INSIDE, GWEN AND Sir John helped Lawrence into a chair. In truth the encounter and struggle had taken a lot out of him, far more than he thought, and as the anger wore off it left him spent and weak, and the trembling in his limbs did not abate when he unclenched his hands.
Once Lawrence was in the chair, Sir John called for Samson and the massive wolfhound came bounding down the stairs. Sir John opened the door and made a clicking sound with his tongue. The hound snarled and raced outside to harass the lynch mob. Lawrence could hear his deep-chested bray even after Sir John had closed and barred the doors.
“Should we get Singh?” Gwen asked.
Sir John shrugged. “Can’t. He’s in town with the blacksmith.”
Gwen stared slack-jawed at him, but Lawrence burst out laughing. He had never admired his father more than he did at that moment. Sir John chuckled, clearly pleased at his son’s delight.
“Guess you’re not the only one in the family who can act,” he said.
“Bravo, sir,” Lawrence said between horse laughs, “Bravo!”
Gwen knelt by Lawrence and as his laughter abated she pressed him back onto the settee and used a handkerchief to sponge away the blood from his torn lip. Lawrence recoiled at first, but her touch was gentle and soothing and there was a look in her eyes that was as unnerving as it was wonderful.
“I don’t understand how they could think it possible that you are a threat to them,” Gwen said.
“I’m not,” said Lawrence.
“He’s a stranger, Miss Conliffe,” observed Sir John. He had his back to her and his son and neither could see how cold his eyes had become after he had seen the look Gwen had in her eyes as she tended to Lawrence, and the look in his son’s eyes when he noticed it. He kept his tone light, but his face had become stone. “He’s a stranger, and that suffices in Blackmoor.”
With that he left the room and closed the door behind him. If it was a little too hard, neither Gwen nor Lawrence took particular notice.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Evening fell softly over Talbot Hall. The mob from the town did not return, and Sir John predicted that they would not.
“How can you be sure?” asked Gwen.
Sir John smiled thinly. “They were led by a fool on a fool’s errand, and things ended badly for them. Most of them probably went along because they were drunk—no doubt Strickland or that idiot Montford plied them with ale before leading the charge out here. Once they’ve sobered up I believe they’ll realize how foolish their crusade was, and how absurd Fisk’s argument is.”
“You make it sound like this is something you’ve seen before,” observed Lawrence.
“I’ve met a legion of fools over the years,” said Sir John. “In the end they’re just like bullies. Scratch the gruff exterior and you find cowards.”
“But they could have killed Lawrence,” insisted Gwen. “The rope—”
“Well, it didn’t happen, did it?” said Sir John. His eyes were cold. “We’ve wasted enough of the day on this. Let it be.”
“Father . . . ,” began Lawrence.
Sir John had begun to mount the steps, but he turned and looked down at his son. “What is it?”
“Thank you. For today.”
Sir John looked at Lawrence for a long moment, then without a comment he turned and mounted the stairs.
AFTER THEY HEARD his door close upstairs, Gwen touched Lawrence’s arm. “Lawrence . . . may I ask a favor of you?”
Her face was soft and open, her eyes searching his.
“I owe you so much,” he said. “You may ask me anything. Is this about Ben?”
“No. I . . . when you are up to it, when you’re more healed and rested . . . would you tell me about what happened between you and your father? Ben didn’t tell me much. Just some vague references to what happened after your mother . . .”
“After my mother killed herself?” Lawrence said bitterly.
“Yes.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked. “And, why?”
“Because I want to understand.”
“Understand what? Why our family disintegrated? Why my father and I can barely maintain a civil conversation longer than a few sentences? Why Ben and I barely wrote and never knew each other as adults? What is it you want to know?”
His voice was quiet but harsh, yet Gwen did not flinch away from it. Instead she stepped closer, placing her hands on his chest.
“I want to understand you, Lawrence,” she said, and then flushed a deep scarlet. “Your lip is still bleeding,” she said hastily as she removed her jacket and folded it too neatly. She picked up the basin, wrung out the cloth and dabbed at his lip.
Lawrence allowed her to fuss without comment. In truth he was feeling odd. He was sweating and his pulse was racing. He pawed the moisture from his forehead.
Gwen bent close to examine the wound. Lawrence could smell her perfume. And her skin. The scent of her was so lovely, so compelling that he could almost taste it. More sweat beaded his face.
“That doesn’t seem so bad,” she said. “The bleeding has almost stopped. I think you’ll live . . .”
She said more but Lawrence was having trouble concentrating on her words. All of a sudden they had become noise without meaning, while everything else about her became so incredibly clear. He saw her pupils dilate, the blush on her cheeks fade; he could hear each of her breaths as if her mouth were an inch from his ear. He could hear and separate the rustle of every bit of cloth that covered her body. It came at him in a rush, maddening, overwhelming.
“. . . this might sting . . .”
She blotted some phenol from a small bottle and pressed it to his lip—
And then with incredible speed he caught her wrist, his hand moving like a blur. He felt her skin within his hand, felt the softness of the flesh, the fragility of the bones, felt the sudden jump in the rapidity of her pulse.
