by Lucy Leroux
After reading everything on hand, she knew that if it was a genuine demon, the death and destruction it caused would have been far greater. But there was no better name for what she had seen, so a demon it remained in her mind...or rather two demons.
Her belief that Matteo had been cursed intentionally was now cemented as a certainty. Something truly terrible had been called and then cast inside him.
Flashes of that night at Sir Clarence's estate skittered through her mind. The demon hadn't been able to kill her so it had been prepared to hurt her in any way it could. However, she now believed that demon was gone, burned up in the black shadow in that god-forsaken cottage. Her actions had probably destroyed it.
It had been sheer blind luck. But in her ignorance she'd left Matteo open and exposed. The damage to his aura had been severe and without its protection, something else had found him an easy host. This other entity had different needs and desires, but it had the potential for equal destruction. Or it might if its attention finally moved away from her.
Incubus.
The name echoed in her mind. She'd used it before, but now really believed that was what she was dealing with. Even if it had been accidental, she had been the one to let it in. Its singular focus on her may have had a lot to do with that.
And if the accounts she'd been studying were accurate, the fact that Matteo was starting to remember what he did when under the demon’s control wasn’t a hopeful sign as she’d initially thought.
It was a warning that she was running out of time.
Chapter 24
Late that afternoon, Isobel finally went back into the conservatory. She had given Nino instructions to care for the plants for the last few days because she hadn’t been able to face going back inside. Every time she had tried it felt as if she was about to burst into flames of embarrassment. He had followed her instructions without question, but his carefully controlled expression spoke volumes.
However, it was past time she got a hold of herself. She needed to check on the plants and other stores, to see if all of the ingredients the ritual required were at hand. In reality, she knew getting the recipe right was the least of her concerns. The real work of the ritual rested almost entirely on her shoulders. But the mixture of herbs was one aspect she could control now, so that’s what she was going to do.
Isobel spent at least an hour on her inventory. To her relief, she appeared to have most of the basic ingredients she needed. The one issue was the last component, yarrow, for purification. But the seeds she'd acquired from the apothecary had sprouted, so she busied herself with transferring the small seedlings to bigger pots.
Footsteps signaled the approach of her husband. She looked up eagerly, despite her trepidation over having yet another uncomfortable conversation about how sorry he was.
Except it wasn’t him. It was Ottavio, and he was closing the doors leading back into the house.
Perfect. This was just what she needed. But perhaps something was wrong.
“Is everything all right?” she called out in her heavily accented Italian. “Does his lordship need me?”
Ottavio waited until he was just a few feet away then shook his head. “It sleeps,” he said, his voice coarse unlike the other Italians she was surrounded with.
Chagrined, she didn't look up at him directly until he came to stand next to her. Glancing up at his face, she stilled. The way he was smiling at her was far too familiar.
The presentiment of danger struck her a second too late. He grabbed her by the arms, making her drop the clay pot she was holding. Dragging her to him effortlessly, his mouth came down on hers before she could move.
Isobel twisted her head violently away.
“What are you doing? Stop!” she yelled, trying to push him away.
But he was too strong. He was one of the largest men she'd ever seen, taller and broader than Matteo and at least sixteen stone. His bulk blocked out sight of the door, enveloping her like a blanket of sweaty flesh. Disgusted, she struggled, throwing all of her weight to the side in an effort to break his hold.
“Be quiet,” he hissed before wrapping an arm around her waist. The other began to tug at her bodice. None of her efforts to get loose made the slightest difference. He bent to whisper in her ear. “I know you want me. I saw it in your eyes when the beast was fucking you. You wanted me to watch. Don't worry, I can satisfy you much better than him. You deserve a real man...”
He pressed her against his body, grinding his pelvis into her. He was already hard, his body heat smothering her.
Isobel gulped air, her heart pounding violently. “No! I don't want this, and I didn't want you to watch,” Isobel cried. “If I had said anything Matteo would have killed you. And he's not a beast! It's not his fault. Now let go of me!”
Ottavio stared at her angrily and didn't let go. Instead, he grabbed her hair, nearly pulling it out of the roots as he yanked her toward him.
“Strega puttana, you can't believe that. It's a monster, and it should be destroyed. And it will be soon, and then where will you be? The Conte will get rid of you as soon as he's gone! Nothing save an heir will help you...and we both know that's not going to happen.”
Isobel went white. “What the hell are you talking about?”
The brute sneered. “I know all about your little potion, the one you drink every morning. You won't risk giving the monster a babe. And I don't blame you. But only a babe will save you from Aldo. So don't be a fool. I'll put a babe in you and you'll let me, maledetta strega.”
He yanked on her hair again, pulling her face in close to lick her neck and ear.
“Oh, God,” she whispered tearfully, her heart sinking in her chest.
How did he know all of that? She'd always thought Ottavio was slow because he rarely spoke, but if he'd managed to learn all of those things then she'd severely underestimated him. What if he told Matteo? Or the Count? If she lost his son in the purge, he wouldn't hesitate to get rid of her.
