Spell of the Dark Castle (Chronicles of Zofia Trickenbod Book 2)

by Lorelei Bell

  “Madam, are you—”

  “I'm alright!” she fumed as she swiped back a curtain of sienna hair and righted herself, then climbed back onto the bench, trying her best to regain some of her dignity. Thankfully no one had seen her befuddlement, except Biddle. And he was used to her being befuddled, and falling on her face or her ass from time to time.

  Once on the ground, the coach slowed to a stop in front of the inn. Raven's Hollow Inn was made of dark stone. The roof over the front doors angled steeply, and then ended low, with a little lift, almost like a child's slide. It was oddly constructed, but here, just about anything was up to the whim of the builder.

  Augie opened the coach door for her.

  “Sorry abou' th' landin',” Augie said in an apologetic tone, looking guileless. “Thar was a chuck 'ol … didn' see it, don't ya know.”

  “Oh—um—that's quite all right,” she said, finding she was not angry at him, just at her own stupidity for not paying attention.

  Augie offered her a hand to help her down. She looked around herself and found that all her things; books, the files and loose pages had been strewn everywhere. “I need to pick my things up.”

  “Not to worry, madam, I have them,” Biddle said, already pages were shuffled back into a pile, books were hovering in mid-air.

  “No!” she said with sudden realization as she saw the black coach drawn by six black horses just a little over ten meters away. This coach was large enough to accommodate at least four people. The passengers, two women and one man, stood between the inn and where she was, waiting for the coach, and stared their way. One woman was dressed all in black, with a black veil over her face and black gloves; she was completely covered head to foot. Obviously, she took the widow part to heart.

  “I can do this,” Zofia said, grabbing one of the books and yanked it from Biddle's grasp.

  “Very well, madam,”

  “Sorry, ma'am, me Ghogal likes to take charge o' things, ya see,” Augie said just then, and a little over loud. Zofia's gaze jerked around to him. Smiling, she thanked him (impressed that Augie understood the pretense under which Zofia had come here). The Ugwumps across the way were all staring over at them, and could hear everything, and came to her rescue at once. She figured Stephen payed him well.

  “Oh, well, he's very helpful, but you know he cheats at cards?” Zofia smiled tightly as she strode forward toward the other carriage with Augie chuckling after her.

  “I do not cheat,” Biddle's response billowed on the breeze.

  Arms full, since she had to carry the leather case in one hand and portfolio in the other, she couldn't lift her skirts, even if she'd remembered to do so. She'd lived on First World for so long that wearing full-length dresses was merely an option, rather than a dress code. As a result, she tripped. Everything in her arms flew scattering before her, and she nearly fell on her face, but was caught by the arms, by someone who was suddenly there.

  She looked up, ready to think it had been Augie, or even Biddle. But it wasn't either one, it was the younger man who had been about to board the other coach. He had baby-fine, white-blond hair that fell to his collar, parted in the middle. She placed him at mid-thirties. Nice age for an Ugwump; not too old, not too young. She found him to be extraordinarily handsome, for an Ugwump. Nearly as handsome as Stephen, in a more roguish way. Dimples framed the wide mouth, but the light blue eyes and white-blond hair tamed his rugged features. A Norseman, she guessed. Probably hailed from The Oblast as they were predominately blond and blue-eyed.

  Once she found herself standing back on her own two feet, she thanked him.

  “My pleasure,” he said in a clear, but deep voice, still holding her gaze.

  While Augie and Biddle struggled removing her trunk from the back of one carriage to the other, the young man picked up her various articles. Zofia quickly snatched up the heavy Code book, nearly snapping her wrists in her efforts, but she had to hide its title, lest anyone see it and wonder why she would need it.

  The young man had her portfolio, and the other book, and presented it to her.

  “Thank you, Mr.?

  “Myron Grimes,” he said to her in a dark, silky voice. He stood at about six-two and looked stout, even muscular. There was no question he would be able to take care of himself in this wilderness, if it came to it.

