten holes along the edges of the woolen blanket.
�
��Your mother”—Ethan dipped the end of the rag in the red fluid of the bowl—“she was taken the same as I’ve taken you, but not for the same reason or by the same people.”
“She’s alive?”
He pressed the rag against the mark, and Ophelia winced, but soon the fluid cooled the sting. “I’m sorry. She died not long after.”
Tears bit at Ophelia’s eyes, and her short-lived hope wilted in her chest. For a moment, she thought this man might be able to help her find her mother. Instead he was lying to her, trying to get her to give up, to throw her off track. Her mother couldn’t be dead.
“I won’t hear any more of this,” she spat, slanting her eyes toward him. “None! You are a liar, and a sick, vile man to lie of such a thing!”
Ethan stared back but said nothing, and Ophelia’s chest ached with an unnatural weight. Would her mother be gone this long without sending word? Ophelia shook her head. She couldn’t entertain these thoughts. Her mother could very well be prisoner somewhere, stuck wherever she was as Ophelia was stuck now. But dead? If Ophelia believed that, there would be nothing worth living for.
Ophelia rose to her feet and glared at him. “Ye are a horrible, vile man.”
Ethan stood, and Ophelia stepped back. He approached, touching her shoulder as she pressed her hand to the serpent’s mark.
“Ophelia,” he said gently. “I know this grieves you—”
With her free hand, Ophelia pounded his chest once, pushing him away. “Ye don’t know anything about me! Or my family!”
He advanced again, this time pulling her to his body before she could hit him. She dissolved into tears, crying hard against his chest as he held her there. He smoothed a hand over her hair.
“I’m sorry, Ophelia.”
Lord, she knew he was speaking the truth. She knew in her heart, as much as she wished to deny it, and she’d known for a long time. Ophelia was no fool. Women who went missing for long periods of time, such as her mother, never returned. And perhaps the same fate would befall Ophelia if she didn’t push her emotions aside and focus on her own predicament.
“And why ‘ave ye taken me?” she whispered, trembling now, stepping back again.
“This world is filled with evils that stretch beyond the darkness of humanity. You and I”—he rubbed the stubble on his jaw and breathed deeply—“we’ve been selected for a reason. And we are not alone, all of us marked with the serpent.”
Ophelia pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. This man was unstable. “I need to leave, now, Ethan. I appreciate the help with . . . ” the serpent’s mark. She raised her gaze to meet his. “Let me see your mark again.”
Ethan pulled at the collar of his shirt, revealing the mark on his own neck.
She studied it more carefully this time. Yes, indeed it was identical to her own. She bit her lip. No, this couldn’t be right. She shook her head, gaze steady on Ethan, a sudden boldness swelling in her core. “Ye did this to me! Tell me ‘ow ye broke into Lady Karina’s estate—into my chambers!”
“Ophelia, you’re in no danger. Don’t you think I would have hurt you by now if I planned to? I could easily restrain you and stop you from leaving—and I will, if I must. But for now, I request you sit and listen.”
She didn’t sit.
Ethan sighed and sat by the fire himself.
“When I was called, I heard a drum beating. I was lying out in the pasture, and the sound was so demanding I could feel it.” He glanced back to Ophelia. “I followed it, and that is how I met my guardian. I found her where the music led, though she was not the one playing. No one was. I know you heard your song, too, Ophelia.”
The violin. But he could be making that up. Though if he were, he made for an exceptional liar. Ophelia sat on the floor a few feet away from him. “What is it?”
“The music?” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “It’s how you know. Your calling.”
“And if I still don’t know?”
“Some people ignore, some evade, some deny. But you always know.”
“Maybe ye are wrong.”
He sighed, stretching his legs out in front of the fire, crossing them at the ankles. “I will tell you of those that are marked, such as we are. The Universe chose us because of our heritage—because we were born to dual breeds.”
He couldn’t possibly mean . . . “I’ve only heard the term once before. ‘Dual-breeds’. My mother—” Her throat tightened, but she swallowed the pain and continued. “My mother spoke of them in the fairytales she told me as a child. ‘ow did ye know of ‘er stories?”
“They aren’t stories, Ophelia.” He rubbed his temples. His hands were chapped, as though he’d spent months in the cold or working outdoors. “What did she tell you?”
“She told me about the elementals. Cruor were Earth, I remember that. Strigoi were Air—no, that’s not right. Water. The Ankou were Air. There were others, too, yes?”
