“Stay where you are. You burned them?”
“She will live. You’re not to touch her.”
Her lips parted as she held out the knife. Her look cut him as sharply as if the blade had found its mark. “You’re ordering me now?”
“We can leave, Lucille. Leave Allerdale Hall.” They could free themselves of this horrible curse—
“Leave?” she echoed, as if she couldn’t understand the word. He wouldn’t have been able to either, before Edith had spoken to his heart. Given him hope. He felt as if he were looking at their world through different eyes. He stared at his sister and partner in mortal sin, and he swayed, dizzy and thrilled and terrified. There could be redemption for them. They were standing at the edge of a precipice and for the first time in his life, he grasped that they could soar high above Crimson Peak. Wings weren’t just for butterflies and moths. Gargoyles could have them, too.
“Yes,” he insisted. “Think about it. We have enough money left. We can start a new life.”
She gaped. “Where? Where would we go?” She was listening to him. Perhaps believing him. Considering the possibility that he was right. That they could make it happen.
“Anywhere. We can leave it behind.”
“Anywhere,” she said, testing out the word, groping toward the prospect like a blind woman. Standing beside him on that cliff, defying death.
He was elated. They were saved. There was hope.
“Let the Sharpe name die with the mines. Let this edifice sink in the ground. All these years holding these rotting walls together. We would be free, Lucille. Free of all this. We can all be together—”
“All?”
He realized only then what he had said. And that he had said exactly the wrong thing, at exactly the wrong moment.
“Do you love her?” The agony on her face stabbed him through the heart. He remembered all the times she had taken the cane, a slap, staring at him as tears rolled down her face, bearing the brunt, loving him. There was more pain on her face now than in all those times combined. He didn’t want to hurt her. But to free her, to give her a life, a real chance, he had to be cruel to be kind. It was the same thing that Carter Cushing had demanded of him, and he knew, unfortunately, that he was good at it.
Beyond that, he must quell her rage, for Edith’s sake, and Alan McMichael’s survival. Lucille had withstood torture at the hands of their parents. The blood on her dress was no guarantee that she could be stopped from doing anything she set her mind to. And that included seeing their plan through to the end.
By killing Edith.
They spoke at the same time:
He began, “This day had to come.”
And she, speaking over him like someone drowning out horrible news that, once uttered, could never be retracted: “Do you love her? Tell me, do you?”
“We’ve been dead for years, Lucille. You and I in this rotting place… with an accursed name. We are ghosts.”
Lucille’s face drained of color. Blood loss, shock, disbelief. “Do you love her more than me?”
“But she is life. Life, Lucille. And you won’t stop her.”
Her breath was hitching. He felt as though he had just pushed her off the cliff, and she was falling.
“You promised—we promised we would not—that you would not fall in love with anyone else—”
Falling to her death.
He delivered the death knell:
“Yes, but it happened.”
* * *
Yes, but it happened.
The watcher moaned, exhaling its poison into the heart and mind of the last of the Sharpes. For the brother was a Sharpe no longer; he had renounced his name, his legacy… and his curse.
So the house reserved its love for the sister, the murderess, the one who would serve and love evil for the rest of her days. Who would not waver from filling the halls and walls with ghosts. And it whispered at her to do it, do it—
And with a shriek, she stabbed her brother in the chest. He tried to grab the knife but she slashed at his arms and hands, wildly. Clay oozed through the floorboards and the ghosts wept crimson tears in all their prisons of Sharpe misdeeds and malefactions as the prison bars shut again. No more free than the puppets and dolls in the attic, to be wound up again and again and again.
“Is this how it ends?” the sister screamed in the throes of anguish. “You love her? You love her?”
Hate him, it cackled.
* * *
Thomas looked down at his belly as blood poured from it; out of his mouth came the faintest sound—a discreet surprise, a quiet, nearly casual sigh:
“Oh, Lucille…”
She stabbed him again, almost as if she had to prove to him that she had meant to, weeping half in rage and half in pain.
