Chapter 14
Firm fingers squeezed Dove’sshoulder, followed by a deliciously rumbly voice. “We’re here.”
She curled deeper into the warmth beneath her cheek. Her lungs drew in a tantalizing breath of fire-kissed linen. Like laundry dried outside on a crisp fall day. Her pillow’s low groan tickled her center, curling through her stomach. She blinked, drawing into focus an image of her hands tucked between a pair of masculine thighs.
Reality crept into her dreamy bliss. She’d fallen asleep in the back of the sedan. Marcus’s arm was slung around her. Her face pressed against his chest. She eased away just enough to peer up at him. He peered back, his eyes turbulent pools. For once, his rugged features were bared to her. His hood resting on his shoulders.
She raised her hand to his face. Slow, careful, as though she coaxed a fawn to eat from her palm. His scarred cheek was rough beneath her fingers, the texture tickling her skin. She cupped his jaw, and he shut his eyes, exhaling. When his eyes opened again, one pupil was red, the other black as if two beings stared at her. The sense of rightness settled deep in her core.
Wham!
The driver’s door slammed closed behind Bishop’s bulk. Dove sucked a startled breath and jerked her hand away. Marcus’s bodyguard circled the car, coming to stand outside the door.
Marcus stiffened, leaning away from her, guiding her upright as reality rushed in. Things had been even more strained than usual between them since their argument at the resort. They’d left immediately after. Celeste and Dove parted ways at the airport. She missed her friend terribly. Bishop and Marcus had been poor company on this trip.
She cleared her throat and smoothed her hair back. “Sorry about falling asleep on you. Hope I didn’t drool much.”
“Not much.” Marcus’s humorous tone was less than reassuring. “Let’s go,” he said as though nothing had happened. The door swung open. He grabbed his cane and exited the car. Bishop leaned in, extending a hand to her, and she accepted graciously.
Together, the three of them stood before the imposing mansion.
“Oh.” Dove sucked in a breath. Held it. Exhaled. “My.”
Bishop and Marcus remained silent beside her, eyeing the building. Before them was an architectural fright show right off the pages of Haunted Relics Inc. Exactly the kind of place she preferred to avoid. Happy spirits didn’t linger in places like this. Just the angry, bitter types.
Fog rolled across the manicured grounds. Bushes shaped to resemble stampeding horses galloped through the mist. Stone walls stood like formidable guards, protecting the secrets within.
“This was where you grew up?” Dove squeaked, then cleared her throat. It was impossible to envision a child living here.
“Home sweet home,” Marcus said, his tone flat and emotionless.
Without conscious thought, she clasped his hand and squeezed tight. As expected, he flinched and shot her a sharp look. Despite his reaction, she held on, braced for him to shake free. Instead, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. She wasn’t the only one on edge.
For good measure, she impulsively grabbed Bishop’s broad hand as well. Like his employer, he flinched, casting her a dark glance. Just as she expected him to withdraw, he squeezed her fingers, offering his silent support.
As a unit, they headed up the stone walkway to the porch. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Before them was a mammoth-sized double door. Knockers shaped like lions’ heads glared back at them, rings clenched in their snarling maws.
“Should we knock?” Dove whispered.
“Got it,” Bishop said, his voice a roar in the stagnant night air.
Boom. Boom. Boom.He heaved the sturdy ring with more fitness than she could have mustered. The sound echoed through the desolate building, growing louder with each percussion.
Two heartbeats later, hinges screamed, the heavy portal swinging inward. Dove curled her toes against her sandals, her imagination running wild. Any second now, that door would open and a funny little man with a handle-bar mustache dressed in green would answer, asking, “Who rang that bell?”
At that point, flying monkeys would attack her, clawing at her hair, and she would head for the hills.
Instead, a spry fellow cracked open the door. One look at them and his bushy eyebrows slid up his wrinkled forehead, his diminutive stature rising to all of five-foot-three. “Lord, Steele. ’Tis an honor you’ve bestowed on this humble groundskeeper. Please come in.” He shoved the heavy door wide, grunting louder than the rusted hinges, using a considerable amount of strength. “No need to knock at your own house. No, sir. No, sir.” He wiped his brow with the bandana he pulled from his pants pocket, then used it to flag them forward. “Come in. Come in.”