Ethan nodded. “Chibold for Fire. And in more recent centuries, we’ve had the Witches as well.”
“I was enchanted by Mother’s stories. Sometimes terrified.”
Ethan shook his head. “At least she told you,” he said. He wrung the cloth and started again with fresh red liquid on the mark. “I was completely in the dark until my guardian came.”
“What ‘appened to ‘im?”
“Her,” he said. “She was killed in the war, trying to protect me.”
A war? Hadn’t her mother mentioned a war? Not in her stories, no—it’d been something Ophelia had overheard her mother talking to her father about. Ophelia had been sitting by her bedroom door, holding her breath to listen as her parents spoke in hushed tones in the kitchen. She came out of the room, asked for a glass of water. Her mother smiled then. Weakly.
Ophelia shook away the memories and returned her gaze to Ethan. “What war?”
“That’s why you’re here.” He pushed the fluid back toward the fire. Here, so close to him, Ophelia could see the fire reflecting off the golden flecks in his eyes. “The dual breeds are under attack. Your mother was one of them, as was my father. They were dual breeds who mated with humans, and for that, you are one of the chosen. As am I, having been born to a man who was part Cruor and part Strigoi and a woman who was human. While having at least one human parent has rendered us both human from birth, we’ve always had a connection to this. Now we must take on a new form and work silently to help save the dual-breed races.”
Ethan spoke of Ophelia’s mother’s stories as though they were real, and unease swelled in the pit of her stomach. “I’m not sure what ye are attempting to imply. What does any of this ‘ave to do with the serpent’s mark? Or why ye took me here?”
“Once our kind—those of us who are marked—accept our calling to work for the Universe, we might help restore peace among our races.”
Among our races? The pit in her stomach grew to the size of a large squash. “Ethan, please. What are ye talking about?”
“Otherwise, we all die.” He leveled his gaze at her. “Some of us sooner than others.”
Chapter 4
Damascus, 1808
Ethan looked over to her with those deep brown eyes, as though seeing her for the first time. How did this man know so much of her mother’s fairytales? Why would he try to convey these ideas as any kind of truth?
She pleaded at him with her gaze, silently begging him to stop talking such nonsense. Elemental races? Ophelia scoffed and glanced toward the door, contemplating running from him, from all the things he was saying to her.
His expression melted into something softer, and he closed his eyes. “I apologize. I counted too heavily on your knowledge from your mother’s stories. Please understand there is no easy way to say this. You will hear this now, but you will not accept it until much later. I just pray you do not fight it for long, because we don’t have much time.”
“Time for what?”
“Let us start at the beginning, please,” Ethan said. “You expressed some knowledge of our world�
��the elemental world. Put aside your mother’s stories for a moment. Do you believe in a higher power?”
Ophelia eyed him slowly, taking in the sincerity of his expression. Even with the scruff along his jaw and the haunting quality of his eyes, she could see he was a gentle man.
“I do,” she said finally.
“Do you think this higher power would want good things for the lives of humans?”
“Of course.”
“Yes, of course,” he repeated. “Shortly after humans were put on Earth, the Universe—this is what I know as our higher power—found that there was an evil on this earth as well. This evil consumed some of the humans, and those humans brought harm to others. This is when the creation of the Cruor came about, because, as you must understand, the Universe can only create. It cannot destroy.”
“Cruor, the earth elementals,” Ophelia interjected. “They were born from this earth, people once buried alive. They feed off the life of ‘umans by drinking their blood. Sunlight can kill them. Legends.”
This was her understanding from her mother’s stories, but how true it was, Ophelia still had her doubts.
Ethan nodded. “These are not just stories, Ophelia. This is the history of our world. I will show you.”
With that, he reached behind him and pulled a knife from a sheath located at his hip. Ophelia’s entire body tensed, and she leaned back. She’d misjudged him . . . relaxed her guard too soon. She needed to wait in calm until she knew exactly what he was doing, but she also needed to be ready to sprint for the door in the event it wasn’t anything good.
“Take an apple from the dish on the counter and bring it here,” he ordered.
Ophelia wasn’t going to argue with a man holding a knife. On her way back with the apple, she glanced at the door again. Now might be the perfect time to—
“I won’t hurt you, Ophelia. Now bring me the apple and sit down.”
Warily, she sat in the same place as before and rolled the apple across the floor to him. He laughed as it teetered to a stop by his knee, and Ophelia’s cheeks burned. She shouldn’t be embarrassed to be afraid of this man, but she was.
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