Chapter 61
Chapter Sixty-One
The blackness enveloping Haven’s mind began to recede, but as memories resurfaced, and the excruciating pain screamed through her nerve endings, she tried to call the blackness back, to hide behind the ignorance and painlessness it provided.
Unfortunately, no amount of pleading could hold back the waking world, the world where evil lived, where evil had cold eyes and cold steel.
Where a single, vile human man had a disturbing, venomous purpose.
A world where Angelous Kroger used his beloved, immaculately maintained knife collection to steal the life from her.
Slice by slice, cut by cut.
“So, you’re coming back to me,” he said in a soft, cajoling voice.
He smiled down at her. “After only a few dozen cuts, you fainted, putting a temporary end to my work. I want you awake and writhing beneath my blade as I make each slice. So, I waited, watching over you as you slumbered like an angel bound to earth with table restraints.” He pulled on said restraints, running his finger along the raw skin beneath.
“Usually,” he began, “when a canvas falls unconscious, I wake it with smelling salts. With my previous works of art, I didn’t have the luxury of time, I only had a few short hours with which to create.
Those works of art were failures, utter garbage.
Not worthy of my talents, or the praise of my Heavenly Sire and earthly father.
They were disappointments, and I hate disappointing those I adore.
You understand, don’t you, Haven?” He didn’t give her time to answer.
“With you, I have taken every precaution. We have all the time in the world, so allowing you to wake on your own was a luxury I could afford. Besides, watching as you slept, so peaceful, so beautiful, I had to lay aside my knife and just gaze upon the strokes of genius I’ve already carved into your flesh.
Seeping bright, fragrant blood, your once-flawless skin growing pale as the life trickled from your veins. ”
She opened her mouth to remind him that the sight of her body sickened him, even made him vomit, but nothing came out but a husky groan.
She must have screamed before she blacked out.
She must have screamed a lot. The words of anger and terror she wanted to hurl in his face erupted as a hoarse croak.
The lining of her voice box was like sandpaper, like strips of parched, raw flesh curled downward, barricading her words within her chest.
She whimpered as he leaned over her.
“You are exquisite. My Heavenly Sire couldn’t have provided a more perfect canvas for the masterwork of blood and beauty.
” With strong fingers, and a less than-gentle pull, he forced her to face him.
He placed a glass of tepid water against her cracking lips.
“Now, you’ve lost much blood. Please, drink something.
Your strength must last a few hours longer.
My dream masterpiece will never become a reality if my canvas dies too soon.
Congealing blood does not flow as freely as blood rich with oxygen and fear. ”
He tipped the glass and poured the water down her throat. She gagged. The coughing that followed her gagging opened the already scabbing shallow wounds along her torso and thighs. Blood flowed eagerly from his well-placed and precisely made cuts.
As the warm water sluiced down her throat, it took every ounce of strength she had left to keep from dragging in great gulps of air. Bleeding to death wasn’t ideal, but neither was drowning on a table surrounded by knives.
You’re going to die.
You’re going to die, and you will never see your friends again.
You’re going to die, and you’ll never see Logan again.
After the last of the water trickled down her throat, a sob of deepest despair burst from her lips.
She could feel the life flowing from her. No one had any idea where to find her. She would die, her life cut short when she’d finally found something that made all the struggles, tears, and pain worth it.
Oh, Logan. I am so sorry. If only I could tell you....
Angelous turned and placed the empty glass on the table, then picked up his wickedly curved blade and inspected it with appreciative eyes.
It was over.
She let out a slow hiss of breath, her whole body slumping. The fight gone.
He looked down at her with an eager expression. “I can see you tire of my banter. So, let us begin again.”
The wind and slashing rain whipped at his face and back, eager to get at his skin.
“Follow....” He could barely hear Perez’s voice over the howling storm, but Logan latched on with desperate hope.
