Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (34 page)

He advanced toward Lilith, who stood still wailing, her hands wrapped around the tiny gold chain. Try as she might, she could not remove the cross; it clung steadfast beneath her throat, bolted there by some holy force. She ran her hands over her mortal form as if she could not believe it real. She tore at her hair, her expression frenzied with rage.

He raised his sword.

"Wait, Hux!" He turned as I put a staying hand on his arm. "You cannot do this."

"Stay out of this, Abigail," he said with barely suppressed rage. "She has caused me a lifetime of pain. Now justice will be done."

Lilith's eyes were wild, crazed. "Go ahead, kill me. Run me through with your man's sword; do as your kind has been doing since the dawn of cursed Adam."

"Hux, please. Listen to me." Even as his dark blue gaze burned into mine, I tightened my grip on his arm. His powerful muscles vibrated beneath my fingertips. "If you kill her now, you will kill the body she inhabits. You said so yourself: you can only destroy the demon when she is surfaced. Lilith is trapped; the cross binds her power. She cannot escape her human form so long as she wears the necklace. And look—you see she cannot remove it."

Tearing out of my grasp, Hux aimed the sword at Lilith. "I do not care who I kill so long as Lilith dies too."

"You do not mean that," I said. "You would not take an innocent life out of a need for revenge. Come away, Hux. Let her go. She is destroyed already."

His ravaged voice ripped into my ears. "Wait for me outside, Abigail."

"I will not go." With a fierce breath, I moved to stand between him and Lilith. "I will not let you harm an innocent soul. One that still lives inside the body that Lilith occupies. I will not have that sin upon your head."

"You don't understand. I have to kill Lilith. If I don't—" Hux broke off into an anguished whisper. "It is the only way to save my brother's soul."

"John is gone. Murdering another will not save him," I said gently.

There was a flash of silver from the altar. A demanding brightness that had all three of us turning our heads. 'Twas like the sun had descended into our midst, and all the candles burst into a welcoming flame. I blinked, unable to discern the details of the small form that emerged from the heart of that brilliance.

Beside me, I heard Hux's choked breath. The spots cleared from my eyes, and I saw who had come before us. He was a small boy, ten years old mayhap, with a head of golden curls. He wore a navy jacket and red muffler. His blue eyes glowed with serenity, his entire being lit with angelic radiance.

"You have done well." His voice washed through me, rich and soothing, filling me with tranquil contentment. "You have done all that has been asked of you. Our bargain is complete."

With moisture-bright eyes, Hux stared at that small figure. I saw his throat ripple, before rusty words emerged. "John is ...?"

"He is home," the boy responded. "He is at peace."

Hux gave a rough nod, and I went to him, wrapping my arms around his waist.

"As for you, Abigail Jones," the angelic voice continued, "worry no longer about your soul. It has shown itself as valiant and pure. Like your ancestor, you have proved your strength against the dark."

"'Twas the necklace," I said humbly. "Its power helped me to defend against Lilith—"

"What is a symbol without its meaning? So is that cross without your love. It is the wearer who decides his fate, not the necklace," the boy intoned. His shining gaze travelled to Lilith, who stood with her arms crossed and expression sulky. "As for Lilith, you may give her over to me. I will see that she stays out of trouble and plagues mankind no more."

To my surprise, Lilith smirked and sashayed over to the diminutive angel. She reached down and twirled a blonde curl around her finger. With a bit of her old spark, she said, "Plan to do a better job with me than you did the last time, Michael?"

"My mistake will not be repeated," the boy said calmly, though I thought I saw pink tinge his cherubic countenance. "Time for us to go now, Lilith, and leave these people in peace."

He waved his hand. Ribbons of the silver light appeared, spiraling around him and Lilith's petulant form. When the dazzling intensity grew too much to bear, I turned my head into Hux's chest. There was a sound like a thunderclap, and then nothing.

After a few moments, I felt my chin being tipped up. I looked into Hux's eyes; they were the clear blue that follows a passing storm.

"Is it over?" I asked.

Hux smiled at me, a look so tender that my heart squeezed.

"No, love, it's just beginning," he said and kissed me.

EPILOGUE

Reader, I married him.