As though sensing her reluctance, Marcus set his hand at the small of her back, guiding her inside. Bishop followed close behind them. Unsure of what she’d find, Dove lingered in the entryway, curious eyes scanning the space.
Over their heads, a massive crystal chandelier glimmered, the ceiling soaring high above them. On either side of the cavernous room was a sweeping stairway. At the center, a large fireplace flanked by two stiff-backed settees. Sheets covered many of the furnishings, their ghostly shapes lurking around the room.
While the penthouse lacked any personal connection to Marcus, his childhood home was worse. Nothing about the space would inspire a little boy to build a pillow fort unless he was looking for a place to hide. Adorable pictures of Marcus as a child were missing. The decorations looked expensive, purchased for their value and not sentiment. Dracula’s coffin was homier.
One item stood out above the rest. It was a beautiful piece. Above the cold fireplace was a portrait of a woman in a gauzy dress. She stood in what appeared to be a rose garden, a soft smile on her porcelain-doll face. On the frame was a brass plate with ‘Josephine Steele’ printed in an elegant script. Was this Marcus’s mother?
Dove turned to him, question on her lips, and froze. His cursed hood was back in place. Darkness shrouded his features, his frame rigid. He turned his attention to the nervous groundskeeper, who twisted his cap in his weathered hands.
“Archibald Higgins, this is my Chosen, Dove Laurent.” Marcus did the introductions, his voice strained.
Apparently, this wouldn’t be a happy homecoming. Dove forced a smile for the poor man’s sake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Higgins.”
“Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. You as well. You as well. No need for the mister. Name’s Archibald, but you can call me Archie.” He turned to his employer, bobbing his head, his discomfort palpable. “Apologies, Lord Steele, for the state of the place. No one’s stayed here in quite a while.”
Bishop lingered by the door. “I’ll take the car around to the garage, then check the grounds.”
Marcus nodded, turning back to Archie while Bishop slipped outside. “It’s fine, Archibald. I gave you little notice.”
Sturdy heels clacked along the marble floor, headed in their direction. Dove’s heart soared. She’d know the sound of those clunky heels anywhere. From the hallway appeared a familiar figure. Sleek hair twisted in a tight bun, apron tied neatly around her stout waist, Ida flitted her hand at the elderly man. “Don’t keep them standing there, Mr. Higgins.”
“Ida!” Dove rushed across the room, meeting her halfway. “Boy, am I glad to see you.” She slung her arms around the stunned woman’s shoulders, hugging her as if she feared being swept up in a tornado.
“Goodness, child.” The housekeeper patted her shoulder. “It’s good to see you, too.”
When Dove released her, the housekeeper drew a deep breath as though she’d been deprived of oxygen.
“You didn’t mention Ida would be here,” Dove said to Marcus, accusation in her tone.
He stared back at her, showing little reaction. “I thought you’d be more comfortable with another woman in the house.”
Dove studied him in confusion. While bringing Ida was thoughtful, he grew colder by the minute. “What would you like to do first? A tour, perhaps?” Not that she was excited about seeing more of this creepy place. Still, it was Marcus’s childhood home. Seeing more of the mansion could give her a better understanding of her benefactor.
“Mr. Higgins can show you around. I have work to do. Mrs. Stoneworthy, is my office ready?”
“Yes, sir. Freshly cleaned and ready for your use. As are two bedrooms for you and your ward.”
“Very well. Ida, you will see to Dove.”
“I’d be happy to.” Ida bobbed her head.
With that, Marcus limped toward a hallway, leaning heavily on his cane. Dove nibbled her bottom lip, studying his departing back. It had to be difficult returning here after all these years. Hopefully, some time alone would help him sort it all out.
“Come along, dear. I’ll show you to your room and see you settled.”
“Thanks. That would be great.” Already she felt as though the shadows were watching her. Unnatural energy brushed against her skin, and she shivered. It would take more than clean sheets to see her settled in this place.
Dove sat cross-legged,sheltered beneath the rosy canopy of the massive bed. Books and papers lay scattered around her. The room Ida had prepared for her seemed frozen in time. Stuck in the early 1800s. The Victorian style was terribly opulent, with its scrolly furniture, rich fabrics, and ropey fringe. While beautiful in its own way, the space was stuffy and suffocating. Although Dove usually felt this way when she was forced to study for hours on end.
