Sacrifice In Stone

by Mason, Patricia

  “What does that mean?” Lucy asked.

  “From what I can tell from this translation the three sacrifices are British soldiers who had been socializing at the local tavern where a couple of the brothers plied them with drink and lured them to a network of caves Sir Francis had excavated beneath West Wycombe hill.”

  “I just worry about finding a designated driver when I go out drinking,” Lucy said. “These poor guys had to worry about getting trapped into some kind of black mass.”

  Garrick remembered the scene well. He and the other lads had stopped at the village on their way to join a new regiment. A drink or two had seemed an innocent diversion. One he sorely needed after his time in the war against the French in the colonies. What harm could there be in one night of leisure?

  He’d discovered the cost when he awoke stretched upon a slab. Through a groggy haze he’d seen his fellows in a similar quandary. A group of at least a dozen figures garbed in white robes, hoods obscuring their faces, encircled them. Garrick had sought to fight against the ties that bound him to the marble, but his limbs had a strange lethargy. Weakness in his normally strong body and fog in his brain? He realized he’d been drugged.

  “Black mass is right,” Mara said. “The journal says that Garrick was blooded, which seems to mean that he was stabbed and his blood was allowed to run onto the stone. Then he was raised from the slab and given a dagger to do battle with my ancestor.”

  Yes, the battle. At first, he’d managed to do more than hold his own in the fight against a man unencumbered by blood loss and drugs. He’d sliced Rushworth’s forearm with a lunging jab.

  “Damn. Can you not hold the blighter? He’s taken a chunk of me,” Rushworth said as he stepped away from the staggering Garrick.

  “You must finish him for the transfer to complete,” the priestess said. “However, do not allow your blood to touch the stone.”

  Rushworth took a step forward and swung his dagger in a tentative arc that missed by a foot. Shaking his head, Garrick’s vision cleared and he lunged forward. Grabbing the bigger man around the middle, he’d hung on.

  “Gads. Do something.” Rushworth struggled to escape. “He’s still has the strength of an ox.”

  One of the others encircling them jabbed Garrick in the back with a torch. He gasped at the pain. The smell of burning flesh overpowered the space. The blow was enough to allow Rushworth to extricate himself and he’d jerked back, narrowly avoiding Garrick’s desperate lunge with a dagger to his midsection.

  “Damnation, he almost cut me,” Rushworth said.

  “Continue to mewl and you will not be blessed by the goddess.” The tone of the leader, who Garrick assumed now was Sir Francis Dashwood, was disgusted. “Consider yourself fortunate to be given this opportunity to bring glory and fortune to yourself and your family.”

  Garrick’s vision blurred. He blinked at the sweat burning his eyes, a gritty mixture of perspiration and the ash from the torches lining the walls of the cave.

  “Hurry,” the priestess said as the struggle continued. “If he loses too much blood to the ground in this contest there may not be enough for the stone.”

  Fighting to remain conscious, Garrick circled Rushworth. Even in his weakened state he would have been more than a match for the blighter, but he was undone when he felt the flat of a palm strike him between the shoulder blades and propel him toward his opponent in an ungainly stumble into Rushworth’s blade. It was buried to the hilt and Garrick knew he was dying. Dead already as the robed monks dragged him back to his marble slab.

  “That’s it. Lay him on it.”

  Memory wasn’t clear, more as a puddle of spring rain on a dirt road. As he lay bleeding, the stone beneath him had softened and began to settle around him with the consistency of quicksand. Garrick had strained then against the sinking of his body into the stone. The more he struggled to free himself, the weaker he became. The more he thrashed, the more his body hardened. Until he himself was the stone.

  Chapter Two

  “This won’t work,” Lucy said. “Even if I’m not suffering some sympathetic insanity and this statue moved, it would take too much blood to bring him back. More blood than you can spare.”

  “I had some of my blood stored. It’s in the car.” Mara shot a glare at her friend. “Don’t argue with me. Just help me. I have to save him.”