The pain was so great that he went numb, which was more than he deserved. He had done this… to her, to them. To all of them. Still, he tried to save her from ripping him apart, because he must save her, and Edith, and the doctor.
“No, no, stop, please. I can’t…” He trailed off. I can’t, the litany of his life. I can’t, and so she had been forced to. He had turned her into this.
The look on her face. Would it be the last thing he ever saw? He knew that all she wanted now was for him to be silent, to stop looking at her. He hurt everywhere; the numbness was gone, and every blow, slap, and kick that she had endured for his sake hit him full force. Engulfed him. He was bobbing in a boiling vat of crimson clay, and torment sucked him down toward a scarlet hell.
With a shriek she drove the knife in one final time; it lodged itself firmly into his cheek, almost to the hilt. That he felt, and he staggered as he moved away from her. He shuffled a few steps forward. He dislodged the knife, though the effort cost him, and he sank wearily down into a chair. Everything was growing dark.
In the distant recesses of his mind, he heard the lullaby she had played for him through the years. He remembered their child, a poor, sick little thing, born of a very sick love. Enola, how she had rocked that baby. Lucille’s bitter tears.
She could not lose her other child: him.
We can’t live in the mountains,
we can’t live out at sea.
Where oh, where oh, my lover,
shall I come to thee?
Then he heard the melody transformed into the Chopin waltz he had danced with Edith. Holding the candle; the light had flickered but was not extinguished.
Oh, Lucille, Lucille.
“I will… it will be fine,” he promised her. “Or… I… the things we do…” He gazed at her and for a moment he thought he saw the sun. But it was an illusion; dark moths circled Lucille’s head, and his vision began to fade as he gazed into her eyes. What could he do for Edith now? How could he save her? For he must. That was the only way he could go on.
“Oh, sister, you killed me,” he murmured.
Then he saw a white light, and in it…
CHAPTER THIRTY
LUCILLE HELD HIM and in her mind he was so little and scared, she but two years older, and she sang to him as she played the piano:
We can’t live in the mountains,
We can’t live out at sea.
But he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t singing with her.
Because he was… because she had…
Edith Cushing has murdered him, she thought. Everything inside her exploded. Her face changed. Her eyes filled with hollow rage. She grabbed the knife and dragged it across the floor, opening the veins of the house, making it bleed.
* * *
Something rippled through the house as Edith opened her eyes in the elevator. With a start she came to full consciousness. Apparently she had passed out pressed against the bars while waiting for Thomas to return; she had no idea how long she’d been there, but she knew she couldn’t delay. Alan needed help and so did she, if they were to survive this day.
Beyond the elevator’s gaping skeletal gate, beyond the filigreed-iron, protective fence, she saw someone moving tow
ards her. Her tired heart leapt in hope. Unable to stop herself, she called out, “Thomas?”
But it was not he.
Lucille marched out of the half-light like an avenging spirit, her bloody knife raised high overhead. When their eyes met Edith shrank away from what she saw: the promise of brutal death, and shameless, diabolical pride.
No, she has killed him! She’s lost her mind.
Oh, dear God, Thomas…
Desperately, Edith slammed the insubstantial cage door shut and jerked the elevator’s control lever to the down position.
Nothing happened.
Nothing at all.
She looked fearfully back at Lucille, who was picking up speed, charging to reach her before the car could move. Beneath its dripping sheath of blood, the knife gleamed and flashed in the gloom. Catching her breath, Edith raised the handle to STOP, then lowered it again, throwing her full weight upon the lever. Nothing happened.
Fear shot up from the soles of her bare feet and crackled through her body like an electric wave, threatening to take off the top of her head. She was trapped in a cage that offered absolutely no protection from attack; the bars of the gate were too far apart to block a knife thrust, the back of the tiny car too close to the front, offering nowhere to retreat. No matter whether Edith stood or cowered, she would be cut to pieces. If she couldn’t get the lift to move, then she had to get out of it now. She would have to outrun Lucille. And though wounded, her adversary was clearly in better shape than she—poisoned and sedated, her damaged leg bound in a brace. How could she hope to escape a raging madwoman?