“This is pointless.” She shoved the book across the bed, rubbing her blurry eyes. No amount of research or planning would prepare her for this exorcism. Marcus demanded the impossible.
This was why she strived for ‘fair to middling’ in practically everything she did. When you were exceptional at your craft, people expected big things from you. Dove wasn’t cut out for high-stakes assignments. When others asked things of her, inevitably she disappointed them. Soon after, they turned their backs on her, taking her heart with them. If she wasn’t careful, Marcus would do the same.
Her stomach grumbled, and she checked the gold filigree clock on the dresser. Dinner was hours ago. She winced at the memory. Marcus had locked himself away in his office, so Ida attempted to seat her in a formal dining room. Alone. At a table built for twenty.
To Ida’s bemusement, Dove gathered her dishes and headed into the kitchen, plopping herself down beside Archie and Bishop. While Bishop barely said a word, shoveling food into his maw, Archie was a hoot, entertaining her with stories of his youth. Like Ida, the elderly anculus had served House Othonos for decades. She’d hoped he could tell her more about Marcus’s past. To her disappointment, he’d only shared the basics while glancing over his shoulder at Ida, who watched him with shrewd eyes. At the end of dinner, Dove was left with more questions than answers.
Yet another growl echoed from her gut. Break time. She slid off the bed and headed for the door. Her bare feet cramped against the chilly floors. The lace-trimmed robe she’d tossed over her shift failed to keep the cold from her flesh. She got the sense no matter how many fireplaces warmed the building, it would harbor a chill.
Down the steps and across the great room, she aimed for the kitchen. At least, that was the plan. Was it right, right, left? Or was it right, left, right? “This place is ridiculous,” she grumbled, trudging along yet another darkened hallway. Pain lanced her big toe. “Ouch! Stupid table.” She leaned against the wall, clutching her throbbing foot.
Where the heck was Marcus when she needed him? He’d mentioned he didn’t plan to sleep, refusing to give his demon free rein. In no uncertain terms, he’d informed her, her late-night sessions with Shadow were over. While he claimed there was no point with the upcoming exorcism, she suspected he doubted her loyalty. And yet he planned to place his life in her hands. Contradictory vampire.
“This way,” whispered a disembodied voice.
Breath lodged in Dove’s throat. “Hello?” Her ears twitched, registering little but the sound of her pounding heart.
She dropped her forgotten foot, her shoulder blades becoming one with the wall. With rounded eyes, she scanned the hallway, chanting, “Don’t be a ghost. Don’t be a ghost. Don’t be a…”
Static tingled down her glyph, goose bumps rising on her arms. She groaned. “This place just gets better and better.”
Movement drew her attention to the end of the hall. Shimmering mist wafted out of an open doorway. The air chilled, filling with the heady scent of roses.
“This way,” the voice repeated in that same delicate whisper.
Dove chewed her lip, eyeing the soft glow. The misty light faded, drifting farther away.
At this point, she had three options. One, keep stumbling around in the dark until she broke more than her big toe, leaving Archie to discover her decimated skeleton. Two, follow the creepy ghost person into the unknown. Three, scream her head off until someone came to find her, which would be totally humiliating. Also, what if it was Ida or Archie she woke? Neither were spring chickens. She could very well give them a heart attack.
Her toe throbbed, reminding her of the dangers awaiting her with option one.
She huffed an irritated breath, stomping after the fading glow. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
The apparition led her down a staircase to what appeared to be a less formal servant’s area where she vanished. Dove peered through the window of an exterior door, spotting the faint glow outside.
Following a ghost outdoors in the wee hours of the night was far from appealing. However, at this point, it seemed better than the spooky house and its endless hallways.
She stepped out into the cool evening air and narrowed her eyes. Where the heck did that ghost go? Soft moonlight illuminated the hedge-lined courtyard with its scrolly iron patio set. Beneath her bare feet was a landscaped pathway. Shimmering flower petals peppered the stones like a trail of breadcrumbs. “Roses.” She gasped. Like the ones in the painting.
Curiosity overrode her sense of preservation. She followed the walkway, tracking the petals through an arched trellis with an open gate. The sweet fragrance grew stronger, wafting in the breeze.
