by Linda Fallon
The flame in the fireplace flared high, and O’Hara felt the heat in his hand, as if the fire itself sparked through the walls of the house, and then shot inside him. He drew his hand away, in pain, and Lionel’s eyes popped open.
“Stop,” Hugh commanded.
When Hugh made such a request, they obeyed. Immediately.
The flame in the fireplace subsided, the heat in O’Hara’s hand disappeared.
The dark force that had once been a man had grown very strong, over the years, and was now a part of the house itself. O’Hara suspected they had never faced anything so dark and powerful.
“Do you hear it?” Lionel asked, his eyes closing again.
“Hear what?” O’Hara asked.
“Laughter.”
*
Scrydan’s eyes opened, and he looked around the room. He could see well in the dark, and he could feel the woman beside him. She was warm, delicate and soft, and she liked to stay close to him. A hand here, the brush of her body against his. It was an unremembered human comfort, this touch.
He inhaled and caught the scent on her skin. Lavender. Closing his eyes for a moment, he breathed deep again and held the air inside his lungs. Lavender and the fragrance of a woman. It was unexpectedly tantalizing. Unexpectedly human. Sweet and almost intoxicating. When he rolled to the side and fixed his mouth on her shoulder, he tasted her. She tasted good.
His fingers probed, and Scrydan felt the intriguing swell of the woman’s breasts through thin linen. She sighed in her sleep, undulating slightly, pressing that softness more deeply into the palm of his hand.
He was stronger than he had been in years.
But not as strong as he would be when he got out of this room.
The witch who had cursed this room, many years ago, had thought a few whispered spells and a sprinkling of herbs would protect her. It had, for a while, and this room had never been the same. But in the end, he had won. He had killed her, just as he’d killed the others. Why did a hint of her damned spell linger? It weakened him, here. It held his power in check.
It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be here forever. He wouldn’t be trapped in this room for long.
The sleeping woman beside him was tempting, but he had other things on his mind. Freedom, most of all.
He slipped out from beneath the covers, being careful not to disturb the sleeping woman. Strong as he was, his limbs were weak, his hands shook.
Scrydan looked down at his new body, a tall, lean body clad in nothing but a pair of wrinkled trousers. It was weak at the moment, yes, but it was healthy enough. All the senses functioned well, as the woman had proved to him. He placed the palm of his hand against his own bare chest, felt the rhythm of the heart beating there and the warmth of his own skin. Yes, it was weak, but soon the body would be as strong as the spirit.
For years he had been stuck in this place, without a body, without a way to communicate clearly with those who walked and rode past. There had always been a few who answered his call, but too many did not. They rode on, oblivious, just out of his reach. And then they’d built the hotel, and he’d found a home at last. Lonely, after so many years of solitude, he had trapped the spirits of those who had died here. When he became hungry for another, he slipped into the body of an unsuspecting person and took over, long enough to take a life, to add to the collection of souls that kept him strong.
This place had fed him well, until the people stopped coming. None of them had ever been as welcoming as this one. He hadn’t known there was even the possibility of finding a body that not only allowed him to stay within, but to grow and flourish. Usually his time within a human body drained him. It was an effort to stay in control for even a few minutes. But this one … this one was different. He was opened to possession in a way Scrydan hadn’t known was possible.
The woman on the bed rolled over, and he sat down beside her. She was pretty enough, he supposed, and she liked this new body he lived within. She craved it, she knew it well. And he hadn’t had a woman in so long.
He reached out and laid his hand on her throat, and with the fingers of the other hand he touched the place on her shoulder where he had tasted her. He had forgotten softness. He had forgotten the feel of skin like silk. The woman had such a delicate throat, and this hand was so large. He squeezed, very gently.
Something in him wanted her. It was the function of the body, male to female, and perfectly understandable. Animal instinct. A human need for pleasure. But more than he wanted this woman, he hated her. She was the one who had pushed him away, who had pulled the other one back from the brink of death. The other one, the soul of Lucien, still lived deep inside this body, but it was weak. Much weaker than anyone knew. Memories of the man Lucien Thorpe had been were still here, and Scrydan knew things about the man’s life and heart. He remembered almost everything the man who had once used this body had known. The soul that had been Lucien Thorpe held on too tight. It lived still, in part because of this woman who lived so deep in his heart.
He shouldn’t hate the woman. He should thank her. If not for her the body would be dead, and Scrydan never would have discovered the miraculous power that allowed him to remain within.
When Lucien Thorpe had stumbled into this house, Scrydan had planned to add him to his collection of souls, and what a powerful soul it was! He had known all along that Lucien was special, but he had not known this was a body he could stay inside for such long periods of time. He had not known he would ever find a man who had a power he could use, a body he could inhabit and eventually own.
Scrydan was here, now, he was inside, and once he was strong enough and Lucien was no more, he could walk out of this house and start a new life.
He’d be walking out alone.
Eve woke to find Lucien sitting beside her, one hand on her throat, his bare chest surely too cold. The snow must’ve stopped. Moonlight shone through the window, at last.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “You should be asleep.”
He blinked once. Twice. And then looked around as if he’d just awakened from a long sleep. “I don’t know.”