  “Zofia Trickenbod,” she said as he took her proffered, gloved hand. She'd remembered to wear gloves so as not to give a little jolt of Power to whomever she shook hands with, or inadvertently touched. Myron also wore gloves to match his gray suit, and the black wool cape with white lining really finished it all off.

  “Enchanted,” Myron said, pressed his lips to the back of her hand like a gentleman should and then released it right away. A gentleman would never have held it any longer than it took to brush a kiss on a lady's hand. How she missed the decorum of her homeland where men knew to act civil to a lady.

  She found herself blushing, all the same, since it had been ages since she'd been home and had been greeted like this by any stranger.

  “Are you going on to the castle?” he asked, thrusting a hand toward the carriage, and allowing her to go ahead of himself.

  “Yes, I am,” she said, stepping forward—this time making sure she had grabbed her skirts and lifted them so as to walk like a lady, instead of a buffoon.

  “You have business at Dark Castle?” he asked, striding behind her.

  “I do,” she said as she approached the coach, where the paunchy coachman, dressed all in black with a wool cloak over his head stepped in her way of getting on.

  “Ye 'ave a ticket, miss?” the coachman's voice gargled, holding out a grimy hand wearing gloves with fingers worn off to the second knuckle.

  Zofia made a slight face at the grubby hand extended out toward her, making her stop abruptly before she nearly walked right into it. She glanced up at the man who had a black beard, which covered half his face, a very red, bulbous nose poked out of the wild nest, and he smelled of vinegar and other very disgusting smells, which went very well with his demeanor.

  “Of course,” she said, fumbling to get to her leather case.

  “Allow me,” Myron said, taking a few of her heavier things.

  “Thank you,” Zofia said and was able to open her valise and reach in to get her ticket. She handed it to him, trying not to touch him.

  He took her ticket and then spat something black and disgusting on the ground off to the side. Okay, maybe some of the men here still lived in pig sties, she thought dismally to herself.

  The coachman jerked his head toward the back of his coach and said, “That your trunk?” He had a heavy Scyldic accent. (Everyone in the Oblast had some sort of accent. Some were Gypsies, some were Scyldians and some were Arpieshian, which Zofia had learned on First World was the same as French-speaking people). Those who had settled in the Oblast were usually transplants from somewhere.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, knowing he was about to get shrewd. “Yes.”

  “Extra for the trunk, then,” he said.

  “How much?” she asked, knowing that if he wanted to he could bump the price up to whatever he damn well pleased because he owned his own carriage and horses. Free enterprise was alive and well here on Euphoria as well.

  The driver pushed out his lower lip beneath the heavy undergrowth below his nose—a not very pleasant thing to look at. “An Obolus,” he said sternly enough to discourage any haggling.

  Lips thinned to show her disgust, Zofia dipped her fingers into her leather purse and drew out one silver piece, unicorn-side-up, and dropped it into that dirty paw. Marginally satisfied, the driver flipped the silver piece in his palm, the side with Immortal Ashmole on it, then slipped it into his own leather coin purse on his belt.

  Having this business done with, the driver moved to heft her trunk onto the back of the coach along with everybody else's bags—hers was the largest piece of luggage among them. Myron led her to the small footstool, set out for the passenger
s. The other passengers had already boarded. Zofia grasped a handle to help herself up, and felt Myron's touch at her arm guiding her in. Ever the gentleman. But she would have to keep him at bay. Strange men on her planet could also have ulterior motives for helping women who traveled alone.

  Zofia found an empty spot opposite the two women, and Myron climbed in beside her.

  “What an unusual way to get around,” the woman across from Zofia said in a rich fruity, almost operatic voice, followed by a thin chuckle. Bosomy, the woman's satiny blue dress barely contained her endowment. She wore her coppery-colored hair up in a complicated do, with curls springing out of a small blue coif. “Doreen Clutterbutt,” she said quickly.

  “Zofia Trickenbod.” Zofia nodded to her.

  “Myron Grimes,” Myron introduced, and took the woman's pudgy proffered hand and kissed it much the same way as he had Zofia's.

