Threshold of Destiny (The Mysterium Secret Book 1)

by Linn Chapel

  A little shiver ran through Tressa at his last words. Holt felt such a bond with his land, a bond that was not a burden to him despite the troubles it entailed. No, he valued that bond as if it were an intrinsic part of his soul. Somehow, she knew that if Holt ever truly loved a woman, he would feel the same way about her.

  Years ago, had he fallen in love with the beautiful vampire who had been sitting in the heart of the maze? Holt would never forget her, if he had.

  “You’ve an odd look about you, Tressa. Did my account disturb you?”

  Tressa swallowed hard. “No, I was just thinking... about Langley. You were born here, weren’t you?” she asked, grasping for the first topic – the first safe topic – that occurred to her.

  “Yes, in the large blue bedroom in the west wing,” he answered.

  “Your parents probably married young and had a large family. How many children? Ten?”

  Holt shook his head at her guesswork. “Eleven. But four of the children died young. Seven survived – two sons and five daughters.”

  Tressa gave him a look of sympathy. “It’s too bad that so many of your siblings died, Holt. That wouldn’t happen nowadays.” Hospital care was so advanced in modern times that it was hard to believe that newborns and small children had ever died in such numbers in the past, but she knew from her hospital training that it was true.

  Holt said, “The modern age is not without blessings.”

  She added with a little smile, “But you still had five sisters to tease. Your mother must have longed to send you off to sea in a clipper ship, just to be rid of you.”

  Holt’s eyes were gleaming. “Not far from the truth,” he admitted.

  “But she relented and you grew up at Langley, and then studied at Oxford,” she guessed.

  He shook his head. “No, not Oxford. I had tutors, instead. Catholics were not allowed to attend Oxford in those days, Tressa. Neither were women,” he added dryly.

  Tressa blinked. “No women or Catholics...” she murmured, taken aback. “But eventually, you went to London.”

  “Yes, when I was twenty.”

  “And you made speeches about land reform, and published political pamphlets and wrote poetry.”

  “Yes, but the results of my political efforts were meager. As for the poetry, it all began with a wager, and you’re familiar, of course, with its poor quality.”

  Tressa laughed away his disclaimer. But it was time to change the subject, she told herself. If she asked him any more questions about his early life, she might stir up his memory of the fateful event that had occurred when he was twenty-six. And if that happened, Holt would probably put a speedy end to their conversation and whisk her back to Cup Cottage before she’d even had a chance to mention the psychic link.

  She’d ask him a few more questions about Langley – he liked talking about Langley – and then she’d bring up the link. “Tell me about the gardens. What were they like, when you were a child?”

  “The gardens?” he repeated thoughtfully. “There was a grand scheme underway when I was a child, I remember. The head gardener wanted to make Langley a showcase of the new style that was becoming so fashionable. The formal gardens were filled with new roses and there were sweeps of grass and trees and flowering shrubs, all of it designed to look as lovely as a painting.”

  Tressa peered out the windows at the boggy ground in the distance, framed by reeds, and beyond it, the gentle rise of the surrounding hills. She could see the white blossoms of azaleas peeking out from the forest undergrowth and realized they must be the remnants of that artful design.

  “The view must have been beautiful, except for the boggy spot. It must have given your gardener a headache,” she added.

  “Not at all. He had the marsh dug up by laborers and then its outlet was dammed to make a small lake. For a few decades, it was like a blue jewel in the green hills. Then one year, a flood came and the lake reverted to a marsh, but by that time, funds had become so scarce that no effort was made rescue it.”

  Tressa tried to imagine the scene before the lake had drained away. It must have been enchanting.

  Holt’s gaze dropped to the formal garden just outside the windows. “I remember these beds were very pleasant in the summer, full of lavender and roses. I used to hide with my younger brother in the hedges. When I was older, my sisters would beg me to push them on a swing that hung from one of the trees.”

  The swing. Here was her opening.

  Tressa walked up closer to him. “Holt, the strangest thing happened when I came here by myself, two mornings ago. As I walked through the old garden beds, I began to recognize them. I was sure that I had seen everything before in one of those special places that I told you about, places that I’ve always called dreamscapes. While I was in that particular dreamscape, all of these garden beds were filled with flowers and the hedges were clipped. I found a sundial standing in the open – the same one that’s underneath all those vines in the middle of the garden.”

  Holt stiffened and turned. Wariness filled his eyes.

  “While I was there, I sat on a white swing that was hanging from a tree. Then you appeared in my dreamscape, Holt. You were pushing me, but you weren’t dressed like this,” she added, looking at his black shirt and jacket. “Your clothes were in an older style. Much older.”

  Disbelief swept over his face.

  “You must have been revisiting one of your memories, Holt, and somehow, I joined you.”

  Holt stared at her, stunned. He closed his eyes briefly and when he reopened them a haunted look had appeared. “No more visions, Tressa. You would not care for some of my memories. You would not care for them at all.”