Once inside, Dove stopped and exhaled a soft breath. “Oh, wow,” she whispered. It was the rose garden depicted in the painting. Flowerbeds teeming with flowering bushes filled the space. At the center was a cheerful fountain. Off to the side, a glass greenhouse. Fireflies sparkled in the foliage. It was a wonderland, except for the spirit.
Near a stone bench, tending a blood-red bud, was her ghost. The apparition was more substantial here. Perhaps drawing energy from what must have been her favorite place. Now that her patrician features were more defined, the spirit’s likeness to the woman in the painting was spot-on. Like Dove, she was in her nightgown, her ruffled sleepwear trimmed in lace. Long black curls trailed down her back.
Dove cleared her throat. “Hello?”
The spirit turned from the rose she tended, staring at Dove with a vacant expression. “You bear his mark,” she said in a hollow voice.
Dove frowned, touching her neck. Her fingers grazed the brand Marcus gave her when he claimed her as his Chosen. “Um, yes. I do.”
“Are you worthy?”
Dove’s spine stiffened. Apparently, mothers could be disapproving, even beyond the grave. It was a vague question, so she gave a vague answer. “Are any of us?”
The spirit frowned, not liking her reply.
Past encounters had taught Dove to never let a ghost lead a conversation. “Are you Josephine Steele, Marcus’s mother?” she asked, taking control.
“I am.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to you?” Archie said Josephine had died in a plane crash when Marcus was still a child. Before he could go into the details, Ida offered a disapproving huff and he clammed up. There was more to the story. Dove was sure of it.
The spirit’s pale expression drew tight, as though she struggled to recall. Energy prickled Dove’s glyph.The air thickened, the smell of smoke wafting beneath her nose. Josephine’s porcelain face darkened. Her flesh blistered and burned, her clothing turning to ash. Nausea tightened Dove’s throat, and she pressed her hand to her mouth.
“There was an explosion,”the spirit said in a dull monotone, as though she had no idea she’d turned into a toasted marshmallow. “Fire. Pain. Falling. Then nothing.”
“I’m so sorry.” Poor thing. Dove shouldn’t have asked.
The image faded and the beautiful woman returned. “Like my son.”
It was unusual for spirits to be aware of postmortem events. Unusual, but not impossible. “You know about Marcus’s accident?”
“It was the same.”
Dove frowned. “The same how?”
“There are snakes in the garden.”
“Snakes? Where?” Dove high-stepped, scanning her ankles followed by the shrubbery. No snakes. Phew. Freaking ghosts and their metaphors. This was the trouble with spirits. They literally lived in their own world, sharing cryptic tidbits of information.
Josephine’s brow tightened, her demeanor troubled. “I wanted to see him, but it wasn’t safe. Darkness surrounds my son, preventing everyone from getting close.” She paused, forehead smoothing. “All except you.”
Again, Dove struggled with her meaning. Did Marcus’s mother sense the demon in him? Was that what she meant?
“It isn’t his fault.” The least Dove could do was reassure the woman. “He hasn’t been himself. I’m sure Marcus didn’t mean to push you away.” Welcome to the club.
“He’s in danger.”
“Danger from what?” Dove asked.
Josephine turned back to her roses, her image flickering. “Snakes in the garden.My fault. I opened the gate. You must help him.”
Well, that made zero sense. How could the accident be his mother’s fault? Helen was the one who planted the bomb in his car. Did she mean something else? “I’m trying. Maybe you could tell me how?”
“Close the gate,”the spirit whispered, her form losing its shape, fading to a shimmering mist. And poof. She was gone.
Dove flopped onto a nearby bench. “Well, that was useless. Darn ghosts and their cryptic messages.”
From what she’d pieced together, the entire Steele family was a Greek tragedy. Marcus lost his mother at a young age, his father not long after. Then recently, he’d come close to following in their footsteps. Worse, Josephine believed Dove could help him by closing some mysterious gate.
Darn it. She’d slipped out of her room in need of a break. Here she was, even more stressed and confused.
She scanned Josephine’s garden. Fireflies danced in the hedges, the warm light flickering. Moonlight shone on the roses, frosting their blooms with a silver gleam. No wonder this was the spirit’s favorite place. Dove’s lips curled. Perhaps she’d found what she searched for after all.