Legends of the Damned: A Collection of Edgy Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels

by Lindsey R. Loucks

  She tried to widen the hole with her shoulders, but all she succeeded in doing was scratching her neck. Crouching down again, she carefully pulled the coat over her head, holding on to the nearest beam of wood in the roof to keep her balance. Then she forced upwards with her back, using all her strength. A loud crack sounded as one of the supporting branches gave way and her shoulders were able to rise above the gap she'd opened wide.

  Hoping the noise of breaking wood was covered by the wind, she crawled upwards. She hauled herself through the hole, sucking in a deep breath as the branches and bundled thatch scraped her sides. Without the protection of the great coat she would have been torn to shreds. As it was, she would probably be bruised from neck to knee.

  Finally, she was outside in the damp night air, clinging to the thatch as she sagged there, trying to gather her strength. Repeatedly adjusting the coat, she crawled to the edge of the roof and looked down. The ground seemed very far away.

  There was no convenient tree to climb down, but there was a pile of canvas-covered building materials directly under the eave of the house. Praying that it was more thatch and not lumber and nails, she crawled over the edge, dangling in the air for an endless moment. The she let go.

  She hit the canvas pile with a thump. Though her hope that it was more thatch was probably correct, it didn't really matter since it felt like she had landed on a pile of lumber. Testing each limb gingerly, she gave thanks that at least all her bones appeared to be intact. Grimacing, she moved off the pile, stepping carefully on the muddy ground. She made her way to the side of the house.

  Holding her breath, she peeked around the corner. Thankfully there was no sign of either guard. Picking up the hem of the coat, she ran to the shelter of the trees on the left side of the house. She kept running until she was deep in the woods.

  Chapter Seven

  Despite Isobel's familiarity with the woods, her wild flight in the dark ensured she was lost for nearly an hour. It would have been much longer if she hadn't stumbled on the stream that bisected the woods into northern and southern halves. She followed the stream for nearly a mile before coming to the hollow fallen log where she had hidden her insurance policy.

  There were two bags, one filled with clothing and a much smaller one with a few essentials. It was in this second one that she dug into first, pulling out a jar of salve she'd made from one of her grandmother's recipes. Trying to be quick, she spread some on the cuts and scrapes on her arms and neck with numb fingers.

  Thankfully, her smash cash hoard was also present. There were ten pounds in notes and coins at the bottom of the sack and an additional twenty sewn into the lining. It represented all of the money she'd earned in her current and former positions as well as the sad remnant of what she'd inherited when her parents died.

  For a moment, Isobel bowed her head, the weight of tonight's events pressing down on her.

  It's going to be all right.

  Her foresight in hiding these things in the woods meant she had a real chance now. Of course, never in her wildest nightmares had she imagined that these would be the circumstances that led to her flight. She'd always imagined an accident would lead to her exposing her abilities, necessitating a swift departure.

  Well, in a way some aspects of that fear had come true, she thought, pulling out a black dress and petticoats from the larger bag.

  Dressing in the clean drawers, wool stockings, and flannel chemise was a trial in the dark since she'd had to abandon the warmth of the stolen great coat to do so. The icy wind bit into her flesh, slowing her progress as her trembling hands hurriedly donned the rest of her clothing. Yanking an extra pair of her own socks over her feet, she put on the new low leather half boots she'd spent a month’s wages on.

  At the time, she'd thought them an exorbitant addition to her escape provisions, but now she thanked the impulse that had made her buy them. With one last regretful glance at the greatcoat and muddy socks, she pulled on her hooded cape and gathered her belongings.

  Wrapping the stolen items together, she bent low to shove them into the log. It would have been nice to keep the coat longer since it was still raining, but if they pursued her then she wanted to ensure they would have as few possible signs of her direction as possible. And it wasn't like she could take it with her. A woman wearing a man's garment would attract too much attention.

  Streaks of light were starting to lighten the sky. Any minute now, the guards would come to collect her body and discover Matteo—alive?—on the floor and her gone.

  She needed to be as far away from this place as possible.

  Chapter Eight

  Matteo's head felt like it had been split in half. Disappointment and despair flooded him. It wasn't the headache that disturbed him. He deserved the pain, but feeling it meant he was still alive when by rights, in a just world, he should have been dead.

  He didn't want to open his eyes. If he did, he would see what he had done. He wasn't sure what that was. His memories of being the monster were always vague and shadowy. Some days he woke up to himself with no recollection of the night before. But there would be no escaping the reality of what he was when he found the body.

  And there was always a body. There was no way he would be here now, aware and conscious-stricken, if there wasn't. He couldn't be himself without death.

  If his father loved him, he would let him die. But he was his father's only heir and Aldo Garibaldi never gave up, no matter what the cost. The price didn't matter to his father, but it mattered to him.

  He had to find a way to die.

  This desperate voyage to England had given him hope for a brief time. There had been a plan and chance for a cure. But days after their arrival had seen those hopes dashed. For a time, he'd ignored the truth and pretended. He lied to himself, crafting a little fantasy over a pair of more green-than-hazel eyes and auburn hair.