  “Save him,” Lucy said almost to herself. “I see…this is about your parents.” She reached out a hand to Mara. “You couldn’t save your parents, so now you have to save him. Even if you do, what will he be like? Two and a half centuries encased in stone would make me insane. What if he wants to kill you for being a Rushworth?”

  A horror movie scream broke the silence of the museum—the ringtone setting Mara had assigned to her uncle. Tugging away from her friend’s well-meaning but unwelcome concern, she pulled out the device and examined the face. She couldn’t help a full-toothed grimace. “I knew it! Uncle Hobart.”

  “Don’t answer it,” Lucy said. “He doesn’t have any control over you now that you’re in grad school. Okay, maybe he controls your trust fund.”

  The screaming phone continued relentlessly. It would go to voicemail with one more ring.

  “Yes, but he’ll suspect something if I don’t answer. I don’t want him to go looking for the Transfero Vita until after I’ve freed Garrick.” Mara flipped the phone open. “Hello, Uncle.” Hopefully, he would attribute the slightly choked tone of her voice to cell phone static.

  “What are you doing?” Uncle Hobart demanded from across the miles.

  “Do you really expect me to answer that question with something other than, none of your business?”

  Lucy made a triumphant face and gave a thumbs-up.

  “An important business transaction tanked a few minutes ago. Inexplicably, the seller refused to sign the paperwork, got up and walked away from the table without even trying to bargain for more money.”

  “Thanks for the news flash. What does your deal have to do with me?

  “You did something. What was it?”

  “Your failed deal can hardly be my fault. I’m hundreds of miles away.” Crap. She hadn’t intended to tell him anything about where she was.

  Silence pulsed at her over the phone line. Finally, he spoke again. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in—”

  Lucy mouthed something and Mara latched on.

  “I’m in Miami with Lucy. At her parents’ condo.”

  “Hmm. Are you now?”

  “Yes, it’s balmy here.”

  “Right.”

  He’d bought it. But then she had retreated to Lucy’s various homes around the globe more than once in the past to get away from his noxious presence.

  “I expect to see you in my office when you get back. We have some trust fund business to discuss.”

  “Whatever,” Mara answered, and punched the end button. She glanced at Lucy. “I think we’re okay…for now. He didn’t say anything about that nosy director calling him, so I don’t think he knows we’re here.”

  Picking up the journal from where she’d tossed it on the bench earlier, Mara paged through, scanning the contents. “There was something in here about the soldier’s life being sacrificed so that my family’s assets would increase. It must be true. Waking Garrick for just a few minutes apparently caused a ripple in the family fortune.”

  “So, what if you’re successful in freeing him totally?” Lucy asked. “Financial meltdown?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Your uncle would go totally psycho.”

  “To put it mildly.” Mara glanced at the clock on the wall. “Almost time for the museum to close. Now we see how difficult this will really be.”

  The expression on Lucy’s face was resigned. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  * * * * *

  In the end, it was ridiculously easy for Mara to confound the museum security. As Lucy flirted outrageously with the guard, Mara pretended to wave goodbye
and made a show of leaving the building. However, she doubled back and hid herself away in the ladies’ room. At one time, this must have been the family bathroom on the first floor level of the Victorian mansion that housed the museum.

  The only difficulty was opening the antiquated window, which had been painted partially shut. She closed the lid of the toilet, climbed on top and broke through the paint seal with a nail file. The sash was stubborn, but she quickly muscled the window up.

  Lucy was on the other side with her supplies. “I don’t like what you’re doing.” She handed the backpack through the opening. “You’re going to end up dead…or a statue in this museum. I warn you now. I’m only going to visit you on free admission days.”

  “Have a little faith. Everything will be fine.” Mara smiled, trying to project more confidence than she felt. Fifteen more minutes until the museum closed.

  After more assurances and promises to call, Mara secured the window and slipped out of the ladies’ room to find somewhere to hide. She quickly stumbled across the director’s office. Dispensing with the lock by use of a skeleton key—thank goodness for historic preservation—Mara cracked open the door. No one inside.