Further into the storm, racing, he hunched over the back of Gehenna, praying to God that wherever Perez was leading him was close. He didn’t know what to expect, but he knew Haven was in danger, and she didn’t have long before—
Before what? He didn’t dare to think about it. Over rain-soaked pastures, through the whipping, stinging branches of tempest-tossed trees, he raced. His heart beating as fast as the pounding of the horse’s hooves.
Faster. Must go faster.
Over the howling of the wind, he made out the sound of Perez’s voice. “Toward the hills....”
Turning Gehenna to the right, he urged her up the incline, her flanks heaving as she galloped up the hillside, catching herself when the ground gave way under her.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmured into her ear, thankful his spirited and beautiful horse could sense his urgency, his need to go faster, to move with purpose.
“Here!” Perez’s voice shot out from the storm.
Logan pulled on the reins, nearly flying from Gehenna’s back when she stopped.
He quickly dismounted, tying her to the nearest covering bough.
He pulled his pistol from the saddlebag, and raised it, preparing for anything, hoping to heaven and back that he wouldn’t have to use it.
But by God he would cut down anyone who stood between him and the woman he loved.
Slitting his eyes to glare through the battering storm, he spied a dark, dilapidated hovel built into the side of the hill.
He willed his breaths to calm, and moved forward cautiously, one foot at a time, his boots sinking into the inundated ground.
As he drew closer, he saw the hovel had once been a stone cottage.
Its chimney, windows, and door were in disrepair, and the foundation was giving way under the weight of the aged and broken structure.
He looked through a pane of shattered glass, and found nothing—no lights, no belongings, no evidence anyone had been there.
Then he heard it.
The sound of suffering.
From beneath the hovel, there’d been a muffled scream.
Haven!
Gripping the pistol tightly in his rain slicked hand, he moved toward the sound, his heart in his throat.
Must get to her.
“Here.” Like a godsend, Perez’s voice led him to a thicket. Pushing past the thick foliage, he found where the weeds and overgrowth had been cleared away from a wooden door set into the ground.
A cellar.
For the first time that night, he thanked God for the storm, that its wind and hammering rain provided cover for him as he pulled the handle of the decrepit door, hauling the rain-heavy panel up, and letting it fall against the mound.
Taking a deep fortifying breath, he descended the slick stone steps. One foot in front of the other, lower and deeper until he reached the bottom.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom of the cellar, and he listened.
Shaking his head to rid it of the sudden pounding in his ears, he focused on Haven.
He would rescue her, and then he would apologize for the words he’d spoken in anger.
He would tell her he loved her. He would romance and seduce her until she agreed to marry him, to stay in 1817, and build a new life with him.
He would do whatever it took to make her stay, but he had to save her first.
Stealthily moving forward, he spied a dim, flickering light in the room just ahead.
Thankful for the shadow-cloaked hallway, he took one slow, silent step, and another.
He walked by a tiny room to his left and stopped.
The room contained a single wooden table.
Roselyn lay atop it. Dead. He couldn’t see much, but he could make out a pool of blood on the table beneath her neck.
The villain had slit her throat.
Dragging in a deep, silent breath, he gathered his strength and peered around the corner, hoping whatever he saw wouldn’t be Haven dead as her maid was.
The light of the other room hit his face, and he nearly gasped in fear and sorrow.
There, with hands and feet tied to a table, lay Haven.
She was naked, her usually olive skin deathly pale, and ugly, oozing cuts covered her body; some shallow and straight, but many of them were deep, the wounds jagged.
His heart thudded.
He shook his head, unable to comprehend it. There wasn’t an inch of her body not marred by a bleeding slash.
Dear God.
A movement in the corner grabbed his attention. Furious heat raged through him, and blood roared into his head.
There, beneath the light of a makeshift chandelier, stood Angelous Kroger, Divinia’s twin.
“My brother is off attending to his hobby...,” she’d said almost gleefully. “He’s working on something so exquisite, it will bring you to your knees.”