  She went on, hoping to explain more fully. “But Holt, there was another incident that didn’t seem to come from any of your memories. It happened in a strange land that was hot and dry, like a desert. I had no idea where I was, and then I stumbled on you – you were lying in a patch of shade. You seemed so parched with thirst that I was afraid you were dying. I called out your name, and you heard me. I’m sure that you did, because you opened your eyes and looked at me.”

  Holt seemed too shaken to speak. Finally, he said, “I’ve heard your voice calling me twice, Tressa. It happened for the first time on the night that Stix tried to trick his way into your apartment. When I heard you calling me in my mind, I came as quickly as I could. Sometime later, while I was hot and ill with the fever, I heard your voice again. I even saw your face for an instant, but I thought it was only the fever making me delirious.”

  “There’s a link between us, Holt,” she explained softly. “A psychic potential for it must have formed in you because of the Mysterium blood. Nothing like this ever happened before with any of the other subjects of Operation M, but you had more than the usual dose.”

  “A psychic link,” he mused, frowning. “You must be right. But Tressa,” he added, fixing her with a steely gaze, “you must find a way to sever this link. Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve managed to wander into one danger after another. I can’t allow you to wander within my own thoughts and memories – with no protections in place.”

  “I don’t know if I can sever it.” Her heart sank with disappointment. The link had seemed like a mysterious and exciting gift to her, but clearly Holt felt differently about it. Far from prizing the connection, Holt was desperate to break it off.

  “You must learn how to end it, and soon. Until then, you must never use it.”

  Holt glanced in frustration at the door leading from the library. “It’s time we left,” he said firmly.

  He meant to hurry her from the manor house and drop her off at Cup Cottage before she could say another word about their psychic link, or anything else.

  “I’ll put this back on the shelf, first,” she murmured, picking up the book of poems by Shelley. “How well did you know Percy Shelley?”

  “Quite well,” Holt replied shortly. He strode impatiently to the door, where he stood waiting for her.


  The book was still open and her eyes landed on the same verse that she had read earlier. It mirrored her emotions so perfectly that she read the words again – aloud.

  “As the wood when leaves are shed, as the night when sleep is fled, as the heart when joy is dead, I am left lone, alone.”

  “Put the book away, Tressa,” Holt growled in warning.

  Tressa raised her head from the page to find that his lean features were taut with strain. “There’s so much you’re not telling me, Holt. You’re angry with me about the transition, aren’t you? I kept too many secrets from you. I changed your body and your very life without your knowledge.”

  “Tressa, I have no wish to discuss these matters!” His eyes blazed.

  “But we should talk about them.” And maybe Holt would tell her once and for all where his heart truly lay, so that Tressa would no longer need to guess.

  “No.” It was only one word, but it carried the whole weight of his anger.

  She lifted the book and paged quickly through it, looking for any verses that featured loneliness or deception. “Then I’ll read more.”

  Holt strode toward her and in one swift movement, he tore the book from her hand. Frozen with shock, Tressa watched him snap the volume shut and throw it hard across the room. It hit the wall some distance behind her.

  She stared at Holt, not even breathing.

  His eyes were stormy and by the way his chest was heaving, Tressa could tell that he was breathing – breathing hard.

  But he never spoke. Obviously, there would be no apologies – and above all, no explanations.

  “Why are you like this?” she cried out in anguish. With a sob, she ran from him to the library door. “I hate what you’ve become!”

  She raced through the entrance hall, swung open the towering manor doors and fled down the front steps. Running along the narrow lane, she spared a swift glance over her shoulder.

  There was no sign of any pursuit by Holt.

  Peter had spent a restless morning at Cup Cottage jotting down notes for his choreography. Turning to a fresh page in his notebook, he sighed and scribbled down a few more ideas.

  Seated nearby on the sofa, Luke fidgeted as he stared off into space. All morning he had been interrupting Peter to complain in a testy voice that they needed more information.

  Peter didn’t like the waiting game they were forced to play any more than Luke. But soon they’d have some lunch, always a plus in Peter’s mind.

  Just then, the front door of the cottage flew open and Tressa ran inside, her face white and her eyes heavy with unshed tears.

  She dashed up the stairs without a word. Overhead, the door to her bedchamber banged shut.

  Peter looked over at Luke, who eyed him back with a worried, owlish expression.

  “Should we go upstairs and talk with her?” asked Luke uncomfortably.

  Peter shook his head. “Maybe later. I think she needs some time alone.” She had left the front door open in her headlong rush and Peter rose to shut it now.

  It wasn’t long before the front door burst open again. This time, it was Holt who appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes were flashing ominously.

  “Where is she?”

  Peter pointed wordlessly to the stairs.

  Holt strode inside. His black boots pounded up the wooden stair treads.

  “Let’s go,” quavered Luke. “Maybe Hugh could use our help with some repairs.” He made a beeline for the open door.

  Peter set aside his notebook and quickly followed.

  Tressa had managed to reach her bedchamber and fling herself face-down on the bed before giving way to a flood of tears, but her outburst was far from over when she heard a demanding knock at her door.

  She frowned into her wet pillow, unwilling to answer.

  The knocking came again, hard and insistent.

  “Go away,” she called with a hitch in her voice.

