Belmary House Book One (29 page)

“I thought you might not show up at all,” she said when the dance wound to a close.

“I do admit to forgetting what day it was,” he said. He grabbed her a glass of something as they left the dance floor. “Serena reminded me rather forcefully.”

“Good.”

She took a sip of the sparkling lemony drink, and found it was mildly alcoholic. She already felt a bit fizzy from the fun of all the attention she received before Ashford came in, and the unprecedented way he acted, looking at her quite googly-eyed and not letting go of her hand, made her positively buzz with good feelings. She set the drink down on a side table, not needing anything else, afraid she’d float away as it was.

“But what were you doing that you forgot your own celebration ball?”

He grimaced, and she wished she hadn’t asked. She wanted to drag him back onto the dance floor and get happy Ashford back. Grumpy Ashford stood firmly before her now, in the barest blink of an eye, changed with one poorly placed question. She mentally kicked herself for reminding him of his worries.

His frown grew deeper and his brow furrowed alarmingly before he finally answered. “I’m not sure if I should trouble you with this,” he said slowly, looking past her toward the doors leading outside.

Her curiosity flew into overdrive. “You absolutely have to trouble me,” she said. “Did you find something out?”

Ever since the alarm he’d shown at the cemetery, she’d been yearning to know what was going on, what had upset him so much.

“Let’s get some air,” he said, already heading outside.

She followed him, seating herself primly next to him on a stone bench, well away from the house and half hidden by manicured shrubs. He was silent for a while, which didn’t phase her anymore. She sat quietly next to him, their hands close together but not quite touching, the flowing folds of her skirt skimming against his trousers. When she finally turned to him questioningly, she was surprised to find he looked down at her with wonder, the way he sometimes did.

“You look at me like I’m a sea creature,” she said, rubbing her hands over her arms. “Like I’ve got fins or scales or something.”

With a slight shake of his head, he followed her hand along her arm with his own, the barest of touches, but it sent a shockwave through her.

“No scales,” he said, running his fingers back down to her wrist. “You’re quite soft, in fact.”

She carefully sucked in her breath so he wouldn’t hear her gasp, or see how he affected her. She kept her face as neutral as possible while her emotions ran in every direction.

“How are you so brave, Matilda?” he asked, dropping her wrist.

She blinked at the turnabout. It seemed she wasn’t completely used to him yet, his odd questions and changes in direction. If it had been anyone other than Ashford, she would have sworn he was about to kiss her.

“I don’t feel brave,” she said. “Most of the time I feel like I’m barely muddling through.”

He shook his head harder. “That’s not how you act. You’ve been brought to another time and told you’re stuck here for three months, and even that’s dicey right now. I told you I come from witches and you nod and accept it. Keep an eye out for a dangerous madman? You barely blink. You’re brought to a Scottish farm where you don’t know anyone and you’ve not only made friends, I think you’ve made yourself quite indispensable here.”

She had to turn away to hide how pleased his words made her. She did love it here, and everything had gone remarkably smoothly. It was completely unreal, a dream she didn’t want to end. As far as Solomon Wodge and the threat the portal might be destroyed along with the house? Well, that wasn’t bravery. Ashford just didn’t know about her miraculous gift of practicing avoidance.

“No one knows anything about me here, and they’re kind enough to expect the best. Back home I always felt I had to live up to my father’s standards. Everyone loved him so much, and he was such a great cop. And you know when people die you always end up idealizing them. And he died pretty young, and suddenly, so it kind of felt like I was the last hope to carry on for him. And of course, I screwed it all up.” She stopped and waited for the lump in her throat to go down.

“I’m certain no one sees it that way but you,” he told her. “You’re rather hard on yourself.”

She laughed, having heard similar pep talks from Dex and her mother. Leaning forward to get up, she asked him if he wanted to go back inside and dance some more. She’d been having a wonderful time and didn’t want to think about sadness in the past. If he wasn’t going to kiss her, at least she could dance with him.

“No,” he said. “I actually wanted to come out here to ask you something.” He took her hand and looked pained. “I apologize for meandering, but I’m quite smitten by you.”

She covered her mouth with her free hand, then immediately took it away, stunned by his admission. She held her breath, waiting for the question he’d taken her to this secluded spot to ask.

Was this a proposal? An old-fashioned, romantic proposal, and then he’d take her in his arms and gently kiss her like every period drama she’d ever seen? Her head spun so that she could barely focus on his intense face.

“What is it, Julian?” she whispered, after he was maddeningly silent again for what seemed like a year.

He swallowed hard. “Do you know anything about someone returning from the dead?”

The pleasant spinning of her head came to an abrupt halt, her thoughts completely tossed in the opposite direction. She repeated his question to herself, positive that’s what he’d said, and decided there was nothing to do but just go with it.

“You mean like Jesus?”

“Not like Jesus,” he said exasperatedly. “A human person, unrelated to any godlike creature in any way. But, someone who has most certainly died, then came back.”

“Do you mean like a zombie, then?”

She had to look away from him, and shifted her gaze to the starry night sky. Her skin prickled at how serious he was, and she couldn’t reconcile herself to the fact that she was having such a conversation under this beautiful blanket of stars. He should have been kissing her, not asking nonsense questions. But her goosebumps grew, knowing that Ashford didn’t ask nonsense questions, didn’t waste his time with games of what if.

“Zombie?” he repeated, a look of confusion on his face. “I don’t know that word.”

“It’s what you’re describing,” she said. “The walking dead. Animated corpse.”

“Yes,” he said, perking up. “That is exactly what I need to know about.” He frowned. “This is a common thing in your time?” He shook his head, looking revolted.