Two weeks later, in the same Abbey where we had fought and defeated the Queen of Demons, Hux and I exchanged our vows. We had invited only the staff and so expected a small ceremony. But the pews were brimming. Curious villagers, mostly, come to witness the scandalous wedding of an earl and a maid. Hux and I did not care. We had eyes only for each other. As we walked together down the aisle, joined in name now as well as love, I heard a cheerful whistle. I smiled at a waving Ginny. Beside her was a sturdy young man whose eyes kept darting to the pinched-faced matron flanking his other side.

Hux and I exited into the sunshine with the peal of bells spilling through the air. A gleaming carriage awaited to take us to Portsmouth. Tomorrow, we were to board a ship for France, the start of a long honeymoon on the Continent. Pausing a moment, I looked behind at the excited faces. I saw one eager figure, in particular, jostling for position. Everywhere around her people glared as her skinny elbows jammed right and left. I heard grunts of
Damnit, Pickled Peg, get out o' the way
and a snide comment of
Ain't no 'ope for you, Maggie, so best leave the catchin' to the other girls.

Taking aim in my mind, I let loose the bouquet.

"I got it! Me! I got it!"

Grinning at Maggie's stunned face, I let Hux hand me up. The carriage rolled into motion, and my new husband took my hands and kissed them each in turn.

"Still soft," he murmured, a gleam in his eyes.

Remembering, I wrapped my arms around his neck. "I thought you were so wicked back then."

His wandering lips skimmed, warm and sure, along my neck. "And now?"

"And now," I sighed, "I
know
you are."

Pulling back, he aimed that slow, knowing smile at me, the one I was certain would curl my toes for the rest of my days. "Ah, but I think you have a taste for the devil, my sweet. After all, you knew the rumors about me, you read those licentious letters,"—his breath teased over my ear, and I shivered at the naughty nip that followed—"and you still couldn't keep away."

Though I would have gladly followed this train of thought, his words prodded a sudden memory. A lingering question. "Speaking of rumors," I said, "there is something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Yes, love?"

"'Tis about Mrs. Beecher." Thinking of my dear friend, I felt a bittersweet pang. I was certain both she and Aunt Agnes had watched over us this day. "She told me once she owed you a debt. That you took her on when no one else would."

Hux regarded me with a steady gaze. "Yes."

"Did you know about her ... relationship with my aunt?"

"There were rumors about Rebecca," he said after a moment. "About an incident at her prior post. The scandal had apparently cost her the position."

"And yet you hired her?"

As his knuckles grazed my cheek, he said simply, "Who am I to judge love?"

The perimeter of my heart stretched to contain all that I felt for this extraordinary man. My husband. "I love you so much," I whispered and leaned up to kiss him.

But he halted me with two fingers placed upon my lips. "Come to think of it," he said, "there is something I've been meaning to ask myself."

"Oh?"

His brow arched in question. "When I found you with Lilith in the Abbey. What was she saying to you to make you give up the necklace? What did she use to try to sway you, to seduce you to the dark side?"

I looked into his eyes. In that clear, heavenly gaze, I saw a man whose unique strength and passions matched my own. With him, I saw my dreams and my future becoming one.

"Why don't I show you," I murmured.

And I did.

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE

As a girl, one of my favorite books was
Jane Eyre
. I adored the story of the down-trodden orphan who triumphed against all odds ... and who ended up winning the heart of her brooding and mysterious master. In writing Abigail's story, I began with an underdog heroine and added other elements to the romance: the gothic glamour of the Victorian Era and a larger emphasis on the supernatural. Although the combination of these elements was the product of my imagination, some interesting historical facts deserve highlight.

The portrait that so intrigued and disturbed Abigail was inspired by Dante Gabriel Rossetti's painting entitled "Lady Lilith". I came across this painting while researching Victorian artwork—and, in one of those rare, synergistic moments, realized I had also found my story's villainess. The poem that appears at the start of the story was one that Rossetti penned to accompany his canvas; he cast Lilith as seductive, narcissistic, man-killing beauty. In my research on the mythology of Lilith, I came upon (to my mind) more interesting interpretations. I was particularly intrigued by Lilith as a symbol of the feminine, its strengths and its weaknesses in the face of patriarchal power. Like Abigail, I feel something for the old girl.

