Beauty and the Wolf (17 page)

I
sabella informed her father straightaway that they would be leaving Thorncliff Towers. As he prepared to go with her, Harris hadn’t yet revealed his possession of her amulet, but that was the least of her worries.

She suspected that while she was in London, Draven would shut himself away from the world again. Would the walls of Thorncliff Towers protect him against the murderous mob?

Isabella felt a familiar rush of nerves as she encountered him in the dining hall the next afternoon. He was sitting in front of an untouched plate of roasted beef, distress deepening the lines of his forehead.

The heaviness in her heart had stolen away her appetite, so she stood rigidly beside the table. She cleared her throat in order to get his attention.

Draven remained silent as repressed emotion surfaced in his bloodshot eyes.

She laced her hands together. “I’m leaving in an hour. I will return before the next full moon—to tell you of the direction I shall take.”

Draven, hunched in an anguished pose, ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Isabella.” He paused. “So this is good-bye for now?”

She nodded.

He reached for her hand but she refused to unbraid them from her firm clasp. The action seemed to claw at him like a sharp dagger.

“You have no idea how my feelings for you govern my every thought and action,” he said. “Bella, you are everything I’ve ever wanted in a woman, from your honesty and intelligence to your extraordinary spirit.”

“Why didn’t you say these wonderful things long ago? And why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Her heart accelerated. “I shall return before the next full moon.” She spun on her heel in an attempt to hide her tears. As she left to attend to her packing, a single thought plagued her mind:
Will learning I’m pregnant make me return permanently?

 

The ride into Dunwich seemed to take forever. Isabella, seated across from her father, tried to engage him in trivial conversation, but he seemed preoccupied all the while, as if his thoughts were adrift on a distant sea.

“Papa,” she said in a loud voice, “since we’re alone, I must tell you that an enormous lynch mob is gathering. You heard the Gypsies who appeared at the ball, didn’t you? The mob intends to capture Draven.”

Harris broke his eyes from the landscape and met her gaze. “If your husband isn’t the black wolf, he will have nothing to fear.”

“That is hardly what I expected you to say.” She stiffened in her seat.

After a moment, his eyes turned soulful. “I’m sorry that you ever married that madman, Isa. If I’d only listened to those rumors of Draven’s insanity—”

“Draven suffers under a terrifying curse, but he is not insane,” Isabella said, her heart aching.

“Then may heaven help him.”

She heaved a sigh of frustration. She could only hope the doctor in London could help Papa. He neither acted nor spoke as she remembered. After a brief silence, she decided to broach the subject of her amulet. She inhaled for courage. “There is something else I have been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” Harris said distractedly. He stroked his chin and continued to glance out the window at the rural scenery.

“Yes. It’s about my necklace.”

That seemed to capture his attention. He leaned forward on his cane and looked her directly in the eye. “What about your amulet, my dear? Have you found it?”

“No, but apparently
you
have.” She wrung the thick cord of her reticule nervously around her fingertips.

Confusion shadowed his face. “I don’t understand.”

“I was beside myself when it went missing. Draven took it upon himself to search for it. That is why he went into your room. No doubt you found it in disarray.”

“I did,” he said slowly. “And?”

“And . . . Draven told me he found the amulet in your bedside table drawer.”

Her father remained silent beneath a dubious expression.

“Naturally, Draven was excited,” she continued, “so he kindly returned it to me.”

Harris crossed his arms. “And you believed him? That I took it, I mean?”

“What reason would he have for lying?”

“I can’t say for certain, but let’s suppose he lied to cover up the fact that
he
stole the amulet from you while you slept.”

“Are you insinuating that he stole it with the intention of returning it to me later?” she asked.

“Considering the problems you’ve been having, it makes perfect sense. Ultimately, he wishes to appear the hero.”

Isabella shot a look out the window as yet another small village rolled by. She hadn’t anticipated this suggestion. Who would she believe now? On the one hand, Draven did have a great deal of ground to make up after he practically clawed her in his own bed. However, if Papa was guilty of taking her amulet, maybe he intended to sell it for a much-needed profit. It was likely that he would go to any length to protect the act.

