Beauty and the Wolf

by Marina Myles

  The titanic animal stood and she moved closer to stroke its brow. “This is no time to be difficult. We were beginning to grow fond of one another during our first meeting, right?”

  The horse threw its head back in response.

  She readied the animal in haste and led it into the crisp, night air. After swinging herself into the saddle, she streamed toward the dim light of dusk.

  Straining her memory, Isabella tried to retrace the path she and Draven had taken into the woods. “You may have to remember for me, boy.”

  In response, the stallion moved like a shooting star through the thick maze of trees. To her relief, the sunset seemed to be holding out. She wouldn’t be able to make the same journey in the dark.

  Tree branches scratched her chest and legs and her wounded head throbbed heavily. Commanding the horse onward, the thought of what would happen if she was too late to save Draven’s life stabbed her heart.

  Dante was galloping along at record speed, but it seemed like an eternity until horse and rider reached the edge of Dunwich. Isabella stroked the panting animal in gratitude.

  “I know the way from here,” she reassured the horse. Slowing its pace to a trot, she led the creature to the open field where she had followed Draven. The murky pond bordering his mother’s final resting place wasn’t far now.

  She decided to walk from this point so she wouldn’t be heard. Taking Dante’s reins in her hand, she dismounted quietly and hurried toward a clearing at the south end of the pond.

  Moving in closer, Isabella heard voices arguing in the otherwise silent forest.

  Draven and Rogers are here.

  After tying Dante’s reins to a tree trunk, she swept a branch aside and peered at the chilling scene.

  Draven stood in an empty grave beside a substantial mound of freshly dug earth. Rogers was visible at perhaps ten or eleven feet in front of him. Looking as though he had seen a hundred ghosts, the manservant was pointing a pistol at Draven’s heart.

  “I cannot believe ye talked me into this, m’lord.” Rogers’s voice shook. “Tis complete insanity!”

  “Nevertheless, we will go through with it,” Draven said with authority.

  Isabella craned her neck and caught a glimpse of her husband’s grim face. She prayed that Rogers would reconsider his participation in this madness at the last minute.

  “On the count of three,” Draven instructed. “One, two—”

  “Wait,” Isabella cried from the shadows. “Don’t do this!” She bolted from the brush and positioned herself between Draven and his manservant.

  “Isabella,” Draven growled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She faced him, wide-eyed. “I followed you to the Gypsy camp yesterday and I listened at the foot of the caravan while you spoke with that woman. That’s why I came back.”

  “You can’t be here,” he said. “Rogers, quickly take her ladyship back to the house. Then return so we can finish what we started.”

  “I won’t go,” she insisted. “Please listen, Draven. I had the bracelet of Amenhotep. But someone attacked me inside the house and took it.”

  “You had the bracelet?” His tone rang with surprise. “How did you get it?”

  “There’s no time to explain now, but if you help me find it, it can end all of this madness.”

  “Who attacked you?”

  “I did.” Morton Farrington stepped into the triangle that connected the trio. Before anyone could move, he snatched the pistol out of Rogers’s hands and turned it on them. Isabella backed away swiftly, into Draven’s arms. She could feel his heart beating like a wild animal’s.

  This may be the end for her and Rogers, but did Morton know he couldn’t kill Draven?

  “Sir Harris,” Draven thundered. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “He isn’t who he says he is,” Isabella cried. “He’s Morton Farrington, my father’s twin brother!”

  “Silence, my prying niece. So you escaped from the passageway, did you?” Morton asked slowly. “I would have thanked Gwyneth for telling me where you’d gone, but sadly I killed her before I could get the words out.”

  “You’re despicable,” Isabella said.

  “Be quiet, you impertinent brat!”

  “Let her go, you bastard,” Draven roared. “I knew there was something suspicious about you. You tried to poison my mother.”

  “You’re right.” The admission poured from Morton’s mouth like a malevolent toxin.

  The swatch of fabric I found in the cellar. Isabella’s mind raced. Morton was trying to find the still room.