In initial drafts of the book, Rossetti played a larger role in the story. I was fascinated by the biographies I read about this talented, volatile, and complex man. The more I wrote, however, the more I realized that Rossetti's dramatic character could easily overshadow Abigail and Hux's story. So while I ended up reducing his part in the tale, many of the details I left in are based on my research. He did, for example, have a mistress named Fanny Cornforth, who modeled for him from time to time. They did call each other "Elephant" and "Rhino". And he apparently owned a whole menagerie of animals, including a wombat. For readers interested in finding out more about the scandalous lives and loves of Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, I highly recommend Gay Daly's biography,
Pre-Raphaelites in Love
.

Thank you for sharing the start of Abigail and Hux's journey. I hope you will join me again for their next adventure when Abigail unravels the mystery of her origins and enters the truly terrifying world … of Victorian High Society.

Cheers and Happy Reading,

Grace Callaway

EXCERPT OF
HER HUSBAND’S HARLOT

1817, London, England

The lush burgundy carpeting deadened all noise, bestowing an eerie silence upon the corridor. Lady Helena Harteford shivered as a draft stirred the satin water-lilies pinned to her white tunic and brushed her bare shoulders in a ghostly caress. Given the capricious clime of London in the spring, her water nymph costume had perhaps not proven the wisest choice, but the impetuous nature of her plan had allowed little in the way of preparation. stifled a sudden nervous laugh. Even if she had had more time for deliberation, would she have found the appropriate attire?

What, after all, was the proper garment for hunting down one's husband at a high-priced bawdy house?

An answer, she reflected, unlikely to be found in her well-worn copy of Lady Epplethistle's
Compleat Guide to the Comportment of Ladies
.

In the distance, a grandfather clock tolled the hour, the twelve sonorous rings underscoring the urgency of her mission. Helena studied the dimly lit stretch ahead of her. Along both sides of the hallway, life-sized statues stood watch over a series of doors. Cautiously, she approached the first door and pressed her ear against the cool wood. No sound escaped. Indeed, the walls appeared thick and solid, designed to ensure the privacy of the activities conducted within. The very thought of her husband engaging in such activities bolstered her courage and hastened her footsteps along the corridor.

Earlier, from a second floor balcony, she had witnessed Nicholas' arrival to the rowdy masquerade below. Under her feathered mask, jealousy had flamed her cheeks as she watched him dance with two of the "Nuns"—courtesans wearing rouge and not much else. The way the women had rubbed themselves against her husband, like hungry cats ... Startled by the loud
snap
, Helena had looked down to see the sticks of her fan broken in half. She'd begun breathing again only when he had departed the dance floor (thankfully,
alone
) and strode up the staircase. He had to be in one of the current rooms on the second floor; she meant to search him out.

It would be easy to spot her husband, despite the black silk mask that he wore. For one, Nicholas stood a head taller than most men. With his swarthy skin and powerful build, he resembled a pirate more than a lord of the realm. His short, coal-black hair topped a face more rugged than handsome, and yet she found his bold nose and broadly-planed cheekbones utterly arresting. And there were his eyes. Orbs of ever-changing grey, they were at times dark and fathomless as a well and at others the silver of fog above water.

Even deprived of sight, Helena would have known her husband. His presence affected her in a disturbingly profound, disturbingly primal, manner. When he was near, her breath heightened, her skin quivered with almost unbearable sensitivity, and her blood pumped languid heat into unmentionable parts of her person. Just the thought of her husband stirred her secret imagination and infused her with most unladylike longing ...

Helena swayed a little and grasped the protruding edge of a marble statue for balance. Perhaps she ought not to have partaken of the lemonade. It had tasted odd, unlike any lemonade she had imbibed before. Not only had it been lukewarm, but it had seemed to heat her mouth and insides as she drank it. But when the proprietress had offered the beverage, it had seemed ungracious not to accept. Besides, she had been thirsty, and there had been naught else to do while she waited for Nicholas to arrive.

