A Grave Inheritance (3 page)

A large beast stepped into the entry, its pale, canine body illuminated in the moonlight. The summer heat turned to ice around me and I started to shiver, overtaken by a tremendous chill. Partway in the room, the beast lifted its muzzle to sniff the air, each exhaled breath reappearing as a frosty puff.

Blood pounded through my heart. The beast was too big to fight single-handed. To survive, I had to run. Either back down the hallway to the servants’ quarters or up the stairs to my bedroom where Henry had insisted I keep a loaded pistol. I opted for the pistol, hoping a well-aimed shot to the head could stop a creature capable of breaking through solid wood doors and iron locks. Chancing a tentative step toward the stairs, I heard a snarl of warning. Another step, just the smallest movement, brought more snarls as the beast moved closer, cutting off my path.

Not daring to move again, I pressed my back into the wall, aware of one last option other than simply playing dead. I might lack the strength to kill the creature, but I could at least hurt it a little, or even scare it off for the few necessary seconds I needed to get up the stairs. Slowly lifting my left hand, I hurled the brass candleholder straight at the beast. There was a meaty thud, followed by a loud clatter as the candleholder hit the wood floor and rolled away. I tensed, ready to bolt.

It didn’t even flinch! I had hit the devil with all my strength, and it didn’t even flinch! Instead, it tilted its head to the side, the previous snarls replaced by an odd wheezing sound. At first I thought it might be whimpering when another thought flashed through my mind. The cursed thing was laughing at me!

By now I was too mad to try playing dead.

I stared at the beast, a strange fire stirring deep inside my chest, feeding my anger. “Stop laughing,” I hissed.

It wheezed some more, obviously amused by my words.

The fire surged inside me, white hot and deadly. “Get out of my house or...or...I’ll tear your blasted heart out!”

The beast snarled in response and edged another step closer. Then it lunged, its teeth flashing at my neck. I screamed, this time loud enough to wake the dead, and threw my hands up to protect myself.

It slammed into me, knocking my head hard against the plaster. My arms jolted painfully, pinned to my chest beneath its massive weight. A long hiss, like the sound of searing meat, came from between us and my nose filled with the scent of burnt fur and flesh. At once, the beast’s savage snarls turned to howls of pain, then fell silent. A bitter cold moved into my right hand, stinging my fingers before I remembered the smooth, bone handle clamped in my fist. I let go, and the beast sank to the ground, Brigid’s knife deep in its chest. The fire receded inside of me, sapping my strength along with the maddening rage.

Footsteps came pounding down the stairs. I turned to see James, a candle in one hand and sword drawn in the other. “What happened?” he demanded.

Unable to speak yet, I let my eyes fall toward the ground.

James followed with the candle, sucking in a hard breath when he saw the beast lying at my feet. “What is that?”

I stared down, at a loss what to tell him. Canine in form, its fur was completely white, except for the newly formed bloodstain around its heart.

James moved the candle closer. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. “Could be a distant cousin to the wolf hound, though it’s larger by half. What was it doing in here?”

“I don’t know,” I said, finally recovering the use of my voice. “It broke through the door and attacked me.”

James poked the hound with the tip of his sword. “Is it dead?”

“I think so. I had the knife from my apothecary. The hound fell on the blade when it lunged at me.” I held back how the blade had slid into the creature’s chest, melting its flesh and bone like butter.

James leaned over for a better look. “This wasn’t its first fight.” He pointed towards the hound’s head, “Something has taken a bite out of its ear.”

My knees buckled and I braced myself against the wall to keep from falling. James was right. One ear looked severely mangled, a portion of cartilage gone and the remainder covered in a thick layer of scabs. The wound was unmistakable, as was the nature of Mr. Chubais’s urgent message—to kill the goddess born.

The body began to quiver and James jumped back. A blue flame sprang from the bloodstained chest, barely missing my skirts as it raced over the fur, encasing the hound in a blanket of icy fire. It was over in seconds, the carcass reduced to a pile of white ash.

“Merciful God!” James exclaimed.

His words mirrored my thoughts exactly.