She drew back the cover and scooted over. “Get in this bed, right now.”
He complied, slipping under the covers and drawing her close. Holding on tight. Was he stronger than he had been earlier when she’d found him? Yes, she was certain of it.
“You’re not going to start sleepwalking, are you?” she asked.
“I certainly hope not.”
“That could be dangerous. You can’t wander around this awful place in your sleep.”
“Then maybe you’d better hold me close.”
She smiled as she did just that. Lucien’s body against hers was familiar, a comfort and a joy. Yes, she still worried about whether or not they could make this work, she wondered if they would ever get married … But she didn’t want to think about that right now. She wanted to savor the joy of holding the man she loved close.
“Lucien,” she whispered, feeling incredibly warm and safe in his arms. “I don’t like this place.”
“Neither do I.”
“But as long as we stay together, we’ll be all right, won’t we?”
“Of course,” he assured her.
“That … that thing that attacked you, he can’t hurt you while I hold you, can he?”
Lucien hesitated before answering. “No. No he can’t.”
Eve smiled and sighed in relief. “Together we can face anything.”
Lucien stroked her hair, as if he were comforting her. “Sleep, love. Sleep.”
She did.
Six
Lucien opened his eyes slowly. Bright white sunshine flooded through the uncovered window, lighting the long-neglected room. Dust motes danced in the air. The candle on the dresser had been snuffed out when it burned down to a height of less than one inch. For a moment he was surprised to realize that he was alive. Hadn’t he been sure at one moment that he was going to die?
He was warm, beneath th
e covers. Warm, because Evie was under the covers with him, snuggled up against his body, her arms wrapped around him and her head resting against his side. She had said that if she ever needed to be there to pull him from the world of the dead into the world of the living, she would do it.
Last night, she had done just that.
He was amazingly alive, but still so weak that he could not lift his head. The spirits had been doing their best to suck the life out of him. Hadn’t he felt it, draining away? Thoughts of Evie had kept him going, and still … he’d been very aware of the effects of the spirits invading his body.
Vague memories of the night before danced through his tired mind. Evie, coming to him when he thought he was dead. Holding him, sitting beside him, telling him everything would be all right, while she cried just a little. Late last night she’d finally taken off her wedding dress, snuffed out the candle, and crawled into the bed with him.
He didn’t remember much else about last night. And in truth, nothing else mattered except that Evie was here.
It was amazing that she had come to him, after he’d managed to ruin yet another wedding. The woman he loved wanted an elaborate ceremony, and it didn’t seem too much of an imposition to let her be a bride in white, with her friends and family gathered around. He wanted Evie to be happy, to have what she wanted. That didn’t mean he had to enjoy the tumult that came with the wedding.
In the far corner of the room a few twinkling lights appeared. They danced there, not coming any closer, not attacking him as they had when he’d been alone. And they wouldn’t. Not here. Not now.
“Go away,” he whispered hoarsely, and they did.
Evie slept on, and that was good. She was exhausted; he could tell by the way she breathed so even and deep. He drifted toward sleep himself, still drained by his encounter with the residents of the Honeycutt Hotel.
Something dark he did not grasp held the spirits here. Some force he did not understand had ensnared those spirits the way they wanted to ensnare him. This place, this abandoned hotel—it was more than haunted. It was a trap. One in which he had almost been inextricably caught.
He ran a weary hand through Evie’s hair, pulled her close, and let his eyes close. And he wondered, as he quickly fell toward sleep again, if she had thought to bring his specter-o-meter or the ectoplasm harvester.
“No,” she whispered. Daisy stood on the front porch, her green wool cloak over her bridesmaid dress not nearly warm enough for the bone-chilling weather. The sun was shining, and day was unbearably bright. The day was bright because the sun shone down on at least a foot of snow. “No! This just isn’t fair,” she added.
O’Hara came up behind her. “Life isn’t usually fair, Miss Willard.”
Daisy snapped her head around and her chin came up. How had he sneaked up on her like that! Surely this porch had a number of loose boards that would creak when unwanted intruders came about.
“We never get this kind of snow,” she said sharply. “Never.”
“Can’t say never anymore, now can we,” O’Hara said, apparently not at all disturbed by their predicament. He was relaxed as he studied the admittedly beautiful scenery that surrounded the hotel. He rocked very gently back and forth on his heels, his hands in his pockets, his eyes focused on the evergreen trees touched with snow. A half-smile made him look somewhat handsome, and as if he knew a secret. But then, O’Hara knew many secrets, she imagined, thanks to his gift.
Daisy had slept much later than she’d expected she might. When she’d awakened, Katherine was already gone from the room. Daisy had dressed hurriedly, not wishing to be alone any longer than necessary. All the while, as she dressed in her blue gown once again and gathered her hair into a bun with her hands and a few pins, she’d been certain that she’d be headed home soon. Very, very soon. And when she got home she would stay there! Daring escapades might be just fine for some people, but she preferred her nice, quiet, mediocre life.
And then she’d come downstairs, opened the front door, and walked onto the porch to discover that she’d slept through the snowstorm of a lifetime.
“Can we travel through this?” she asked.