  A shooting pain in his chest stole the air from his lungs.

  Isobel.

  A hazy memory of her wide and frightened eyes came back to him.

  Oh, God, no!

  How could his father have done this to him? It was bad enough waking to a body, but to know that it was her was destroying him.

  There was no more tomorrow, he thought, tears stinging at his eyes. Despite the horror of the nightmare he was living now, he hadn't cried before. He'd torn out his hair and vomited on more than one occasion, but he hadn't cried. Weeping gutturally on the floor, his pressed his face to the floorboards for a long time.

  Get up.

  He had to prepare her body. He wasn't going to let his father's men do it. No one would touch his Isabella but him. He'd bury her himself.

  And then he would find a knife or a pistol to end this. Finally. Maybe he would catch a glimpse of her in the afterlife on his way to hell.

  Stiff from a night on the ground, Matteo opened his eyes and sat up slowly. He braced himself for the sight of Isobel's body, but froze instead.

  The cottage was empty. He stood up, spinning around to take in the whole room. No one. Pulling the cover off the bed, he checked to make sure she wasn't hidden there, but thankfully there was nothing.

  Had his father already been here? Was he trying to hide what he'd done? Aldo had to know Matteo would never forgive him for choosing Isobel. Had his men spirited her body away while he slept?

  He went up to the door, banging on it and shouting—even kicking it a few times before he realized his feet were bare. As usual, he was ignored. The men never opened the door until his father showed his face, and Aldo calmly waited until after his breakfast before making an appearance.

  Matteo had managed to crack the old wooden door with his fists by the time it was finally opened.

  His father was standing behind his servants, Nino and Ottavio, who kept their distance from the door as they always did when they came to release him after one of his bad spells.

  “Where is she?” he bellowed, running forward.

  His father opened his eyes wide, taking
Matteo's hands to hold him aside while the servants hurried past him. He shook off the restraint and grabbed the lapel of Aldo's coat.

  “How could you do that? Why did you have to choose her?” he asked hoarsely.

  His father started to roll his eyes before stopping himself. “She was the one you wanted,” he said dismissively.

  “Not for this! I wanted to court her!”

  Aldo suppressed a sneer, but his face was tight. “You know that was impossible, now please stand aside while we clean up here.”

  Matteo was about to protest that he'd already done that when Ottavio came back outside.

  “She's not here.”

  Shock and surprise froze Matteo to the spot. His father hadn't had Isobel's body removed before he woke. The old man looked just as stunned as he did. Aldo pushed past him, going over to stand next to Nino, who was staring wide-eyed at the hole in the ceiling.

  “How can this be?” the Conte asked in a low voice.

  Matteo staggered back into the cottage and collapsed in the chair, next to the remnants of a broken lamp. He took in the rest of the room once more and looked down at his bare feet.

  “She's alive. I'm myself, and she's alive,” he rasped.

  Isobel had escaped death at his hands last night. Somehow, against all odds, she'd found a way. His missing greatcoat and socks were proof of that. The weather had been bitterly cold the last few nights. She'd taken what she could to protect herself from the elements.

  Alive, alive, alive.

  He shut his eyes and thanked the god he'd thought had forsaken him.

  When he opened his eyes, Ottavio was walking back inside.

  “She made it over the roof and into the woods. The tracks continue some way past the tree line. She must have escaped after the rain had mostly stopped.”

  “We have to find her. Can you tell what direction she went in?” Aldo asked.

  Matteo lifted his head to his father. “Leave her alone,” he whispered.

  Aldo dismissed him with a wave. “Don't be a fool. We need her. She obviously has magic. There's no way she would have gotten out of here without it—not without killing you first. She did what that puttana crone was supposed to. Look at yourself. You are whole,” he admonished.

  Matteo absorbed that in silence. Was it possible? Did his beautiful Isobel have some magical ability? Had she cured him?

  No, no. It was too much to hope for. He was a monster, a demon from the pit of hell and those were not dispatched so easily. But he wasn't about to disagree with his father.

  “If that's true, Isobel deserves her freedom. Leave her be,” he said, refusing to add that he would search for her on his own.

  He needed to know that she was all right. He had no memory of what he'd done after he saw her face last night. Matteo never remembered what he did during one of his black spells—although he'd seen the strangely pristine bodies the next day.

  Aldo scowled. “We can't take the chance. Not only is there the risk that she'll return to make accusations, but there is every possibility that this cure is temporary. Your affliction could return tomorrow for all we know.” His father gestured to Ottavio. “Take my son back to the house and then come back with Clarence and his hounds. We'll start searching the woods together.”

  “No," he said, rising to his feet. "There's no chance I'm leaving.”

  His father scowled at him. “You need to rest.”

  Matteo shook his head. “I'm fine. I feel better than I have in months,” he said, before finding that it was the honest truth.

  It had been so long since he'd felt this clearheaded. There was no pain or weakness, and despite his half-dressed state he actually felt warm.

  His father still looked skeptical, but Matteo wasn't about to let him hunt down Isobel like some sort of animal. He wasn't leaving.