Her eyes met his and the moment slammed to a stop, frozen in an impossibility of sensory inrush. He looked into her eyes and for a moment he felt as if he was falling forward and she toward him. Colliding with her, engulfing her, devouring her . . .
With a gasp Lawrence released her hand and staggered up from the settee. He backed away from her, breaking the contact, gasping for air.
“Lawrence?” she said, leaping to her feet. Her face was flushed, the exposed skin of chest above the swell of her breasts was as red as fire. “Is something wrong?”
It was an absurd question, and Lawrence almost laughed, but he knew that if he did he might never stop. He could feel the screams and shouts of insanity jabbering inside his skull. He felt other things, too. Hungers of all kinds, the need to satisfy appetites that he did not know he possessed.
“Excuse me,” he said in a choked voice. He waved her back and staggered out of the room, searching for air, needing to be away from the moment. Needing not to feel those appetites as he looked at her.
Needing.
Needing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Once he was upstairs he felt calmer, though by no means calm. The sense of urgency, of panic, of hunger, seemed to have diminished. Like a fire that has been banked but not extinguished. He walked through the cold and drafty corridors of the second floor, peering into empty rooms, looking for something that he could not name, while at the same time knowing that what he sought was not here.
Suddenly he heard something. A deep-chested grunt, a soft footfall with the thin sound of nails scraping on floorboards. Lawrence crouched and turned. Whatever it was—the thing was just around the next turning. The sword cane was downstairs. He had only his fists to fight—
A hulking shape rounded the corner, moving through shadows toward him. Yellow eyes burned in the darkness.
Then the thing moved from shadows into a spill of candlelight.
Samson.
The monstrous wolfhound padded toward him. Lawrence shrank back from Samson as the dog approached.
The moment their eyes met, the dog
froze in place. So did Lawrence. The awareness of each other was immediate and deep and different.
This was not the open hostility of their first meeting weeks ago, nor was it the guarded dislike they’d shared since. Samson always positioned himself between Lawrence and Sir John, occasionally baring his teeth or growling quietly until Sir John cowed him with a sharp word. Now, however, the dog stared with penetrating interest into Lawrence’s eyes, and Lawrence met and matched that stare, sharing a moment of awareness that was unlike anything he could remember having with another human or beast. It was as if communication flowed back and forth between them on some primal level too far below the conscious mind’s ability to eavesdrop.
Lawrence saw the muscles begin to tense all along the dog’s shoulders and he felt his own muscles growing taut in response.
Then Samson flopped onto the ground and rolled onto his back like a puppy. Tail wagging, tongue lolling, belly completely exposed. The brute of a dog whined and wriggled right at Lawrence’s feet.
Lawrence was stunned.
Not just because the action was so unexpected . . . but because on some level of awareness, he understood it. Not with his rational mind, but instinctively. This was right. And it was so very, very wrong.
That frightened him more than anything that had happened today. It frightened him more than mobs and guns and a hangman’s noose.
He backed away, and then he turned and fled.
LAWRENCE DID NOT know what to do or where to go. He could not discuss things with his father, and to mention his fears to Gwen would surely result in her fleeing the house. Especially after the last moment they’d shared.
He felt terribly alone. . . .
And then he realized that there was someone whom he trusted and who could be counted on for a cool head and a closed mouth. He hurried down the darkened corridors, seeking some splinter of refuge.
LAWRENCE STOOD IN the open doorway to Singh’s quarters for a long few minutes until Singh became aware of him and looked up with a start.
“You should be asleep, Lawrence.”
“So should you.”
He stepped into the room, which was like stepping through a hole in the world. On one side of the doorway it was Northumbria, on the other it was a Moghul palace. The large sitting room was lit only by a few candles and the air scented by rich incense. Beautiful and ornate carpets were hung on the walls, many of them depicting battles of great historical significance. There were swords and spears mounted on the wall as well, but the entire room was not a shrine to combat. Interspersed with the weapons were beautiful pieces of artwork from various eras of Indian culture. In the center of the room was a low brass table surrounded by dozens of brightly colored brocade cushions.
“Is there anything I can get for you? You look . . . worn.”
“Tea?” Lawrence asked hopefully. “And a place to be.”
Singh brewed tea for both of them while Lawrence sank to the carpeted floor and leaned comfortably on a pile of pillows. The incense and the familiar room were tonics to his nerves and he could feel the dreadful tension leaking away. Singh handed him a steaming cup. Lawrence nodded his thanks and sipped the tea. Hot and sweet, flavored with lemon and peppermint. Lawrence gestured with his cup to the heavy kirpan knife thrust through the Sikh’s sash.
“Still the same knife. You’ve carried it since I can remember.”
Singh nodded soberly. “Of course. Since Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth Guru of Sikhism, decreed it be so, every baptized Sikh wears the kirpan.”
Lawrence looked around and saw rifles and pistols laid out for cleaning, and several knives arranged neatly by a whetstone.
“Are you expecting a war?”