As Edith gripped the bars, determined to wrench back the gate anyway, pounding footfalls made her look up. It was already too late. Lucille was closing on her fast and the cloying, coppery scent of blood—Thomas’s?—rode the frigid air before her. There was no way Edith could exit the car and survive.
Moaning, she pounded on the lever once more. And she was finally rewarded with a jolt of motion. There was a clank, and then a sickening lurch, and the little elevator began to creep away from the landing.
As Thomas’s sister rushed forward, lunging over the low fence, straining outstretched to drive the point of her knife into warm flesh, both the car and Edith dropped out of her reach. Lucille stabbed at empty air.
But that did not stop the harpy’s pursuit; if anything, frustration maddened her even further. As the elevator bearing Edith descended at an agonizing crawl, she saw Lucille flying down the wide, mahogany staircase, her gown billowing out behind as she rounded a landing’s newel post, one hand grazing the polished rail, the other holding aloft the bloody knife, racing to catch up to her before she could reach the ground floor—and freedom.
Over the erratic whir of the contraption’s gears and pulleys, floating across the vast emptiness of Allerdale’s entrance hall, a string of curses made guttural counterpoint to the trample of feet rushing down the staircase. Though Edith willed the elevator to speed up, the lethargic pace continued—perhaps Thomas was right, the machine born a slave had acquired a mind of its own, and it had decided to let his sister take her life.
Maybe Thomas isn’t dead. The realization sent a sudden pang of tender feeling deep in her chest. He has risked everything to save me. His honor. His future. His very life. She wanted desperately to believe in his remorse, in a transformation that she had wrought, in his need to find redemption. One thought led to another. But if it isn’t his blood, then whose gleams upon that blade? Maybe Lucille only wounded him. If he does not appear, I will go back for him if I can.
As the ground floor rose up to meet her she decided her next move had to be finding a weapon. Lucille was falling behind now, clearly badly hurt, but she had a knife. Edith knew she had to seize her best chance to arm herself. She looked across the great hall to the main fireplace, where a long iron poker leaned against the mantel. To reach it on her bad leg would take an eternity, and leave her open to attack from all sides. The kitchen seemed a better choice. It was also on the ground floor; if she could beat Lucille to the entrance hallway, attack could only come from one direction. And, safely there, she would have quick access to a variety of cutlery, frying pans, kitchen shears, and roasting skewers with which she could hope to defend herself. Her plan was to quickly grab up something she could use and hurry back to the elevator by the same route. She realized that if Lucille saw where she had gone and came after her, she would have to fight her way back to the lift.
Edith stopped the elevator on the ground floor and without hesitation pulled aside the cage door. She stepped out and hurriedly padded down the hallway, limping barefoot, heart hammering, constantly looking back over her shoulder and fearing the worst. Once in the kitchen, she scanned the counters and seized the first weapon she found. A butcher’s knife, well used but the stained blade was massive. She gingerly felt the edge with her thumb. It was razor sharp from tip to heel. Gripping the handle, she tested it with a downward stab into the cutting block. It pierced the wood easily and so deeply she had to wrench the handle back and forth to free it. It would do. Yes, it would do nicely.
In the next breath Edith whirled away from the counter. No time to waste, I have to get to Alan. And Lucille was coming. If she hadn’t found her yet she soon would, that was guaranteed.
She hurriedly retraced her steps down the hallway, hobbling on her bad leg, her whole body tensed, knife point raised to ward off frontal assault—but there was none. A wave of relief flooded over her as she finally lurched into the elevator. Their escape suddenly seemed at least possible, if not likely.
As Edith pulled the cage door shut she jolted at the sight of Lucille’s face on the other side, not two feet away. Eyes slitted, corners of her mouth upturned, teeth bared. There was no misreading the expression of triumph—her intended prey could not escape. No mistaking the blood-smeared fingers and steady hand that held the weapon—murder was more than a livelihood to this creature; it was her ruling passion. No matter how many people Lucille Sharpe slaughtered, that ravening thirst would never be slaked.