  “Happy to make your acquaintance,” she said with another nervous chuckle.

  All three of them looked now to the widow. The widow produced a black lace hanky from somewhere in her finery, and slid it beneath the veil and made some sniffling sounds. That was all they would get from her, Zofia decided.

  “Well,” Doreen said—she pronounced it weel— “we needn't bother the widow, here. I'm sure she needs time to grieve.” She briefly patted the widow's hand with reassurance.

  “But of course,” said Myron with a small nod to the widow.

  “All set?” the gruff voice of the driver cut through the open door as he took away the stool and peered in at them.

  “Could we have a lantern lit, at least?” Doreen asked, the cheerful lilt gone from her voice. By the grimace on her face, Zofia guessed Doreen didn't like the man very much either. Perhaps he had made her part with a silver piece for her things, as well.

  “Eh, yeah, yeah,” the coachman grumbled, climbed in, took up the very middle of the coach, grabbed the lantern, which hung between them, and departed with it. While he lit it, the glittery, white coach glided by as the six white winged horses galloped to get up speed in order to take flight. Zofia had known this would be quite the conversational ice breaker.

  Their coach leaned to one side as the driver brought the lantern back, hung it up and exited, shutting the door behind himself. He had adjusted the flame as low as it could go.

  “Weel,” Doreen said, with her demure chuckle, smiling brightly. “That's much better. Now we can see one another. You have to really watch these coachmen, they won't do a blessed thing for you, unless you ask. Or pay for it.” She reached up and touched her hair reassuringly, and then clicked her tongue as if to punctuate her words. Her lips were cherry red, as were her nails—all cosmetics on Euphoria were concocted by specially qualified sorceresses. One had to go to school to be qualified in making anything from nail polish to rouge. After being schooled, the qualified cosmetologist had to be instated, and licensed to make and sell any of her products. Zofia had often thought of becoming one, herself, but after blowing up what was to be wild berry lipstick in class, she was certain that would not be something she could master (especially since her teacher had thrown her out of class later that semester. She couldn't understand it. She'd only blown up anything three times, and two other girls had blown something up as well. But it did take the poor woman three days to transmogrify the stuff off the walls—and herself.)

  “Weel, Zofia, where are you from?” Doreen asked as the coach dipped to one side, jostling all of them as the coachman climbed up into the driver's box. “That coach of yours is quite unusual.”

  “It's borrowed, actually,” Zofia said. “I've just come from Restormell Castle. I've finished working there for Lord Stephen.”

  This got a flutter of lashes and an “oh my” from Doreen. “And you are heading for Ravenwood now for business, or pleasure?”

  “I've gained employment at Dark Castle, for the count,” Zofia explained.

  “Really? How wonderful!” Doreen said, unable to hold in her enthusiasm as she sucked in her lower lip while blinking as though quite astonished and at the same time impressed. “In what position, may I ask, my dear?”

  With the sound of a whistle and the snap of a whip, the diligence lurched forward. Everyone was once again jostled with the motion as the coach began to bump along.

  “Librarian,” Zofia said, touching the scarf at her neck, assuring herself that it covered the vampire bites. She had chosen the green dress as it was made of heavier material, and could take travel well. She also felt it gave her the look of someone in a more dignified position, like that of a librarian, rather than someone who was merely a house servant.

  “Really?”

  “I'll be cataloging Count Saint Germain's collection of books,” she announced.

  “Oh, my, how interesting!” Doreen said, her lower lip being sucked in and out, making her look like some exotic fish. “Have you ever met the count?”

  “No. Never. You?”

  “Oh, my, yes! He comes down into the village from time to time. He's a very handsome man, you know. Very learned.” She tapped her temple a few times, and winked. She sounded as though she not only thought highly of him, but had the hots for him.

  Myron had been silently listening in, but mostly, his eyes had been on Zofia. She could see him in her periphery.

  “Many people in the village know the count,” he added to the conversation.

  Zofia had not looked at Myron since they'd entered the coach. Turning her head slightly, she found his face appeared slightly ruddy in the amber glow of the lantern. The lighting cast terrible, unflattering long shadows across everyone's features, but it couldn't be helped.