Steadying herself, Helena squinted in the gloom at the statue. The stone face had a beard and ... horns? Recognition dawned as she registered the lascivious expression. A satyr, she thought wonderingly, half-man, half-goat, like the drawings she had once glimpsed in a book pilfered from her father's collection.

She looked down at the thick, long jut of stone beneath her fingers and gasped, her fingers flying free as if singed by flame.

Merciful heavens!
Her cheeks pulsed hotly against the silk-lined interior of her mask.
Surely 'tis not an accurate representation. Why, it could span both my hands ...

She swallowed, remembering the invading hardness, the sensation of unbearable stretching between her legs on her wedding night. Was
that
what Nicholas had tried to ... to push inside her? She had been far too afraid to look, but seeing the marble phallus now, the way it thrust resolutely forward, she released a horrified moan.

Of course it had not worked! Why, 'twas against the very laws of nature. Despite her plump curves, her frame was quite petite, with her eye level reaching in the low vicinities of her husband's chest. It was one of the things that delighted her, feeling small and utterly feminine next to his bold, virile physique. But mayhap their difference in size contributed to a certain mismatch in other areas. Rather like trying to thread a rope through a needle.

Eyes darting side to side, she leaned forward to take a closer peek at the statue. She knew her curiosity to be most indecent yet her hand stretched forward, seemingly of its own accord. Her index finger hesitated against the base of phallus; she noted with surprise the fruit that hung beneath. The rounded sac looked just like a summer peach, juice-swollen and dangling from a thick branch. She grew bolder, continuing her exploration upward. The marble felt cool and hard beneath her fingertip. Slowly, she traced the raised veins twisting along the shaft until she arrived at the end, which flared unexpectedly into a plump mushroom. Her fingertip paused in the peculiar indentation at the tip.

"Right this way, milord," a female voice purred. "We are not far from the room."

At the sound, Helena snapped to her senses, snatching her hand away. Her mind blanked in panic as footsteps approached. The glow of a candle licked the walls, dissolving the spell of the satyr. All would be ruined if she was recognized. Her instincts finally took hold and propelled her down the corridor. Her hands shaking, she grasped the brass knob of the nearest door.
Locked.
She raced forward, trying door after door to no avail. Her breath caught in her chest as she came to the end of the hallway. The last room. Relief shot through her as she saw that the door rested slightly ajar. She slipped inside, easing the door closed behind her.

For a moment, Helena found herself enveloped in pure darkness. In the next moment, she heard a man's rumbled words—Goodness gracious, the room was
occupied
. Her hand shot to the door knob. To her astonishment, the smooth brass was already turning, twisting in her hand. A lusty laugh sounded from the other side of the door. Helena gasped, dropping to the ground. With stealth born of pure fear, she scrambled backward from the widening shaft of light. Blindly, she turned onto her knees and crawled, seeking the safety of darkness. She plunged forward, feeling her way past the spindly legs of a pianoforte and the velvet back of a settee.

"Well, what have we here?"

At the drawling tones, her mind emptied to a void. She could find no words to speak. Shaking, praying that her costume disguised her, she slowly twisted her neck around. But there was no one behind her, only the outlines of furniture which resembled ghostly beasts under the faint dusting of candlelight. It took a minute for her thoughts to flow again. Whoever it was, he was not addressing her. Relief stabbed her chest.

"I found a friend, St. John. Her name is Lucy." This was another man's voice, the accents high-pitched and well-born. "And she's
very
friendly, aren't you, wench?"

Lucy giggled as if to prove it.

"The more the merrier, I always say," St. John said.

Once it sank in that there were
two
gentlemen with the lady, Helena exhaled softly. Grossly scandalous as her current situation might be, at least she had not intruded upon a sexual assignation. Likely she had intruded upon a friendly supper, or perhaps a card game suited to three players. Lowering her cheek to the floor, Helena peered through the legs of the settee. Her face burned suddenly and not from the rough bristle of carpet beneath her cheek. Framed by men's boots on both sides, a pair of stocking-clad legs rose from a glimmering pool of fabric. As she watched, one curvy leg kicked aside the discarded gown and wound sensuously around the boot in front of it. At the same time, the other leg nestled into the Hessians behind.

"Ooo, milords, it appears I am caught 'twixt a rock and a hard spot," Lucy cooed. "Why don't we sit us down and get to know one another better?"