Blistering anger of betrayal rose within him. That conniving, evil woman had known about her brother’s activities all along, but stood there, prevaricating to his face, while Haven lay here in the dark and dank, scared, naked, and bleeding.
He would kill her for this.
Glancing at Haven again, he focused on her face. He wanted to look into her eyes, to tell her he’d come and he was going to save her.
Every muscle seized, and his heart thudded to a stop. The fiery, brilliant jade eyes he’d grown to love were two blank, dull marbles. The shallow rise and fall of her chest told him she still lived, but her vanquished expression told him she didn’t have much time left.
Stepping out from the shadows, he raised his pistol, aiming squarely at Angelous’ head. He pulled back the hammer, and the other man looked up from the table where he’d been cleaning his knife. An expression of utter shock flew over his face, but diabolical poise quickly replaced it.
“Mr. Kroger, please drop the knife and step away from the table.” His voice held the promise of violence.
Angelous’ expression turned dark, his eyes flashing ice, his lips curling into a sneer.
He tsked. “Lord Dunham, Duke of Caspire, man of means and blue blood....”
“Let her go.” Though his whole body tensed as a tightly pulled bow string, the pistol in his hand remained steady, aimed perfectly, ready to bring blood if necessary—and he wanted it to be necessary.
Tsking again, Angelous murmured apologetically, “I am sorry, but I cannot do that. You see, mein Himmlischer Vater, my Heavenly Sire, has commissioned a portrait, a perfect masterpiece fashioned from flawed human flesh.” With a show of pride, he waved his hands over Haven’s knife-ravaged body.
The other man continued with his diatribe. “Your uncultured and imperfect eyes cannot see the beauty and perfection I am creating from this common, lowly human form.”
Logan held back a bark of rage. Casting a quick glance to Haven, he swallowed at the tears flowing from her eyes. She knew he’d come, could hear him, see him, but couldn’t find the strength to utter a word. A glimmer of hope flashed in her once-blank gaze, but fear and pain warred to overtake it.
Haven, he urged silently, just hold on a little longer.
“When I am done with her, she will be a climax of my masterwork, a gift to the inferior human race from my Heavenly Sire.” He flashed a smile of twisted beneficence, as though he bestowed grace on unworthy beings.
Swallowing past the sick in his throat, Logan commanded, “I said let her go. You’re done.”
Looking to all the world as if he had just slandered his character, Angelous’ expression seethed with dark intent. Wrath and malice poured from his body.
“You would have me stop, to leave before my work is complete? You would take my Sire’s approval from me?
Nein! I will complete my commission; I will do as my Heavenly Sire has commanded.
I will make this world perfect. I will make this masterpiece perfect.
” With his last word, he flew to the table where Haven lay, thrusting his knife into the flesh beneath her breast. She heaved upward, a scream tearing from her throat as blood poured from the wound.
Shocked, Logan didn’t register the other man’s intent until he advanced toward him, blood wet blade in his hand, and a look of deadly purpose on his face.
“If I cannot finish my masterpiece, you cannot have her.”
Before he could fire a shot, Angelous barreled into his hand, knocking the pistol to the floor, sending it skittering under the table where Haven lay bleeding.
Dying.
Drawing on every ounce of fury and terror within, Logan pushed at him, reaching for the knife in the other man’s hand.
Pulling back, Angelous raised the knife, seeking to slash his arms. At the last moment, Logan jerked away, barely missing the edge of the blade.
As Angelous slashed wildly, Logan jumped away from the wide swipes, waiting for his opportunity to strike.
That moment came sooner than he’d hoped.
From the table where she lay, Haven cried out, “Logan!” Her voice a shrill and terrible sound.
Momentarily distracted by her cry, Angelous turned to look, and Logan reached for his wrist, pulling it down with great force against his rising knee.
Bellowing in pain, Angelous released the knife.
Logan scrambled for it. Desperate to end the fight, and get to Haven, he snatched it from the ground before Angelous could recover.
He lunged forward, burying the knife to the hilt in Angelous’ chest.