Stooping, I picked up the knife from the ash, marveling at how good it felt in my hand. It was a formidable weapon, forged by the smith god for one purpose—to defeat the enemy.

Chapter Two

A Person of Interest
England, November 1730

From the upper deck of the Callisto, I stared out at the most extraordinary sight. London, a city so vast and crowded it sprawled for miles in every direction to accommodate its half-million residents. The thought boggled my mind—a half million people living together in one place, and all but one complete strangers to me.

The dark water of the Thames meandered like a lethargic snake, its cumbersome body winding a wide path that separated north and south London by more than a furlong. Ships dotted the river as far as the eye could see, three and four mast giants casting long shadows over the smaller fishing craft and ferryboats. Just past noon, the time appeared much later due to a thick layer of smoky haze that covered the city. A crisp breeze passed by me, strong enough to ruffle my woolen cape and to turn the river’s already noticeable stink into a powerful stench.

I wrinkled my nose and held up a scented handkerchief to help cover the odor. The mass of humanity, though exciting to behold, had left its mark on the city’s air. Even from the ships position in the middle of the Thames, throngs of people were easily discernible milling about on the docks. After months at sea, the crowds seemed a small price for the freedom to move about beyond the tight confines of the ship’s deck.

Only a little bit longer,
I reminded myself. Captain Saunders was due back at any moment from the customs house where he had gone to declare the ship’s cargo before ferrying the passengers to shore. Another few hours were inconsequential when considering how long Henry and I had already been apart. Fifteen weeks had passed since our last goodbye, each day feeling significantly longer than the one before.

In the midst of an impatient sigh, my breath cut short when a different number wormed its way forward.
Eighty-six days.

Tomorrow would mark eighty-seven, followed by eighty-eight, every sunrise adding another day to my last visit into the Otherworld. Try as I might to minimize the truth, Brigid’s last warning clung like a stubborn child to my thoughts.

“Refusing to drink from the spring will result in your death.”

Lack of opportunity might not equate to outright refusal, but the reason, I assumed, had no bearing on the ultimate promise of death. As Brigid only came to my specific garden about once a year, all I knew for certain was the tidbit she had tossed in with the warning, that it would happen, “
over time, depending on the circumstances.
” Nothing more had been offered, not even a hint whether she
meant six months or six years.

Anxiety bubbled in my stomach. When I had first agreed to join Henry in London, I drew comfort from the knowledge that my grandparents had survived a similar journey years ago. But as the weeks wore on, this comfort began to wane as my power grew more and more sluggish with each use, and it became increasingly difficult to ignore the many challenges that awaited me on a distant shore. Now the
Callisto
had arrived, the questions I’d pushed aside refused to remain quiet any longer.

Would I know if I were dying? Or just drop dead one day without the least warning? And where in this vast tangle of people and buildings would I find another altar to crossover? Assuming one had been opened at all.

Soft footsteps approached from behind me, too delicate for any of the sailors. I shook the troubling thoughts from my head and glanced around to find my dearest friend, Nora Goodwin, her excited face framed by the dark hood of her own woolen cape. Stopping at my side, she passed an arm around my waist.

“I scarce believe my eyes,” she said, looking out at the city. “Pinch me so I know it’s real and not just another of Poseidon’s cruel tricks.”

“It’s real enough. Can’t you smell it?”

She pulled a deep breath in through her nose. “Praise be the stink,” she said, gagging slightly, “if it means my wits have survived this accursed journey.”

“Praise be, indeed. I can hardly wait to get ashore. London looks a marvel from here. Do you think it is really so evil as the stories say?”

“A right Gomorrah if you ask me,” she laughed. “Though I would gladly take it over spending another night on board this over-sized bucket. Remind me again why I agreed to leave Pennsylvania to accompany you on this silly folly.”

I poked her playfully in the ribs. “For true love, my dear girl. You are too sentimental for your own good.”

Nora gave me a sideways glance. “Sentimental, my foot. I did it because you promised we could sneak into a playhouse once we got here.”