  The door swung open anyway, grating on its hinges, and a moment later she felt the mattress sink down beside her.

  A hand grasped her firmly by the shoulder and shook her. “Tressa, you must stop pressing me with questions that I can’t answer.”

  She shrank away from the hand and buried her face in the pillow. “Can’t – or won’t?” she cried in a muffled voice.

  The hand was removed and the mattress rose back to its normal height. Then the bedroom door banged shut and from out in the hallway, the sound of a shattering impact could be heard, followed by another and another.

  Much later, when Tressa emerged from her chamber, she saw what had made such a din, for shards of crockery lay scattered all over the floor at the end of the hallway. Holt must have spotted the cups and plates her brothers had stacked outside their bedchamber door. In his fury, he had broken them one by one against the wall.

  Feeling drained and miserable, she splashed her face with cold water at the bathroom sink. Then she found a dustpan, swept up the broken pieces of crockery, and threw them away.

  Evening shadows were deepening outside the cottage windows by the time her brothers returned. Peter had thoughtfully brought her a plate of dinner from Arbor Cottage. She accepted it with a grateful murmur, avoiding his eyes. Luke made his own attempt to comfort her by slipping several of his brain-boosting energy bars into her hand.

  Peter and Luke had to know the reason why her spirits had sunk so low. Fortunately, neither of them said a word about Holt.

  When Tressa awoke the next morning, a fresh sense of purpose grew within her. One way or another, she was determined to put as much distance between herself and Holt as possible.

  Crossing to her bedchamber window, she viewed the shafts of morning sunlight that angled through the trees with satisfaction. Yesterday’s rain was over and the weather would be good for travel.

  Luckily, the estate car would be available today. She had overheard her brothers talking in their bedchamber last night and she knew they were planning to remain at Langley for the day, for they feared that Luke’s electronic probing would be spotted if he followed a regular routine.

  When she emerged from her chamber, she found that her brothers had propped a note next to her door. Reading it, she learned that they had gone with Hugh to make some repairs on the other side of the ridge.

  Better and better, she thought. She’d be able to drive away with no questions asked.

  She’d dress plainly, though, for her encounter with the American hiker was fresh in her mind. If she were to wear one of the attractive outfits she’d bought in London, another man might strike up a conversation with her. She could do without complications like that. After a quick search, she decided to borrow a faded blue t-shirt from Luke’s travel bag.

  She changed and pinned up her hair into a knot. Then she pulled out the canvas tote from under her bed and added a guidebook on the English countryside to it, along with a sweater in case the weather turned chilly. As she descended the stairs, she felt a new spring in her step.

  In the kitchen, she added crackers, cheese, and a bottle of water to her bag and then she exited the cottage.

  No one was about as she walked up the lane. She reached Arbor Cottage without incident and slipped the car keys off their hook by the back door. The estate car gleamed on the other side of the lilac bushes as she walked swiftly toward it, eager to be off.

  Seating herself in the driver’s seat, she realized she’d have to drive on the left side of the road now that she was in England, but if Peter and Luke could manage to navigate the English highways without crashing into the other cars, so could she.

  She rolled down the window, for the day was warm, and started the engine. But as she backed the vehicle toward the lane, one of the wheels came to a sudden stop against a hidden obstruction.

  Inching the car forward, she peered in the rear-view mirror and noticed for the first time the presence of a moss-covered stone marker, half-sunken into the loamy earth.

  She turned the wheel and angled the car away from it, but the wheel hit
the stone marker a second time. Exasperated, she rolled the car forward so that she could try again. Suddenly, her heart lurched over in her chest.

  Holt had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. He was standing in front of the barn, like a tall, black slash against the whitewashed siding. On his face was a look of heavy disapproval.

  Frowning, he moved quickly to her door. “What do you think you’re doing?” he questioned her sharply through the open window.

  “I’m going to see the countryside,” she snapped back.

  “Alone? Don’t be foolish. Besides, you can’t even steer the car.”

  “I can!” Tressa retorted. She put the car into reverse again only to have the wheel bump against the stone marker for a third time. A wail of frustration escaped her.

  Holt strode forward. “Tressa!” he grated. “You may go with your brothers to Wells, but nowhere else!”

  “They won’t take me with them anymore,” she reminded him tightly.

  Holt’s eyes swept over her angry face and then moved down to her hands, which were gripping the steering wheel with determination. “Are you surprised? It’s obvious you can’t stay out of trouble.”

  She tore her gaze away from him. Glaring with determination over her shoulder, she put the car into reverse again and tried to leave the driveway.

  “Tressa!” Holt called out angrily. He swung open her door while the car was moving.

  She braked to a stop, reached for the handle, and yanked her door shut.

  Holt growled, “I’ll find something at Langley for you to do.”

  Tressa gritted her teeth. “Whatever it is, will you shout at me while I’m doing it? Or will you just tell me to be quiet and stop asking questions?” she fumed. “Holt, the whole reason I’m taking this trip is to avoid being with you.”

  She wrenched at the steering wheel. Reversing the car once more, she finally cleared the stone marker and backed into the lane.