  “I slipped strychnine into Helena’s empty teacup before I left the house. Fortunately for me, it’s a clear, powdered poison that went unnoticed.”

  “It could have killed her,” Draven barked.

  “That was the idea.”

  “So it is true,” Draven said. “You’ve been impersonating Harris Farrington.”

  “At this very moment, my father’s remains are being shipped from Egypt to London.” Isabella spoke through her tears. “My uncle killed his own twin so that he could assume his brother’s identity. What’s more, he knocked me unconscious and left me to rot in the hidden passageway. Tell them everything, Uncle Morton. It’s time to admit as much.”

  “Be quiet, you horrid girl.”

  “Tell them!”

  “I will since I plan on killing all of you anyhow,” Morton said. “Yes, I’ve been pretending to be my brother. His life was far superior to mine. We looked exactly alike, but Harris was the golden child. He did better in school and when we grew, he achieved notoriety and created a beautiful family. I, on the other hand, became a criminal and sank into despair over my intense jealousy.”

  Morton’s chartreuse eyes formed catlike slits as he continued. “After I did away with my brother, I made that landslide happen in Egypt—to grant myself a new start.”

  Isabella’s knees shook as the last sliver of daylight dropped below the horizon.

  “You won’t see a penny of Winthrop money!” Draven’s warning sliced the tense air.

  “Oh, but I will. I’ll be the last remaining beneficiary.” Greed glazed Morton’s voice. “Too bad the villagers of Dunwich didn’t destroy you sooner, Draven.”

  “Did you send the Gypsies off my property, posing as my messenger?” Draven asked sharply.

  “Of course I did. It was all part of my plan to make everyone despise you.”

  Isabella gulped. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Draven’s eyes glowed with fury.

  Morton didn’t seem to notice. His mouth curved into a wicked grin. “I have the bracelet of Amenhotep and now I need that amulet. Where is it, Isabella?”

  She searched her pockets for it. “It’s gone!”

  “You’re lying,” Morton seethed.

  “No. I had it inside a secret pouch of my dress while I was riding through the woods just now. It must have fallen out.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find it after you’re dead.”

  The glow of dusk deepened into night. Draven reached for Isabella’s hand and she could feel the start of a tremor in it. He would be transformed into a savage beast in less than a minute. Was this the last time he would ever be human? Would she end up killing him in self-defense, fulfilling the Egyptian prophecy?

  “No more talk,” Morton demanded. “Rogers, you stand over there. Isabella and Draven, get into the grave.” He held his cane in one hand while he prompted them into the shallow hole with the loaded pistol thrust forward in the other.

  “The curse accompanying Tousret’s amulet fits into my scheme perfectly,” he explained. “Isabella, you will shoot your husband and then turn the gun on yourself. Your fingerprints will be on the pistol. After you and Draven are dead, I’ll shoot Rogers, bury him along with the pistol, and return to the house to kill Helena. When her body is found in the woods, it will appear as if she was ravaged by the werewolf that roams this countryside.”

  Isabella leaned against Draven
. She craned her neck back in order to steal a look at the moon. Its eerie light began to glow from behind a veil of clouds. Panic clogged her throat.

  “Take this gun, Isabella,” Morton said. He tossed the pistol Rogers was about to fire into her hands. At the same time, he extracted another, smaller pistol from his coat pocket and turned it on her to ensure that she would heed his commands. “It contains a round of silver bullets in case your husband is indeed a werewolf. Now shoot him or I will shoot you!”

  The metal of the gun felt like ice in her hands. She wanted to fling it to the ground, but Morton left her no choice but to squeeze her hand around it.

  “Shoot your husband!” her uncle urged.

  Slowly, she turned around and met the pain in Draven’s eyes. Her heartbeat drummed at a frenetic pace while Draven inched backward, to the edge of the grave. She did everything she could to resist lifting the pistol in his direction, but the will of the amulet was too strong. It seemed that even though she wasn’t wearing the necklace, its otherworldly force was propelling her actions. Raising her hand to eye level, Isabella threaded her finger through the trigger. The way her arm shook made the pistol bounce.