“Another compelling reason,” I said, smiling. Ever since she was a young child, Nora had dreamed of seeing a play, but as a devout Quaker the threat of being discovered, and potentially disowned was too great a risk while at home. Having yet to decide where I belonged amongst the various religions, I received more leniency than Nora from Hopewell’s Quaker population whenever I participated in activities that ran counter to their notion of plain living. In London though, we were two strangers in a veritable sea of people, and a world away from censure of any sort.

Nora’s arm tightened around my waist. “Maybe I do have a bit of mawkishness about me, to have braved this damp tub so you could be reunited with Henry. I’m sure it’s all the more romantic that we nearly sank three times and were blown hundreds of miles off course during the last storm.”

“Four times,” I corrected. “Twice from storms, once when the hull sprang a leak, and then again when the main mast was struck by lightening.”

Nora shook her head. “I wasn’t counting that last one since I assumed we would have burned to death before there was time to drown. But I guess you’re right about the ship ultimately sinking if the sailors hadn’t gotten the fire out in time. Captain Saunders swears he’s never had such a difficult crossing in his twenty years aboard the
Callisto.
We’ve brushed death so many times, my mother’s nerves may never recover.”

Lucy Goodwin was a fragile woman and by no means my first choice for a traveling companion. Unfortunately, she was also the only married woman willing to accompany me to England once Anne Boyle insisted I not leave the Colonies without a proper chaperone. The delay had cost me dearly as Lucy then proceeded to take a full month to prepare for the journey. Looking back, it was a wonder I had gotten her out of the Colonies at all.

“I think we both know who is responsible for your mother’s discomfort,” I said tersely. “If Anne hadn’t stuck her nose where it didn’t belong, I would have sailed with Henry in mid-July and your mother would be safely home in Hopewell. My sole consolation is that you were allowed to join me.”

“Well, now that we’ve arrived, you can stop hating Anne for making you wait. I for one believe she acted well within her rights to insist on a chaperone in light of the little charade you and Henry played last summer. Surely, your reputation is worth the brief separation.”

I scoffed at the notion for lack of a better reply. In the past months one obstacle after another had been hurled in my direction, all with the same intent of keeping me from Henry. Yet here I was, safely arrived, staring out at the landscape of that magnificent city. My heart nearly burst from how close I was to him. No longer were we worlds apart, he was out there, somewhere amidst all those people.

“You’ve gone all dreamy again,” Nora said, looking at me. “The packet boats cross so quickly nowadays, Henry should have received your letter long ago. I wouldn’t be surprised to find him waiting on the docks when we get there.”

“We’re more than three weeks overdue. With the number of ships in the river, it would take a miracle for him to know the
Callisto
has arrived.” I bit my lip, frustrated by the numerous delays. “Do you think he has worried overmuch about us?”

“Any sane person worries whenever sea travel is involved, though I imagine ships are too often late to have caused him any real distress yet.” Her overly bright tone undermined the intended solace in her words. “Still,” she continued, “I’m sure Henry would be grateful to receive word directly from you that you’ve indeed arrived in one piece. Why don’t you ask James to carry a note to him once we’ve settled into our lodgings?”

I laughed outright. “Do be serious. James may have pledged to keep me from bodily harm, but he would sooner cut off his own hand than help further my prospects with Henry.”

“Oh, he’s not so bad as that. I’m sure he would oblige if you just asked him nicely.”

I gave her an incredulous look. “Any letter from me would sooner see the bottom of the river than be delivered to Henry, no matter how nicely I may ask. I’m surprised you would even suggest such a thing. It’s no secret the man detests me.”

Nora pursed her lips. “He hasn’t come to terms yet with the idea that Henry prefers you over Amelia. Most of the time he’s really quite pleasant.”

“Only when you’re around,” I countered. “Otherwise he’s a self-righteous prig who is more concerned with Henry’s rank than his happiness. Since we left Hopewell, the man has spoken two dozen words to me, and less than half of those have been civil.”

“What do you mean? I heard him speak near a dozen last night at supper alone.”

I snorted a laugh. “‘Please pass the peas and onions, Miss Kilbrid,’ does not qualify as polite conversation.”