Chapter 11
Iwake up coughing, the taste of smoke in my mouth, my heart pounding from the rush of adrenaline, my mind so scrambled that I can’t distinguish between realities.
“Harrison!” A voice calls, and a warm hand grips my chin, forcing me to turn my head. I breathe hard as I slowly focus on familiar dark eyes.
“Sam,” I gasp. As he gathers me up in his arms, my teeth clatter and my whole body is shaking.
Sam tightens his embrace and lays us back on my bed, pulling me into him and rubbing soothing circles on my back.
“It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you,” he croons. “I’ve got you, just breathe.”
Eventually, my heart rate slows and I stop trembling.
“You ready to tell me what these nightmares are about?” he says after a moment, his voice low and filled with concern.
I roll away from him and onto my back. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I suck in a deep breath.
My brain’s still filled with the sounds of screaming and the sight of a man’s flesh being flayed from his body, and I bite back the urge to gag.
Sam deserves an explanation, but I’m naked and feeling vulnerable.
“Harrison?”
“I can’t,” I choke out. “Not like this.”
Throwing back the covers, I climb out of bed, my body protesting every movement. It’s not fair. After our first time together, I should be waking up content in my lover’s arms, not ripped from sleep, traumatised, and fighting the urge to vomit.
I’m really beginning to hate the whole Crawshanks bloodline. My bloodline. No wonder my mother didn’t want me anywhere near our family’s legacy.
Grabbing my bathrobe, I yank it on and head into the kitchen.
I pick up the kettle to fill it with water and then stop abruptly, squeezing my eyes closed as I’m hit with more images of what Cordelia’s demon did to Dr Whyte.
The man had earned his fate, there’s no question about that, but I could have lived my entire life without seeing a human peeled like a potato. A very gooey, red?—
I swallow hard and bite back the dry heave.
Suddenly, the kettle is taken from my hands, and I open my eyes to see Sam, now wearing only his trousers from yesterday, left unbuttoned since he’s obviously thrown them on in a hurry.
He sets the kettle down on the kitchen counter and leads me back into the living room, guiding me down onto the sofa.
“Take it easy, Prickles,” he says softly. “You just sit here. I’ll make you some tea.”
I can’t answer, so I don’t. I simply watch him walk back into the kitchen and then hear the water running and the kettle click on.
I don’t deserve him. I feel like I’ve ruined our beautiful night together, and it was beautiful.
I’ve never felt so connected to a person or so undone.
Then he ends up sleep-deprived and drowning in my drama.
How long will it be before Sam realises I’m just too much effort?
That he can never have a normal life with me?
He comes back into the room and sets my favourite camomile tea on a coaster on the side table beside me. Taking a seat on the coffee table in front of me, he reaches out and wipes the pad of his thumbs across my cheeks. It’s only then that I realise I’m crying.
I’m such a mess. He really would be better off without me.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, rubbing my face.
“Hey, hey, hey.” He peels my hands from my face. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He sighs. “I thought the nightmares had stopped.”
I shake my head.
“You haven’t mentioned them since I got back from Yorkshire.
” He studies my no doubt blotchy face—I really don’t have the colouring to cry prettily.
“Prickles, maybe you’ll feel better if you talk about it?
You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you need to talk to someone.
Waking up the way you do, I’m beginning to think they’re more like night terrors than dreams.”
“They’re not dreams,” I murmur.
“What?”
“They’re memories.”
“Yours?”
I shake my head again. “Cordelia Crawshanks’.”
“What?” He frowns, confused.
I take a deep breath. “It started just after I arrived in London. In the beginning, I thought they were just strange dreams. I saw a young woman trapped in an asylum and abused terribly. Then her brother came for her, he saved her. At first, I didn’t even know who she was.
But her story began to unravel, night after night.
It’s like she’s been showing me what happened to her.
I began to research what I witnessed to see if I could corroborate any of the details, prove it was real. ”
“And it was?”
I nod. “That was when I first realised she was Cordelia Crawshanks. And her brother, the one who pulled her from that awful place?—”
“Cornelius?”
I nod again. “That’s why I already had the Crawshanks family tree when Tristan came to me for help just before the eclipse. Sam…” I swallow, my throat like sandpaper.
He reaches out and takes my hand, tangling his fingers with mine. “What is it?”
“When Cornelius brought her home from the asylum, the first thing she did was retrieve the book of magic she’d brought back with her from India as a child.”