  Draven faced her aim with a heart-wrenching sense of loss.

  How had it come to this?

  As if an invisible hand were commanding her, Isabella targeted Draven’s heart. She managed to drag her eyes to the full moon. It was about to escape the cloud cover. Her arm continued to shake as she held the gun.

  “It’s all right, Bella,” Draven whispered. “I deserve to die.”

  Hot tears streaked her face. I refuse to kill the only man I have ever loved. She shook her head. As she summoned all of her strength, she resisted pulling the trigger.

  Draven’s stare shifted to Morton. “Burn in hell!” he hissed.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you there, but not today.” Morton closed his eyes and threw his head back in laughter.

  Isabella seized her chance. She jumped out of the grave and leapt onto Morton’s back. He teetered off balance under her weight and dropped his gun. Still, with a violent spin, he managed to shake her off and she went slamming into a tree without the pistol he’d given her. Draven dove for Morton and they began to struggle. Using his cane as a weapon, Morton struck Draven in the head. Then, wearing a satanic grin, Morton yanked away the cane’s handle and out slid a sword attached to it. He was about to stab Draven when Rogers came from behind and brought the shovel he’d used to dig the grave down on the imposter’s head. Morton crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

  Bright moonlight streamed through the clouds. When it settled on Draven, he sunk to the ground and began to convulse. Isabella wanted to go to him, but she knew she couldn’t be of help without the bracelet of Amenhotep.

  “Rogers!” She heard Draven screech as she searched Morton’s pockets for it. “Shoot me, for God’s sake!”

  She tried to block out Draven’s screams while she continued to look. Where the devil was it?

  She glanced at Draven again. He was still writhing in pain but he hadn’t changed into the wolf yet. Knowing that she had mere seconds to save her husband, Isabella dug her hand into the one place she hadn’t checked yet: the left pocket of Morton’s trousers. Her heart gave a surge as she located the bracelet and rushed to clamp it over Draven’s wrist. A moment later, he stopped convulsing.

  Rogers and Isabella helped Draven to his feet. Draven shook away his grogginess as he pulled Isabella into his arms. “Thank God Morton didn’t hurt you,” he murmured into her hair.

  “I’m so glad you’re alive.” She buried her face in his shoulder.

  “Without you, I had nothing to live for,” he whispered.

  “I couldn’t kill you,” she said. “I love you too much.”

  He squeezed her tighter.

  Rogers stepped in. “Let’s get both of ye back to the house.”

  “Good idea, old boy.”

  After Draven clasped the loyal servant’s arm, he put his hand out for Isabella to take. She reached for it and felt Morton stir beside her. His snake-green eyes flashed open and he flew to his feet, sword in hand.

  “Draven!” Isabella cried.

  But it was too late. Morton sliced Draven’s arm with the sharp blade. Then, with a vicious stab, he sunk the sword into Draven’s shoulder.

  Draven clutched his wound while Isabella lunged for one of the discarded guns. She took dead aim at her uncle’s heart and fired. Morton shuddered and heaved his last breath as Draven pitched to his knees, bleeding profusely.

  Distant voices penetrated the clearing. Isabella whirled around and saw an army of torches bobbing behind the trees.

  The lynch mob is coming for Draven.

  It was more than she could take. Teetering toward a tree trunk, the forest turned an ominous shade of black and she abruptly lost consciousness.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Cognizant of daybreak, Isabella opened her eyes and forced them to focus on the unfamiliar environment around her. Dark, velvet curtains framed a pair of tiny windows. A disheveled pile of tarot cards sat next to an ominous crystal ball on a small table. Dangling from the walls were carcasses of miniature animals.

  She was lying on a cot inside a Gypsy’s wagon.

  Isabella raised a hand to her aching forehead and massaged her temples. Still fatigued, she let her head fall back against the pillow.

  Was last night a dream?