“A Sikh is a soldier of God. As long as evil exists in the world we are technically at war, and we must always be armed against evil.” He touched the hilt of the sacred dagger he wore. “But this is not a weapon of attack. The kirpan is a defensive weapon that embodies ahimsa or nonviolence. It is our way to prevent violence, not to simply stand by idly while violence is being done. This cannot be done without the right tools.” He drew the blade and turned it so that it caught the fire from the many candles that surrounded them.
“It’s silver.”
Singh ran his thumb along the ornate sheath. “Yes,” he said. “It is.” He smiled grimly. “I am a Khalsa Sikh, which translates badly as a Saint-Soldier. And, no . . . I don’t have magical powers, but my faith makes me strong and my dedication to God keeps me focused in my fight against evil. We are always vigilant because evil abounds.”
“And yet you haven’t gone hunting for the thing that killed Ben.”
Singh shook his head. “Under no circumstance is a Sikh allowed to use force in aggression. This is part of our faith, and sometimes I struggle with that limitation for I, like all men, am a weak human tempted to sin. Vengeance would be too dangerous a path.”
Lawrence sipped his tea. The large tapestry behind Singh depicted complex scenes from the Upanishads. It looked to be from the same weavers who made the one that hung between the double staircases.
“Do you believe in curses?” Lawrence asked.
Singh smiled sadly. “This house has had its fair share of sorrow. Your mother. Your brother . . . Yes, Lawrence. I believe in curses.”
“How could you stand it here all these years? You didn’t have to stay.”
The Sikh refilled his cup. “Sir John isn’t an easy man. But he is righteous. He is not what people think he is.”
That provoked a grunt from Lawrence. “I don’t know what anyone is anymore.”
“This house, this place . . . mysteries are built into the brick and mortar.”
Lawrence said nothing for a time, working things through. Finally he said, “Singh . . . I know what I saw that night.”
“Yes.”
“What I saw was not a man. And it wasn’t an animal. Not an ‘animal’ in the way a sane man would use that word. Do you understand?”
Instead of answering Singh reached inside his shirt and drew out a key on a leather thong. He held it in his fingers for Lawrence to see.
“This will tell you what I understand.”
With that he rose and crossed the room to an ornate traveling chest and unlocked the bottom drawer. He pulled the drawer out and carried it back to the table. There, fitted into cushioned slots, were dozens of bullets of different calibers and sizes. The metal was brighter and paler than lead.
Lawrence felt as if the room was becoming unhinged from the world.
“Silver bullets? I didn’t know you and father hunted monsters.” He reached out and closed the lid.
“We didn’t,” said Singh. “But it is a sad truth that sometimes the monsters hunt you.”
Lawrence walked away from him and stopped by the ornate mirror that covered one wall. His reflection looked worn and wild and not at all like the man who had stepped onto the London stage a few weeks ago. The deep sadness he saw in his own eyes nearly broke him.
He said, “I’m cursed, aren’t I?”
When Singh took too long to answer, Lawrence turned and walked to the door and out into the cold shadows of the hall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The mirror in his room was no kinder than the one in Singh’s quarters, but Lawrence stood before it, shirtless, barefoot, hair wild, fists clenched at his sides. He looked into his reflected eyes, rarely blinking, and it seemed to him that he could see through those eyes, that they were windows instead of mirrored reflections. Beyond those windows was the barren landscape of some alien world. Nothing there was natural, nothing was suited to the needs or desires of the human experience. It was foreign territory across which dark shapes hunted and howled.
“God,” Lawrence said softly, his voice weak and desperate.
With slow, trembling fingers he undid the knots on the bandages, unwound them turn upon turn. The white cotton coiled around his ankles like pale snakes.
As the last of the gauze fell silently to the floo
r, Lawrence stared at his shoulder, at the evidence of the savage attack.
And saw nothing.
No scabbing, no faint lines of healed scars, no pucker of missing muscle. There was no mark of any kind to show that he had ever been attacked.
Lawrence stared with naked accusation into his own eyes. Or were they still his eyes? Had the color changed? Paled? Were there now hints of yellow there? Splinters of red?
“No!” he snarled and suddenly smashed his fist into the mirror, which exploded into a thousand shards.
“God save my soul . . .” he breathed.
But he feared that his plea to a forgotten deity and the renewal of his own discarded faith had come far too late. He stared down at the mirror fragments scattered around him on the floor. Each one seemed to reflect its own perverse distortion of him. One image was Lawrence the boy, lying in his mother’s arms. Another was the boy in bondage in the asylum, his mouth opened to scream at the night—just as he had every night for years. Another fragment was the boy aboard ship to America, discarded, sent away by a father who could no longer bear to look at him. Another was the predator man he had become, striding the world’s stages, sliding in and out of beds, descending into opium dreams in a vain attempt to replace nightmares with drugged hallucinations.
And one fragment, a sliver no wider than a knife blade and equally as sharp, lay on the floor between his bare feet and when Lawrence looked down at his reflection he did not see a man, or a boy. He saw the snarling face of a monster.
Lawrence closed his eyes and beat the sides of his temples with his fists. “Please,” he begged. “Please . . .”
But all that answered him was the dark.
In the sky above the Hall the Goddess of the Hunt was rising in all her wicked white splendor.