“The Book of Lala Khal?” Sam says, and I stare at him. “Tristan told me about it, it’s mentioned in Cornelius’ journals. Him and his sisters used it when they were kids and accidentally opened the portal to the spirit world, the one that Bruce guards.”
“Opening the portal is not the only thing she used the book for,” I say quietly. “Sam, she used it to raise a demon.”
“A demon?”
“She set it loose in London, using it to kill.”
“Kill who? Innocent people?” Sam scowls.
“No, they were far from that. The ringleader was Dr Whyte, who was in charge of the asylum. He abused Cordelia horribly, but he wasn’t alone.
He ran something he called the Demon Club.
The members were very powerful members of Victorian society.
Judges, bishops, lords—he allowed all the depraved elite access to the patients in his care. ”
“To do what?”
Sam’s expression tells me he probably already has a good idea.
“Whatever they wanted. They could play out their sickest, most disgusting desires and fantasies. Dr Whyte hid the bodies, disposed of the evidence, and kept their secrets in return for money, power, and connections.”
“And Cordelia sent her demon after them?”
I nod again. “She cleaned house. She made every last one pay for what they did, and I saw it all in high def, front-row seat.”
“And you’re sure it was real?”
“I’ve seen the newspaper archives, Sam. It’s all there. The London Terror Spree of 1850. Last night was the final instalment of her revenge tour. She had her demon kill Dr Whyte by flaying him alive.” I swallow convulsively. “He looked like a peeled tomato.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah,” I reply, my stomach rolling uncomfortably. “She also set the inmates loose. In the dream, they killed most of the staff and burned the asylum to the ground.”
For several long moments, he just sits and watches me, probably processing everything I’ve told him. I know he believes me, no matter how insane it sounds.
“What I don’t understand,” he finally says, “is why you saw it all. You have no connection to the Crawshanks family other than via Tristan, whose only tie is his friendship with Viv. But even that wouldn’t explain this. You said the nightmares began when you first arrived in London?”
I swallow hard.
“You hadn’t even met Tristan then.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Maybe it’s because you’re a witch,” Sam muses. “Maybe it’s just that you were powerful enough to pick up on a certain frequency, one that allows her to show you her memories. But wouldn’t that suggest she’s still around? Her spirit, maybe?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
This would be the perfect time to tell him about my connection to the Crawshanks family, but I’m still too raw.
Just tell him. Tell him. Tell him. It’s a drum beating a tattoo in my head.
“Sam, I?—”
His phone pings in the pocket of his trousers, and he pulls it out, frowning as he scrolls down the screen.
“What is it?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.” He slips his phone back into his pocket.
“No, what is it?”
“Just Danny. He’s got a person of interest he wants me to help him chase down.”
“You should go.”
He shakes his head. “I think I should stay here with you.”
“Sam, I’m always a bit unsettled after one of these encounters with Cordelia’s messed-up psyche. I know how to handle it. I need a hot shower, something to eat, and time to settle. You should go help Danny, seriously.”
He looks torn.
“I’ll be fine, I promise. I’ve been handling these dreams for months. I’m not as bad as I was in the beginning. At least I’m not throwing up as soon as I wake up anymore. That’s progress.”
“I don’t know, Prickles.”
“I’m good. Go, Danny needs you.”
He sighs and leans in, grazing a feather-light kiss to my jaw. “Okay, but I’ll be back later, and then we still need to talk about last night.”
I search his face and then nod. “Okay,” I agree.
When I finally plug my phone in to charge after Sam leaves, I find a message from my grandfather from the night before, telling me he has arrived in London and settled at a hotel, and asking where to meet up.
I take a deep breath and send a response, mentally preparing myself for his questions, then hurry to get myself together and out the door.
When I finally enter the small café I suggested, I see him at a table tucked into the corner, sipping a cup of tea and reading the paper.
As I wind through the crowd towards him, he looks up and folds his paper, setting it on the table and gruffly huffing, “Took your time.”
“Hello to you too, Grumps.” I lean in and kiss his wrinkled cheek.
“Hmm,” he grumbles, but a small smile tugs at his lips.
I remove my jacket and hang it over the back of the chair before taking a seat. “How was the journey?”
“Long, boring, and full of idiots.” He takes another sip as the waitress approaches, and I order myself a herbal tea. “So fill me in on what’s been going on.”
“Honestly, Grumps, I don’t know where to start.”
“That bad, huh?”