  Her physical state told her otherwise. Her chest stung from the scratches inflicted by the tree branches and Draven’s blood had dried in clumps on her dress. Close to tears, she knew the image of Morton dead on the ground would be forever etched in her memory. She had killed her own uncle. Worse yet, what had become of Draven?

  A woman’s face hovered over her. Deep lines creased comfortably around a pair of black eyes—eyes that matched Draven’s in their shape and color. A scarf splattered with every hue of the rainbow encircled the Gypsy’s head and when she moved, the coins sewn to her skirt jingled softly.

  “You must be exhausted, my dear,” the woman said.

  It was the voice Isabella had heard the other day—when she stole close to the caravan of wagons. She met the woman’s words with a nod.

  “Would you care for something to eat, my child?”

  “No, thank you. I’m afraid I don’t feel very well.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened last night?” The woman remained standing. She folded her hands together patiently.

  “Well”—Isabella scrambled to gather her thoughts—“it all seems a bit hazy, but I do know that my blackhearted uncle is dead. And my husband—”

  “—is right here.” A strong hand gripped hers.

  She looked up and her heart skipped a beat. “Draven! I thought I’d never see you again. The mob was coming.”

  “It never found me.” His pallor and dark-rimmed eyes told Isabella he’d touched the depths of hell and had barely lived to talk about it. “I wasn’t under the power of the curse anymore, which meant the villagers could have killed me. So I ran.”

  Wearing a sling around his injured arm, he knelt beside the cot. Marga placed a hand on his back and he looked up at her.

  “You believed it was Isabella’s destiny to shoot you, my lord,” the old woman said, “but the vision I saw was that of her pulling the trigger to kill her uncle.”

  He squeezed Isabella’s hand tighter. “Thank God the Egyptian bracelet severed my spell.”

  Marga shook her head. “That is not what ended your curse. You see, I knew all along that my vision involved Isabella killing her uncle. The moment you realized that you loved Isabella more than you loved yourself, the wolf’s spell was severed. And when you planned your own death, you proved that you valued someone else’s life more than you valued your own. No one was required to shoot you at all, Lord Winthrop.”

  His eyes widened. “I wasn’t going to change into the black wolf?”

  “No,” Marga replied. “You finally convinced the dark forc
es that you’ve learned the meaning of love.”

  “I have,” he said, turning back to Isabella. “I love you, heart and soul.”

  Isabella’s eyes filled with tears.

  “I had to protect you when you blacked out, Bella,” Draven said. “I carried you here to this camp—as far away from the mob as possible. The villagers think the Gypsies hate me, so they would never have thought to look here.”

  Isabella felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted. She reached over and traced the curve of her husband’s rough cheek. He looked shattered.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For excluding me from your curse’s revocation.”

  “I could never harm you.” He inhaled a shaky breath. “It is I who should thank you for finding the strength to resist the amulet’s prophecy.”

  She smiled ruefully.

  “It’s over,” said Marga as she made her way out of the wagon. “My lord, your curse has been lifted forever.”

  Draven sat beside Isabella. He pressed her open palm to his face and closed his eyes. “As it should have, the spell left me a better person. Remorse is a terrible burden to carry, but I know I deserved the punishment I was given.”

  Isabella shifted against the strength of his chest. “It couldn’t have been easy for you all these years.”

  “It wasn’t. But if it hadn’t been for you, I would have never changed. You saved me, Bella.”

  “I think you had the capacity to change all the while,” she said softly. “We just helped each other along.”

  “How have I helped you?” Draven asked.

  “You taught me that life is too precious to take so seriously.”

  He drew her close.

  Isabella’s next question was a provocative one. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive your grandmother for casting the spell in the first place?”

  “I believe I can,” he said. “We all have things in our past we regret. For me, I regret killing that girl. I also regret the way I treated you. I promise that spite, hatred, and deception will never cloud my life again.”

  “You mean, you have forgiven Helena?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t easy, but she is the only link I have to my father.”