A scream leapt from Edith’s throat as the woman threw herself at the flimsy barrier that separated them. The red hand thrust the blade between a gap in the bars. Backing hard against the rear of the car, Edith attempted to use her own weapon to fend off the attack, but that proved useless. Stretching over the protective barrier Lucille could almost reach the car’s back wall with her knife’s point, and twisting her wrist, she turned the long edge to sweep at an angle. The flurry of frenzied slashes backed Edith into a corner, folding, shrinking down into the smallest possible space. But it was not near small enough.
Once, twice, thrice, as the knife thrust and then drew back Edith simultaneously felt the tug at the sleeve of her gown, the drag of sharp steel across her bare skin, and shrill pain. Three deft, shallow cuts, and blood began to freely flow along the curve of her arm. Lucille was toying with her, like a cat with a caged canary. A one-sided game that could go on and on. The prospect of being slowly hacked to pieces sent her into a panic. As the knife came at her, Edith grabbed the blade with her free hand. She only managed to grip it for a second before Lucille wrenched it from her, making the edge slice deep into her palm. But the violent backward effort sent Lucille reeling onto her heels.
Desperate to gain advantage, Edith cracked open the cage gate. As the other woman leaned forward, overcompensating to recover her balance, Edith made her move, seizing the outstretched wrist, using Lucille’s momentum to pull her arm into the car and pin it to the edge of the iron bars.
For a second the tables were turned: Lucille was the helpless one. Edith used the heel of the hand still holding the butcher knife to pound down the elevator control lever. With a familiar lurch, the car began to descend. In seconds Lucille’s arm would be broken or perhaps torn off at the shoulder as the roof dropped past the level of the parquet floor. Edith leaned into the trapped arm to hold it fast. The gory fingers clutched wildly at her gown. Though they touched her, they could not reach her. She was bey
ond that. Had Lucille had empathy for her as she had smiled and fed her poison day after day? And what of the other murdered women? The ones whose anguished spirits lurked behind rotting walls and floors. What of Alan and Thomas?
As the car fell, the arm rose closer to the ceiling. When it climbed above her shoulder, Edith could no longer use her body weight to pin it. She dug her nails into the wrist and pulled down as hard as she could.
At the very last second, frantic to avoid having her limb shattered or amputated, Lucille managed to twist free and draw her arm back. As the elevator continued down, Edith heard howls of frustration from above her. She wished she could have hung on just a little longer. Though the idea of cradling a dismembered arm horrified her, Lucille deserved no less. And it would have certainly ended the matter.
The cries of anguish grew fainter and fainter as she descended. By the time the car reached the clay-mine level they had gone silent. Struck by a wave of penetrating damp and cold, Edith began to shiver uncontrollably. As she took in the surroundings, once more she felt like she had been swallowed by a dying animal, immense, red-fleshed. With an effort Edith shook off the disorienting vision.
When she opened the gate she saw that the elevator had once again stopped two feet above the floor. An easy jump before, but now she had an injured leg. She sucked in a quick breath and stepped out. Though she tried to land on her good leg, her bad one took some of the impact.
Screaming in pain, she lost her grip on the knife. Her only defense skittered across the floor and she watched helplessly as it clattered down a recessed grate. Unable to fish it out, she tried to pry up the drain cover with her fingers but it was slick from the red clay and meltwater oozing from the walls and so heavy she couldn’t budge it in her weakened state.
Straightening up, she could barely make out Alan crumpled in a corner. He wasn’t moving. She hurried over to him and knelt by his side, a terrible pain welling up in her throat. His face looked drained of all color and he had been grievously wounded. There was an obvious puncture wound on the right side of his chest, and the fabric around it had turned purplish-black from congealed blood. More blood had puddled on the floor at his elbow. It was difficult to be certain, but it appeared that the bleeding had stopped. His eyes were closed, his jaw slack. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing. When she touched his cheek the skin felt as cold as her father’s dead hand in that wretched excuse for a morgue. She lowered her own cheek next to his nose and mouth and felt a faint but unmistakable rush of warm air. He was still alive!