  Footsteps sounded at a distance but then came closer. Scurrying into the office, Mara scanned the four corners. Under the desk? No. She’d be seen for sure. The desk was sleek. Cherry with Queen Anne-style legs. No bulky drawers to hide her.

  Spotting a door on the opposite side of the room, Mara prayed it was a closet. Throwing open the door, she saw she was right. She squeezed in and shut the door. It was cramped, but there was just enough room for her body and the backpack among the office supplies, hanging sweater and broken printer.

  Eight minutes to six. She could stand being cooped up in the closet for the time it would take the staff to close and leave the building. It would only be ten, maybe fifteen minutes. There in the dark, with the closet door at her front and the wall at her sides and back, the air seemed stale. As if it didn’t have enough oxygen content.

  Claustrophobia.

  No amount of childhood counseling had cured it completely. Mara had learned some tricks to control it. Breathing deeply, she pictured strolling along a beach with the vast ocean stretched out before her. Soon the mounting panic ebbed. She could make it. Good thing. For someone trying to hide, it might not be so cool to burst out of the closet, screaming.

  She should concentrate on Garrick. Not long now and she would find out if all of it was true or whether it was just some kind of illusion, a fantasy. No, it couldn’t be. Lucy had seen him move. Yes, but Mara had heard of shared hysteria. Maybe Lucy was sharing her delusion.

  Was it a delusion that at seventeen she seen the statue’s eye blinking at her? Brown. The color of melting chocolate. Later that night she’d dreamed of kissing a handsome man clad in the uniform of an eighteenth century British soldier. With mahogany-colored hair caught at his nape with a tie, he had strong features…and a chocolate gaze. His arms banded around her and his lips had touched hers so gently.

  “Only you,” he’d said as his breath whispered across her face. Mara awoke still feeling his hands on her body and tasting his mouth.

  Over the years there had been more dreams of the soldier with the chocolate eyes. No boy—or man—could compete with her dream man. She’d even slept with one candidate with horrible results. The whole thing felt wrong. Like a betrayal.

  What would Lucy have thought of the dreams if Mara had had the guts to tell her? Psychosis fueled by raging teenage hormones, hatred of her uncle and a martyr complex all rolled into one not-so-tidy ball? Yeah. If Lucy had said as much, a part of Mara would have had a hard time disagreeing with her.

  Once she had the museum completely to herself, she’d use the blood she had stored in the dry ice container in her backpack. It would work. It had to work.

  * * * * *

  It didn’t work. The blood coated the statue’s chest and arms. Stone chest and arms. The blood had made no effect. No change. No movement.

  Thinking that perhaps the cold temperature was the problem. Mara used the microwave in the staff kitchen to heat the bag of blood. She dipped her fingers into the warm stickiness and painted some of the substance onto the statue’s hand. She waited. Nothing. Nothing but a big mess of goo congealing on the statue and on the floor.

  Now what? Clearly, the bagged blood wasn’t going to do the job.

  The only option left was to cut herself. If that didn’t work? It would be a long night in the museum.

  After arranging her first-aid kit supplies on a nearby bench, Mara extracted her Swiss army knife from the front pocket of her backpack. Swiping an alcohol swab over the blade, she prepared to cut her wrist.

  The blade scrapped along the ivory skin. The hesitation cut measured about a half inch long and stung as if a flame had touched her flesh. A few drops of blood welled and she pressed the wound to the side of Sacrifice. Almost immediately, a nickel-sized spot became flesh.

  She would have to make a bigger cut.

  Taking one, two, three deep breaths, Mara inhaled one more time and held as she slashed. She didn’t want to hit an artery, but had to get a good flow. The resulting gash was ragged and gushing. Hurriedly pressing it again to the stone, Mara noted the lack of pain. She would probably feel it later.

  The room seemed to move around her, so Mara leaned against the statue to stop herself from toppling over. Losing consciousness wouldn’t be good. She had to be awake to stop herself from bleeding out. Blinking, deliberately trying to clear her vision, she felt as if a black fabric covered her eyes. Were her eyes open?