She shrugged. “Yes, it’s very common. On
television
.” When he looked like he would ask what that was, she cut him off at the pass. “Like a play, but on a screen. Entertainment.”

“Yes, I’m aware of the innovation. Such a desecration is entertaining to you?” he asked. “This is something people enjoy seeing? On television?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s fiction,” she said. “There’s no such thing in real life.”

He stared at her pityingly for a moment and her heart sank. “You say it’s common in fiction in your time? Well, every idea has to come from somewhere. I’m quite certain that’s what we’re up against. I wish it had a better name, though. Zombie sounds ridiculous.”

“I didn’t name them,” she said with a shrug.

“How?” he demanded. “How do they, er, come back?”

“Usually some vague virus or government experiment gone wrong.”

He shook his head. “That can’t be right. That’s too farfetched.”

“You come from a powerful witch family and your sister married into an even more powerful witch family and you’re acting incredulous about modern horror movies?”

He rubbed his eyes almost violently. “You’re quite right. And I suppose it doesn’t matter how it was done. How do you kill one?” he asked, not giving her a moment to recover. “Is there any lore on putting them to rest?”

“That’s easy. It’s always the same. Headshot.”

“Just shoot them in the head? A regular bullet?” He furrowed his brow. “Surely a silver bullet, just in case …”

She leaned over and gripped her knees, looking up at him. For some reason he refused to tell her this was a joke. She felt she’d done extremely well adapting to the fact that she was in 1814, but this was too much. He had to be joking. He patted her shoulder.

“I’m very sorry, lass. But it’s real. If in fact the Povests have created such a creature, I need to put it down.”

“But it can’t be real,” she insisted. “It’s shows and books.”

“It’s all we have to go on. It will have to do.”

She stood up and nodded. “It doesn’t have to be a silver bullet,” she assured him. “It doesn’t even have to be a gun. You can put a knife through its eye or the back of its head.” She reached up and rubbed the base of her skull. “You have to destroy the brain.”

“Christ,” he said quietly, looking her up and down. “I don’t know if I’m alarmed or impressed. But if it’s what I have to do …”

She sat back down, really more fell onto the bench. He grimly apologized, perhaps for the nature of the conversation, perhaps for the situation in general, but most definitely not for joking around. It took a moment of gripping the edge of the bench and feeling the cold stone seep through her skirts to accept what he was saying. She recalled the tombstone that stood atop an empty grave. The grieving father who never got to say goodbye to his only son.

“That young man?” she asked. “Donal? It’s him?”

“I think so, yes. I think they did it to get Camilla to come over to them. Perhaps they have her tricked into thinking he didn’t die at all— they could do it. She wasn’t herself, she was devastated and broken. It was probably easy to make her believe.” He stopped short and cleared his throat. “I’ll have to leave for France as soon as possible. If nothing else, I must be sure.”

She didn’t want him to leave again, didn’t want him to leave to hunt a zombie. A strangled noise escaped her throat as she realized she was actually worrying about him hunting a zombie. That such a thing could be real.

Could the Povest coven have wanted control of Camilla’s power so badly that they would have, could have, brought her lover back to life and tricked her into believing there was no difference? Every instance she’d ever seen in movies, the undead were shambling, mindless, rotting creatures. Was Ashford’s sister so blind with grief that she could be fooled into thinking such a thing was someone beloved to her? And what would happen, if all this was true, and Ashford had to destroy it? There had to be a better way.

It hit her like a static shock that there might be a better way. He could control time after all, or if not exactly control it, he could could jump around in it. She looked at him hard, studying his brooding face, scared to ask, but more scared to lose him to a French zombie hunting expedition.

He’d been going through the portal almost half his life, certainly if changing the past was possible he would have done it already. The thought made her lightheaded. Such power couldn’t be a good thing, but she wasn’t sure she could pass up the chance to try and change things for her father. That had been something she’d tormented herself with for years, and still couldn’t help doing now and then. The useless longing only hurt her and never once brought him back. Feeling sick, she could almost see how easy it would be to trick Camilla, the desire to see her father again was so great.

“Have you ever thought about trying to change anything? You can go back, after all.” She asked the question with trepidation.

He sighed deeply. “My family was cursed by a witch hundreds of years ago,” he began. “My only niece was killed in a riding accident. Of course I’ve thought about it. But it can’t be done and it’s a waste of time to fret over it.”

“How do you know it can’t be done? You’re certain of it?”

“There are times I’ll be gone for weeks and come back to have only missed a day or two, but I’ve never been able to come back sooner than when I left. Our Miss Saito is one of only a few people I’ve known who were sent backward within their own lifetime.” He paused, looking vaguely uneasy. “The others didn’t fare well at all. I didn’t have much hope that Miss Saito would survive. But she must have stayed well away from her former self. I think that has something to do with the others’ misfortune.”

“What happened to them?”

“One died and one went quite mad. I took him back to his proper time, but he was never right again.” He paused, as if deciding whether or not to say more. “I think Wodge can do it, go back like that. And it’s very likely that its contributed to his madness.”

She couldn’t help the bubble of disappointment and silently berated herself for getting her hopes up. Underneath it though, she still wondered, and had to know.

“Could you change things for someone else, if they weren’t in your timeline?”

 “As if I don’t have enough troubles.”

He stopped his teasing tone when he looked at her face and she knew she must look pathetically hopeful. He turned his body toward her and shook his head sadly.

“Honestly, I don’t believe it’s possible. With all the roaming through the ages I’ve done, you’d think things would be in a constant state of upheaval, but as far as I know I don’t cause the slightest ripple. Even if one could change things, I think you’d lose something— something of your soul perhaps.” He shook his head, looking embarrassed. “Our pasts make us who we are, good or bad. We have to learn to live with them, not try to wrestle them into submission.”