Her expression turned solemn. “I’m sorry, Papa, but I believe Draven. If you wanted the amulet back, you should have simply asked me. So, no more lies. We’re going to London to see a doctor who specializes in amnesia.”

“Your loyalty lies with your husband now,” he said softly. “I understand.”

She reached for his hand. “You haven’t acted like yourself since the accident. Maybe this doctor can help you. Promise me you’ll consent to an examination.”

“Is my behavior that strange?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Harris put his hand to his forehead and grimaced.

Another headache,
Isabella presumed.

“Very well.” He gave her a weary smile. “I give you my word.”

D
raven was struck by how quiet the house seemed after Isabella departed.

He wandered into the library to read, but found no joy in it. He took Lucifer for a ride, but even the stallion seemed despondent in Isabella’s absence.

A bundle of nerves, he finally retired to his private chambers where he took a light supper in solitude. He was about to ready himself for bed when there was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” he called out while he wound his pocket watch.

“It’s Rogers, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Ye ’ave a visitor, sir.”

At this hour?
Draven moved closer. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know ’ow to put this, m’lord—”

“For God’s sake, old boy!”

Rogers lowered his voice. “She’s a Gypsy who says ’er name is Marga Yavidovich. Sir, she claims she is the grandmother of the girl ye killed when you were sixteen.”

“What?” Draven released the pocket watch and it slipped to the floor.

“She arrived moments ago by neither horseback nor carriage.” Rogers’s voice cracked. “Sir, she must ’ave walked all the way up the steep cliff to Thorncliff Towers . . . on foot.”

It took a moment for Draven to realize that this was a very good turn of events. Perhaps the woman could tell him how to find the witch who thrust the curse on him. “Show her into the drawing room, Rogers. I’ll be there momentarily.”

Draven donned his silver waistcoat in haste and as he descended the staircase, he struggled for composure. Entering the drawing room, he clasped his hands behind his back to hide the fact that he was shaking like a leaf. His visitor sat dwarfed in an oversized armchair. Yet the resolve in Marga Yavidovich’s expression told Draven she was a strong, determined woman. Her hands were calmly intertwined and her dark brown eyes studied him intently.

When Draven came to stand before her, she neither stood nor smiled. Instead, she cocked her head to one side. He guessed her to be upwards of sixty years of age. As he studied her lined face, it seemed truly ironic that she was born of the same blood as he, for she seemed overcome with poverty and persecution. Perhaps the only similarity between them was the same dark defiance in her eyes that always seemed to cause a commotion in his.

His shame over what he’d done to her granddaughter grew as he stared into that dark insurgency.

Draven asked the woman if she cared for something warm to drink. She refused so he waved Rogers out of the room. He sat on an ottoman and he and the Gypsy proceeded to stare at one another for what felt like an eternity. Assuming he would have to initiate the conversation, he finally spoke.

“I must ask you why you’ve come here this evening, Marga. May I call you that?”

Nodding, the woman leaned forward. She encouraged him to do the same with a crook of her forefinger.

“I’ve come to see if Ekaterina Stella’s curse has come true. The curse of a Romanian
vârcolac.
A werewolf.”

Draven could restrain himself no longer. “It bloody well has!”

“And what has that been like for you?”

“
Like?
That damned spell has forced me to live on a nightmarish carousel. It’s impossible for me to get off, no matter how I try. I assure you that during the next full moon, the transformation will happen again.”

Apparently satisfied with the answer, the woman sat back in her chair. “I see that over the years, you’ve become a true
romero.
You appear to be a noble and elegant gentleman.”

“My manservant informed me that you are the grandmother of the young girl I accidentally . . . killed.” He forced gentleness into his voice. “If this is true, I do not expect compliments.”

“Are you aware that your birth mother, though she was younger than I, was my best friend?” she asked in a thin voice.

“No.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to your mother?”

“No,” he said.

“She drowned herself in the pond at the edge of Dunwich.” The pain in the woman’s eyes was obvious. “You see, when Miranda came to this house with you, a babe in arms, your father offered her money to disappear forever.”