Too focused on supernatural dangers, she'd overlooked the human ones. But that didn't mean she was going to submit to Ottavio. There was no way in hell.
“I will not let you blackmail me!” She twisted in his grasp, bringing up a hand to rake his face with her nails.
He swore and let go of her, his face purple with anger. She'd only managed to get a few steps away before he rushed forward. He struck out with one meaty fist.
It was a glancing blow, not landing with his full weight, but it was more than enough. The stroke sent her crashing to the ground, her lip bleeding.
Isobel landing on her back, hitting the ground with enough force to knock her breathless.
Ottavio towered over her. “Maiala lercia! Do you think you're better than me? You're only here because you're a witch—but you were a servant just like me,” he shouted.
Isobel cringed, crawling backward.
His beady eyes glinted with malevolence. “I'll show you, you're no better,” he growled as if to himself as he tore open his breeches.
She only caught a glimpse of his red angry staff before he was on top of her, crushing her down into the floor of the conservatory. He was tearing at her clothes and forcing open her legs.
It was just like before. A black flood of memory rose up, throwing up images she'd buried in the deepest recesses of her mind. She sobbed aloud, only to be struck in the mouth, his rough large hand covering her nose and mouth as he tried to move between her kicking legs.
Isobel couldn't breath. Panic tainted her vision black at the edges, so she did the only thing she could think of.
She used her power again. Just like before...but completely different.
There was no other living inside of Ottavio. There was just him—his small mean soul. With a white-hot anger and a considerable amount of fear, she reached out with her ability.
This time it was easier to take hold of it, but she couldn't just push him away. His soul was anchored too strongly. She tore at i
t, squeezing with all her strength. When that didn't loosen his hold she passed raw power through him like a bolt of lighting.
Above her, Ottavio stopped moving. He gave one sharp jerk, a whole-body convulsion before looking down at her in disbelief, his expression growing waxy and wooden.
They stayed frozen in that violent tableau for what felt like an eternity, but it must have only been a second before an inhuman roar filled the air. The heavy body of her assaulter was removed and swung up in the air like a rag doll.
Isobel scrambled back, eyes wide in horrified disbelief. Her hand stung as it landed on something sharp, but she barely registered the pain.
The thing holding Ottavio by the neck wasn't Matteo or the shade hiding behind him, peeking at her lustfully. This was the demon, unfiltered and in control.
The blackness of its aura covered her husband from head to toe, darker than midnight. Its eyes were holes cut into another world, a place that she would have nightmares about for years to come. And it was howling, its face contorted into a rabid mask, one so thin it couldn't hide what it truly was.
The heavy thud of Ottavio's body hitting the floor made her flinch. The demon fell on him, still screaming with that awful rending sound. It grabbed the larger man's head, lifted it, and slammed it back into the ground over and over.
Her screams joined the demon's as it pounded the dead servant's head into pulp. There was blood everywhere and bits of skull and brain smeared all around them like a halo. Isobel shut her eyes, screaming and sobbing, trying to block out the noise by putting her hands over her ears.
Everything went quiet abruptly. Isobel opened her eyes to see Matteo in a fighting stance standing in front of her protectively.
Behind him near the door of the conservatory was Nino. He was holding a hunting rifle on the demon. His face was grey and he was shaking, but the gun he held was steady enough.
“Don't, my lord,” she whispered.
The demon cocked his ear in her direction but didn't turn to face her.
“This is your fault!” Nino shouted in English, catching her full attention. He wasn't talking to her, however. “This is what happens when you treat your woman like a whore, taking her with no regard to the eyes watching. You make other men covet her. And because you treat her like a whore, others think they can too.”
The demon growled something unintelligible. It almost sounded like wife.
When he made a move toward Nino, she cried out to him to wait. “Matteo, please help me,” she said, holding out a hand to him.
To her surprise, it was covered in blood. She'd cut it open on a broken pottery shard from the pot Ottavio made her drop.
It glanced her way, but when it saw the blood its face changed, softening. It rushed forward, grabbing her hand. When the blood made contact with his skin he rocked back, letting go. There was something like mist in her eyes for a moment, obscuring her view of his face but when she blinked it was gone. And then Matteo was there, looking down at her and himself in dismay.
“Isabella, are you all right?” he asked hoarsely, reaching down for her.
Isobel scooted away from him. It was instinctive. His face fell, and she looked away.
“Signora. I believe that cut will require a needle and thread. I can sew you up.”
It was Nino. He had come up behind them when the demon departed, but he still held the hunting piece protectively in front of him. He did, however, keep the barrel pointed down.
She glanced at the cut. It wasn't flowing freely anymore, but cleaning would surely open it again. Pushing herself up with her other hand, she stood and nodded at Nino, studiously avoiding looking at Matteo or the carnage behind him.
Once she had regained her feet, she swayed slightly. Both Matteo and Nino rushed to help her, but she waved them away. She didn't want anyone to touch her right now.