“Not easily,” O’Hara answered, turning his gaze to her and maintaining that all-knowing half-smile. “It would be hard on the horses. As you said, they are unaccustomed to this kind of weather. In an emergency we could attempt to leave, but it would be risky.”
“This is an emergency, is it not?” she asked.
She didn’t like the way he looked at her! His eyes were a greenish blue, intelligent and full of humor and somehow piercing. Perhaps he didn’t really need to touch a person to know what they were thinking. The thought gave her a chill unrelated to the cold.
O’Hara grinned. “What’s the matter, Miss Willard? Not having a good time?”
“Of course not!”
“No sense of adventure?”
“Absolutely none,” she replied frostily.
The annoying O’Hara seemed amused by her answer. “That really is too bad.”
She gave him her haughtiest glare, an expression he seemed to find amusing.
Fortunately, Lionel Brandon stepped onto the porch before O’Hara could say more. Daisy managed a smile for the handsome man. “Good morning, Mr. Brandon. How is Lucien this morning? Have you spoken to him?”
“Lucien is sleeping soundly,” Lionel said. He gave her a reassuring smile. “He’ll be fine.”
“Will we be able to travel today?” She held her breath as she awaited an answer, hoping that his answer would be different from Mr. O’Hara’s.
“I’m afraid not,” Lionel said.
“Oh,” Daisy turned to look at the wintry landscape. “Well, if you say so. I’m sure you and Mr. Felder know what’s best.”
Lionel laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. That hand was large, warm, and very friendly. Did he, perhaps, feel something of what she felt? “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Miss Willard. All will be well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brandon. And you must call me Daisy.”
O’Hara snorted, and she glanced at him quickly to see that he wore a wicked grin.
“Daisy,” Lionel said. “Elijah delivered some supplies early this morning. Mrs. Cassidy has prepared a delicious breakfast. You really should eat.”
In truth, she was starving, and when Lionel offered his arm she gratefully took it.
From everything she’d heard, Lionel’s own powers of seeing beyond what he should be able to see were not limited to the things and people he touched. He could see anything he chose to see; he had the power to peek inside a person’s mind. And yet, she didn’t worry about him the way she worried about O’Hara. Lionel was much too much a gentleman to pry.
“Miss Willard,” O’Hara said with a touch of glee in his irritating voice, as he followed them into the hotel. “May I call you Daisy?”
She tossed a glance over her shoulder. She almost said, “Absolutely not!” but held her tongue. It would be rude to say no at this point, she supposed. She didn’t want Lionel to think her rude. Still, she certainly didn’t want O’Hara to believe that they were friends or ever would be. “I suppose,” she said with a lack of enthusiasm.
“Given the circumstances, it would be foolish for us to remain so formal,” Lionel said. “We should all be on a first-name basis, at least for the duration of our adventure.”
As Lionel led Daisy into the dining room, she cast a quick glance to the man who followed. “And what about you, O’Hara? What is your given name?”
“Everyone calls me O’Hara.”
She was overcome with unexpected curiosity. “Your given name must be dreadful, to make you blush that way.”
“I am not blushing,” he insisted.
Daisy smiled up at Lionel, dismissing the man behind them. Why did she care what O’Hara’s name was? She would talk to him as little as possible, while they were stuck in this horrid place. With any luck, she didn’t have to call him anything at all!
Eve muttered a word that was not fit for a lady. Then she said it aloud and quite distinctly.
“Snow!” She spun around to face the bed where Lucien reclined, awake but obviously still shaken.
“So?”
“It doesn’t snow here very often,” she explained more calmly. “How will we get out of this place now?”
“It will melt,” he said calmly.
“Not today.” Eve grabbed her wedding dress from the chair where she’d tossed it last night. She’d slept in her chemise, but if she wanted to go downstairs she’d have to don her wedding gown once again. She wouldn’t bother with the corset that was tossed over the dresser. Most of the time she enjoyed wearing fancy, colored corsets, but for her wedding she had chosen something white and simple, with just a touch of lace. There was no need to squeeze herself into it now.
Maybe she was cursed, she thought as she stepped into the white satin gown. Two failed weddings were surely a sign of some kind. And not a good sign, either. If she believed in fate, signs from above, bad luck, then she would have to consider that maybe she and Lucien weren’t meant to be, no matter how much they cared for each other.
She struggled with her gown. Without the corset it was a snug fit, and the last of the buttons down the front were difficult to fasten. Maybe she should’ve taken the time to change before riding to Lucien’s rescue, but at the time she’d been unwilling to delay for any reason.
“I smell food,” she said, not letting on to Lucien that she was having doubts. Not about the fact that she loved him and he loved her; she knew that without question. But maybe they simply weren’t meant to be together. Not forever. Not the way she wanted. “I’ll go down and get you something to eat. Will you be all right here? I’ll send Hugh up to sit with you …”
“I don’t need a sitter,” Lucien said. If he’d had the energy, that might have been a biting retort.
Gown in place, Eve stood by the side of the bed. “We need to be careful, until you have your strength back.”
“I’ll be fine here,” he said.
Eve nodded and walked toward the door.