Emotion tugged at Draven. “Miranda? Was that my mother’s name?”

She nodded. “Miranda refused the money but she agreed to leave you here. She left this place without you and without any sign of love from your father. For her—and for your grandmother who watched her suffer—it was devastating.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “So the story goes.”

“And you have no feeling for their pain?”

“I never knew my real mother. Besides, the harsh reality is, she gave me away instead of caring for me.”

“No, no,” the woman said as she wagged her finger in distress. “She relinquished you out of love. She came to this house hoping to form a family—Miranda, you, and your father. When the earl insulted her by offering her 80,000 pounds to go away, she was heartbroken. But she could also see that your father carried a soft spot for you in his heart. When Miranda set foot in this grand house and saw how opulently the Winthrops lived, she realized that if you were raised at Thorncliff Towers you, too, would have the finest things money could buy. She told me that she didn’t want the disoriented and nomadic Gypsy life for you. So she left you here. Afterward, she told everyone that saying good-bye to you was the hardest thing she’d ever done.”

A ping of sadness vibrated inside him. “That is why she killed herself?”

“Yes,” Marga said solemnly.

“I didn’t know my mother committed suicide.”

“Because we were as close as sisters, a part of me died the night Miranda took her life.” Tears welled in her eyes. “The rage I felt was so severe, it ate away at me for many years. Adding to that rage was the contempt I felt toward you.
You took away my only grandchild.
”

Draven leapt up and began to pace. “I regret my actions. I didn’t intend to kill your granddaughter. You see, I lost my father moments before I came to the camp. He told me on his deathbed that I have Gypsy blood in my veins. I didn’t take the news well, to say the least.”

Marga nodded. “Turning your back on your own people propelled the
rauna
curse. You did a terrible thing by killing an innocent girl from your clan.”

He nodded solemnly.

“But,” she added, “you have suffered because of it. My visions have verified this. The torment you endured in the asylum and the guilt you still carry proves that you have gained compassion, despite your innately selfish nature.”

Hope stirred inside him. “Will this sever my curse?”

“It is not enough,” she replied.

“Please”—he dropped to one knee before her—“where is my grandmother now? She must undo this hideous spell!”

“I’m sorry to tell you that your grandmother is dead. I, however, have become the matriarch of the tribe. I have directed my people back to this countryside in order to seek you out.”

“So you can revoke the spell?”

“No. Only the Gypsy who laid the curse in the first place can undo it.”

Draven rose, a scowl contorting his face. “If my grandmother is dead, why did you come here? To torture me with your presence and to inform me that I will suffer as a werewolf forever—unless I am shot with a silver bullet?”

Her sharp nose twitched. “You know you may will your own death.”

Draven’s heart plunged. “I have already tried to kill myself. It didn’t work. My immortality prevailed.”

“That is because Gypsies consider suicide a selfish act. It creates too much pain for those who are left behind. Thus, your mother’s death was not only tragic, but shameful. That fact enraged your grandmother even more.”

“Gypsies are a complicated lot,” Draven said sourly.

“Fortunately, willing your death is different than committing suicide to a Gypsy,” Marga said. “Someone must end your life out of an agreement you make with them. To me, you have proved that you have gained compassion and humility, but it is the forces of black magic that must be convinced.”

“How do I do that?”

“You must command someone to shoot you with a silver bullet. If the dark forces believe you have shown enough change, you will resume your human identity as a result. If you have not changed enough in the eyes of the underworld spirits, you will stay a beast forever—with no morphing back and forth into your human form.”

Draven’s gut wrenched. “I cannot live as the beast any longer. This bloodlust is beginning to destroy me.”

“Until you feel you have gained enough compassion,
te na khut-shos perdal tsho ushalin.
Try not to jump over your own shadow. The werewolf that lurks inside you makes you one entity.”

“I beg of you!” Draven cried. “The evil this spell produces is overwhelming.
It must be stopped!
”

“It is not up to me to stop it,” she said. “You have the purest, and the darkest, Gypsy blood running through your veins. The Szgamy tribe can trace its roots to the Carpathian Mountains in Romania—the very center of all black magic.”