“I'm all right,” she said in a low voice.
Nino extended his arm, gesturing to the door. She followed him out, leaving Matteo alone to clean up the mess.
Chapter 25
Isobel's eye twitched as the needle passed through the flesh of her palm. She had washed it out herself, then poured strong spirits over the cut.
It had hurt like hell. The cut was quite deep. After Nino finished sewing it closed, she would bind her hand with a poultice of her grandmother's design. But first she needed to get through the stitching.
They were in the library, sitting at the table nearest the sideboard where they kept the spirits.
“It might help if you drank some of that brandy, instead of just using it as an antiseptic,” Nino murmured.
Her lip twitched involuntarily. It actually sounded like a great idea. Pouring with her free hand, she raised the glass, but her hand was shaking so badly she spilled most of it on her bodice.
She looked down at the torn morning dress. “Doesn't matter. I'm going to burn this anyway.”
Nino paused to hand her a towel. Isobel looked at it, confused.
“For your lip. It's bleeding again too.”
“Oh,” she said softly, taking the cloth and holding it to her mouth.
Nino ducked his head. “Signora, I want to apologize. About Ottavio. I should have done something.”
“It wasn't your fault.”
“I think it was, actually.” He looked away. “He'd been talking, complaining. This job wasn't what he expected. The Conte hired him for his strength and size. Everyone assumed he was stupid, and he hated it. He was accustomed to getting his fill of female attention too, but here in England he couldn't even speak to them. I should have realized he'd start looking your way and...circumstances being what they are, he got ideas.”
Isobel shook her head. “It still wasn't your fault. There are a dozen things I could have said and done to prevent this as well. One of them might have worked—or none of them.”
Nino sniffed, but he nodded, anyway. “I think this should do it,” he said, tying a knot at the end of the thread.
He did fine work. The stitching was neat and narrow.
“How often have you done this?”
“A few times,” he said, cleaning up the sewing materials from the table. “Would you like some comfrey?”
Surprised, she looked up. “I was not aware that you knew anything about healing plants.”
“I've been paying attention,” he said dismissively.
She picked up the glass again and took a large sip. The brandy burned her throat, and her eyes watered.
“Actually I made a salve that will work better. It's in the conservatory with the other supplies,” she said, wincing at the taste of the brandy.
She'd only ever drunk wine and that had usually been watered down. No matter how expensive this brandy was—and if Matteo had bought it, then it was very costly—it still tasted like a combustible solvent going down her throat.
“I'll go fetch it. And then I'll help his lordship clean in there.”
Swallowing hard, she nodded as he made his way to the door.
He paused at the threshold. “It's different now, isn't it?”
Taking another bracing sip, she squinted up at him. “What do you mean?”
“The beast. It doesn't kill the same way. Before all it had to do was touch someone and they died. Now it uses its strength to beat you to death. That and the way it behaves with you.”
Too tired for explanations, Isobel dismissed his comment with a shrug. All she wanted was a bath. She would worry about everything else later.
****
Hours later, Matteo walked into Isobel's bedroom. It had taken a long time to dig a hole deep enough for the bastard’s body.
It was a macabre bit of irony. Usually Ottavio was the one digging the hole. Nino had complained that it usually went a lot faster, but Matteo refused to apologize—despite how he felt.
It had been upsetting. He’d never had to bury one of his victims before. That was done out of his sight on orders from his fat
her. This was also the first death he remembered clearly.
He wanted to say that he would regret it. The violence and the carnage would stay with him for a long time. But he wasn't sorry that the figlio di mignotta was dead.
Isobel was sitting at her dressing table in her nightgown. She was examining her bruised lip by candlelight in the looking glass. He came up behind her, their eyes meeting in the glass. Tentatively, he put his hands on her shoulders. To his relief, she didn't flinch away.
“I'm sorry you had to see that,” he whispered. “I never wanted to do something like that in front of you.
Under his hand, Isobel's shoulders shook as she took a deep shuddering breath. “That wasn't you. Trust me, that was very clear.”
He didn't know what to say. Well, there was one thing...
“It felt like me,” he whispered. “And perhaps there is a reason for that.”
She turned around to face him. “What do you mean?”
Passing a hand over his face, he chose his words carefully. “I mean that I would have killed him too, curse or no curse. He was hurting you, trying to rape you.” He closed his eyes, hands fisting as the rage welled up again. “Nino was right. It was my fault.”
“Again, that's not true.”
His Isabella was getting angry, and it touched him. Even after everything he'd done to her, she was trying to absolve him of guilt. She didn't understand.
“Yes, it is. Every terrible thing that has happened to you is because of me. And as badly as I felt about that, I wasn't truly sorry because I was able to keep you. You're my wife, and I would protect you with my life...and now I know I would kill for you too. I would do whatever I have to do to keep you safe. But I'm the one you need to be protected from.”
He looked down at his hands. They were clean now, but he could still see the blood on them. “Isabella, I think it's time to end this. It's time for me to die.”