  “I take it you know him too?” Zofia asked.

  “Quite well,” he said, making one of those slight bows of the head, his hair falling slightly over half his face and he had to shake it back, using his hand to push it out of his eyes. If Blanche were here, she would probably think he looked like some actor, or some rock star on First World, and goggle him. It was difficult for Zofia to just sit there and not want to touch that very fine hair of his—it must be soft.

  The widow moved to clutch both hands in her lap. Zofia noticed that her hands seemed rather large, even the wrists were rather thick, especially for the small stature. The shoulders did seem just a little wide for a woman. This caught Zofia's attention only briefly.

  “Weeel, I for one am happy to be going home,” Doreen said. “I love my sister very much, don't get me wrong—but her brood—ugh!—I would not trade my solitude life for hers.” She brought her hands up and let them plop back onto her thick lap.

  “Are you from the village as well, Myron?” Zofia decided to ask, since Doreen hadn't.

  “Merely visiting an old friend,” he said, smiling slightly, the crease in this cheeks deepened, changing him from handsome to cute looking in a matter of an eye blink.

  “Are you going straight to the castle, Zofia? Or are you staying at the inn?”Doreen asked.

  “I'm expected at the castle.” Stephen had told her that she was expected at the castle, and should go there straight away, no matter what time of night it was.

  “I certainly hope your job won't keep you locked up in that castle,” Myron said, his deep voice going soft. “I should hope that you would honor me with your presence some night for dinner?”

  Zofia smiled, feeling warmth rise up her neck again. She had not had a younger man show interest in her in many years. His asking her out rattled her slightly. He didn't even ask if she were free to do so. But, according to the way Stephen had set things up, Zofia was supposed to be free of a husband—and she was—he had said she could think something up so as to explain to anyone who asked.

  “We'll see,” she said, not wanting to promise him anything.

  Myron had an air of confidence about him, certainly, but there was something else about him that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She couldn't deny she felt some attraction toward him, as with Stephen, Zofia began berating herself for being a
ttracted to other men, even though she knew that Dorian had divorced her. Her behavior recently was deplorable, really, and she blamed it on the hormones kicking in. Whether it had to do with her pregnancy, or other natural changes in her body, she didn't know.

  “And you must come and visit me as well, my dear,” Doreen said fruitily. “I own the candle shop, just down from Ravenwood Inn. Very close to the menhir, upon which Dark Castle sits upon.”

  “Oh, certainly,” Zofia said. “I'm sure I'll be burning a number of candles in my job.”

  As the conversation ebbed, Zofia looked out the window and noticed that one of the moons was up. Large round and amber. She remembered about the warning of not being outside, unprotected, during the full moons. She wondered if there weren't some werewolves out there roaming, and hunting in the woods right now. She shivered uncontrollably.

  This signaled to Myron's gentlemanly side. “Cold?” he asked.

  Zofia realized she was unconsciously rubbing her arms. She dropped her hands into her lap. She fed Myron and then Doreen a little nervous look and said, “I'm not from around here. I've heard stories, you know, about—werewolves—who live up here.”

  “Oh-h-h, that,” Doreen chortled, swatting the air dismissively with her hand, as if Zofia's worries were laughable. Even Myron chuckled a little. The widow merely hiccuped.

  “Oh, my dear, we aren't belittling you,” Doreen said, reaching over to pat Zofia's hand. “I dare say, we must all be used to living here in Ravenwood. None of us really think very much about it. The village is quite safe,” she assured.

  “Good,” Zofia said around a sigh.

  Myron took her hand in his, patting it with the other, he said, “Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you.” His statement seemed rather bold, as though he were assigned to keep her out of harm's way. Certainly, she felt he'd be able to handle a couple of rowdies in a bar brawl. Maybe werewolves didn't pose a threat either. Some men in this part of the country either carried silver daggers or silver-tipped canes with them. Myron didn't have a cane on him, so, she figured he was probably concealing a dagger.