Draven looked crazed. “That heritage is poisoning everything about me. My sexual appetite . . . everything. I fear I will destroy my wife.”

“Szgamys are undeniably passionate. And you, Draven, were a man who always loved with your body and never your heart.”

“All that has changed. I love Isabella with every ounce of my being. And this blasted curse is standing in our way.”

The woman’s tone quieted. “Are you forgetting about Isabella’s curse? Perhaps it is
her
spell that is standing in your way.”

Draven’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Marga shrugged. “You have chosen her and you love her. But the amulet made Isabella choose
you.
She is destined to destroy you, unless you can find the bracelet of Amenhotep. Because the Egyptians were the first practitioners of black magic, their spells are even greater than ours.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said.

The woman pulled herself to her feet. She placed a weathered hand on Draven’s arm. “I only came here to tell you about your mother and to let you know that I forgive you for my granddaughter’s death.
Akana mukav tut le Devlesa.
Now I leave you to God.”

“God? How can you speak of God? He cannot help me now, but you can. You must revoke the curse.”

She looked as if she were pondering something. Then she shook her head.

“Wait.” He took hold of her bony shoulders. “You said I can die if I will the action. If I can convince someone besides Isabella to shoot me with a silver bullet then my wife will never have to bear the burden of ending my life.”

The idea was a good one, but its outcome gripped Draven with sorrow since it meant being without Isabella.

Marga’s expression grew grave. “A
rauna
spell is extremely powerful. It is a curse of penance. A person under its spell is transformed into an unfeeling, murderous creature on their twenty-seventh birthday. It is up to them to prove that they regret the disloyalty they’ve shown their people. If you are going to command your own death, Lord Winthrop, you can only do so during a full moon. It will honor your connection to the Gypsy culture and to the Dark Arts. It will also show that you know you have changed but that you are giving up your life selflessly regardless.” She paused. “The moment the silver bullet pierces your heart, you’ll know whether you will continue to live in your human form—or in your wolf form.”

Draven sucked in a breath. He was willing to take the chance that he would be a beast forever if it meant sparing Isabella from killing him. “Tell me exactly what to do.”

The Gypsy woman rolled her shoulders forward in an act of surrender. “You will not like it.”

“Nothing can shock me now.”

She looked up at him. Fear replaced the defiance in her black eyes. “After someone shoots you with a silver bullet, they must place you in a freshly dug grave that lies next to your mother’s resting place. This will make Miranda’s spirit happy for she will know that she is finally with you. Hopefully it will also end your identity as a werewolf forever. Do you think you can do this?”

Draven paced back and forth by the roaring fire. He stopped in front of her. “Of course I can. Where is my mother buried?”

“She rests by the pond where she drowned. Her grave is marked by a small, wooden cross. As it is too painful for me to go there, I can only hope the cross remains as a marker.”

His eyes narrowed. “But how will I choose who will shoot me?”

The woman reached up and took his hands in hers. It seemed imperative that she have his full attention before she spoke again. “The one who shoots you can be no ordinary person. They must be someone who loves you.”

Horror swelled in Draven’s eyes. “But . . . but there is only one person who loves me and Isabella refuses to pull the trigger.”

Marga wrapped a dark shawl over her cape for added warmth as she prepared to take her leave. “It is the only way to reverse a
rauna
spell.”

“You don’t understand. She won’t do it!”

“It is you who doesn’t understand, Draven. She will do it because it is her destiny. After she kills you, she will kill herself. I have seen the vision of her pulling the trigger of a gun.”

“You have been no help at all. I wish you’d never come here,” he shouted as she moved toward the door.

She didn’t react. “I will be staying at the Gypsy camp on the edge of town. Come to me and I will give you a special silver bullet that I shall pray over.”

Before Draven knew it, the woman had slipped out of the room and left him inert in its center. His mind whirled. The woman hadn’t come to offer him forgiveness. She had come to torment him back to the brink of madness.

There was no way out and the possibility churned his stomach like a foul disease.