Helena's eyes widened as the boots and silk-covered feet advanced in her direction. Tugging desperately at her skirts, she clambered away from the settee. Her knees chafed against the coarse carpet as she pitched to the right, searching for a place to hide. Behind her, there was the soft thud of bodies falling onto cushions, followed by guttural, animal sounds. Helena moved faster, her breath a harsh wheezing in her ear.

Surely they will hear me! Sweet heavens, what shall I do if ...?

Then she saw it, a dark wall rising in front of her. She raised a trembling hand to touch it. The surface slid smooth and solid beneath her fingertips.
A desk
. She followed its perimeter and scurried into the cove beneath. Hugging her knees to her chest, Helena waited for the pounding in her ears to subside.

"Do you like what you see, milords?" Lucy's throaty laughter seemed to reverberate within the wooden cave and sent an odd shiver over Helena's skin.

"Yes, that's it, show your wares," the man called St. John drawled. "Lift those tits a bit higher, won't you? Yes, that's it, press them together, frig those nipples for us. Make them wet, love. Brookeston here prefers his fruit juicy."

The other man—Brookeston presumably—groaned in agreement.

Then came the sound of rustling, the whispered fall of something onto the carpet. Silence followed, broken by a very low sound. Helena strained to hear as her imagination raced. Lucy's mewling groan tore the quiet asunder. The voices of the men joined her, urging her on. As embers of tension heated the room, Helena felt the air in her lungs grow heavy and humid. She bit down upon her fist.

"Now spread that sweet little cunt of yours. Hmm, very nice. Brookeston, what do you think? Would you care to examine the merchandise?"

After a pause, Lucy moaned out a lusty, "Oh,
yes"
,
and Brookeston made a strangled sound. "God, St. John. She's wetter than the streets after a rain. I want to fuck her now."

"Perhaps, my impatient friend, we might start off with an
amuse bouche
, so to speak." St. John laughed softly. "There's a love, go suck on Brookeston's cock, the monster is fairly twitching for you."

A charged stillness followed. Helena waited with held breath. Suddenly, a loud slurping pierced the air. Then more noises, redolent of decadent feasting, of sucking succulent meat off the bone. Even to her inexperienced ears, the animal sounds conveyed a frenzied enjoyment. The lapping of wet flesh against wet flesh pulled eager cries from Brookeston. An odd tingling spread over Helena's skin. Feeling a wave of dizziness, she lowered her head to her knees.

"You taste delicious, milord." Lucy's voice purred over the words. "How enormous you are, I can hardly get my mouth around your rod ..."

"Like being stuffed full of cock, do you now?" Brookeston crowed. "Like having me thrust into your naughty little mouth. Take some more of it then, take it deep!"

Lucy's obliging gurgles, issued from a mouth clearly preoccupied, made Helena's heart race even faster. Her face flamed as images flooded her mind. Was it
possible
, what she envisioned? Her mind flashed to the statue of the satyr. This time, however, a woman knelt in front of it, her lips parted in salacious anticipation ... Was
this
what men desired? Was this why Nicolas avoided her bed, because he wanted
this
? For in all her wildest imaginings, she had never even conceived of such a notion ...

Feverishly, she recalled the one time she had seen her husband unclothed. Over a month ago, on their wedding night. He had doused the candles, and it had been darker than a tomb. At the time, she had been grateful for the cover of darkness; it hid her altogether too plump figure and her nervousness. Trembling beneath the sheets and not knowing what else to do, she had clung to her mother's precise instructions:

"Close your eyes, my darling, and pretend yourself elsewhere. Or better still, engaging in a pleasant activity of your choosing. I myself have always been partial to visiting the milliner. I imagine a lovely pink silk hat, embroidered with peonies and topped with an ostrich feather. Sometimes it is a rather rakish poke bonnet of green straw accented with a sprig of apple blossoms, but ..."—here her mother had patted her awkwardly on the hand—"the important thing is to lie still as can be and practice forbearance with a ladylike demeanor. Remember, you are first and foremost a
lady
. With any luck, before your bonnet shopping is complete, you will have done your duty and the dreadful business will be over."