  Turning to Ottavio, Matteo ordered, “Go fetch me a change of clothes and another coat. I'll be leading the search.”

  Ottavio looked at his father for confirmation, who nodded impatiently. “Do it and be quick about it. We don't have time to waste.”

  Chapter Nine

  Matteo's Uncle Clarence was beside himself with worry when he found out Isobel had survived the night.

  Sir Clarence was all for putting a bullet through her head as soon as they found her, but his father berated him into silence, making it clear that they needed Isobel alive. He finally agreed, but Matteo watched Sir Clarence carefully anyway as they tramped through the muddy forest.

  If his uncle was a threat to Isobel, Matteo would do whatever was necessary to protect her. But he felt like a hypocrite for wanting to give his uncle hell, when he was the one who’d tried to kill her.

  Here and there the dogs caught Isobel's scent, losing it several times in the mud. But they always picked it up again. It was very steady alongside the stream. It had probably been too cold for her to cross it without shoes in order to mask her scent, or she hadn't thought to do so during her flight in the dark.

  About a mile away from the cottage, they found the fallen log with his great coat and mud-crusted socks inside.

  “What the hell is this?” his father asked with a scowl. “Is she running about in her nightgown?”

  Matteo sat on the log and shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “This confirms it. She must be a witch.”

  Sir Clarence swung around to frown at him. “How does this prove that?”

  He hung his head and examined the muddy toes of his Hessians. “I made her nervous. She could see me for what I was, and had the foresight to prepare. This must have been where she hid provisions for a quick escape…in case the worst happened.”

  Well, the worst had befallen her. She'd come within inches of dying at his hands.

  The count swore. “If she had a change of clothes, then she could have made it to Ford village or farther. We must go back to the manor house and fetch horses. We will split up and search the local inns. We mustn’t let her board a carriage, or we'll be forced to pursue her on the roads.”

  They set off at once, dividing into teams. Matteo kept close to his uncle in case they did come upon Isobel unawares. They checked the roads and nearby fields while his father and Nino inquired at the inns where the coaches stopped.

  “She'll go north to Scotland, not London,” Sir Clarence said authoritatively as they rode. “She knows no one in town and has very little resources. If she has any destination in mind, then it's probably some place familiar.”

  “Do you know where her home is?” Matteo asked.

  “No. Some village somewhere in the Highlands. Never caught the name but the other servants might have. I'll have to question them,” Sir Clarence said shifting uncomfortably.

  “What will you tell them about her disappearance?” he asked.

  The baronet shrugged. “That she got a summons from her family. Your father offered his coach to the post road, where she took off on her own.”

  It wasn't a good excuse, but the servants probably wouldn't question their employer too closely, no matter what they secretly believed.

  His father hurried back to them. “The post left at dawn, but there were no passengers taken up here. It's possible she waylaid a private coach further up the road. In any case, there's no sign here,” he said.

  “Maybe she didn't go inside. Did the ostlers see nothing?” he asked.

  “If they did, they're not speaking. We’ll have to check the inn at Etal,” the Conte muttered as he mounted his horse.

  Matteo’s instincts clamored for attention. “That will take too long. I want to go ahead and try to overtake her on the road. We’ll check the nearest border stop,” he said, then turned to Sir Clarence. “Which is the closest crossing?”

  “The post goes from here to Coldstream, but there’s a stage to Norham from Etal too,” he said pensively. “But it's not likely she made it to the stage on foot since it leaves early morning. We're more likely to find her at the Rose and Crown in Etal or hiding somewhere nearby.”


  “Then you stay here while Father goes to Etal. I will go ahead to the border on my own.”

  His father scowled at him. “Not alone. Take Ottavio.”

  That was what he'd expected, but it still annoyed him that he was no longer his own man. “Very well. Ottavio let's go.”

  “Don't let him out of your sight,” his father called to the servant.

  The bullish young man nodded back at his father, and they took off on the north road.

  Chapter Ten

  Matteo watched the inn courtyard from an upper story window. He'd berated Ottavio into waiting outside, but it had taken some effort.

  His father's servant was growing more and more insolent as time went on. But Matteo had won the argument in the end. They needed more than one pair of eyes on the passing coaches, so the man was watching from the stables.

  Of course, it was possible he had chosen incorrectly. They were in Norham, despite the fact the Coldstream post stop had been closer to the manor house. Coldstream was also the most direct route to Edinburgh, and then to the Highlands. From Norham one had to travel to Chimside and then up the circuitous coastal route before getting to Edinburgh. But his instincts said Isobel wouldn't do the expected thing and fly home via the most direct path. She would try and throw them off the scent.

  On horseback, they'd traveled much faster than was possible for the stage coach, using paths that were inaccessible by any sort of conveyance. If Isobel was on the road here, she had to be behind them.

  Matteo sighed and briefly closed his eyes. There was always the possibility that his uncle had been correct and they'd already captured her before she even had a chance to reach either the post or the stage. It was also possible she was taking shelter around Ford.