  Mara, stop it, she shouted at herself, forcing her lids upward.

  Stay awake. Stay. Awake. Awake. Stay…

  * * * * *

  Mara opened her eyes to see a face above her. This beloved face, framed with mahogany shoulder-length hair, was from her dreams. She recognized its straight nose, full lips and eyes of the sweetest chocolate. Those eyes stared into hers, a slight crease of concern between his brows.

  “Am I dreaming again?” Mara fought the mist clouding her brain. Were her eyes open or closed? What had she been doing before she’d fallen asleep?

  “No, my lady.” The dream man she’d always thought of as Garrick smiled. His lips quirked with the left side higher than the right. “You are finally awake.”

  Mara felt the floor beneath her legs. Her upper body reclined on Garrick’s lap, his arms strong around her.

  “What happened?” Memory tumbled back. The museum. The blood. “I did it!” she said. Her voice—weak and faint—didn’t sound as triumphant as she felt.

  “If by that you mean you almost killed yourself, then you are correct,” Garrick answered with a frown. “How could you have been so mad?”

  “Thanks for the gratitude.” Mara jerked upright and out of his arms. The room around her suddenly shifted as if she were on a boat, a shaky rowboat. So when Garrick tugged her back into his arms, she fell happily.

  “I am grateful, profoundly grateful,” he said. His hand framed her cheek and then caressed her brow. “Nevertheless, if I had not the skill I learned from our regiment’s doctor, I could not have stopped the bleeding from your wrist and you would have died.”

  Mara glanced down at the neat bandage over her cut and then toward the bench at her side. The first-aid items she’d laid out had been put to good use.

  “Well, it wasn’t my plan to pass out,” Mara said. “I was going to patch myself up once I had you free. I was going to—”

  His eyes locked with hers. What had she been about to say?

  “Ummm,” she mumbled.

  His lips were only inches from hers. She’d kissed them in a dream. How would they feel against hers outside a dream world?

  “I can’t believe I did it,” she muttered as she examined the slight indentation in his chin. She couldn’t help herself from lifting her hand to place a finger gently to the spot. Tracing her finger over his angular chin, she caressed a line down his neck
. “You’re real.” She felt the Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “I’m not crazy.”

  “I—” She saw his heartbeat in the hollow at the base of his neck. His chest rose and fell, a motion that quickened under her examination. His face descended to within inches of hers.

  “Stop,” he said, placing a finger against her lips. “I would put that mouth to a different use than speaking words.”

  Garrick had waited lifetimes in his stone prison to kiss this woman. Mara had been fated to be his. Her hair was shorter now than five years ago, but she was just as beautiful as he remembered. For the first time he could not regret the suffering he’d endured buried alive in a stone sarcophagus. That time had brought him to Mara.

  Keeping his eyes wide, his mouth slanted over hers. His lips moved against hers, searching, needily rough and then caressingly soft in turns. He twisted, finding a new, deeper angle to drink from her. Slipping through into the soft, warm cavern of her mouth, his tongue found hers and the two tangled and played together.

  The feel of her fingers clutching at his hair, as if she were holding his head in place over hers, was more intoxicating than any wine he’d ever tasted. She held him to her as if she could not get enough of his kiss, his touch…

  Her hands swept downward, stroking his back before settling at the waistband of his trousers. They hovered before they moved to clutch at the cheeks of his buttocks through the rough wool uniform fabric. His cock went hard as granite. Straining. Aching. Her hands on him were such pleasure it was painful. The feel of her breasts, even under the cotton of her dress, tormented him.

  He dragged his mouth from hers. “Aghhh. We must stop,” he groaned out. If this sensuous torture did not cease he would take her here on the floor. She deserved more consideration, particularly when she must be weak with blood loss.

  Licking her reddened lips, she blinked up at him. “Yes, you’re right.” She scrambled to her feet. “Let’s get out of here. We can go back to my hotel.” Mara took hold of Garrick’s arm and pulled him toward the exit.