The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (16 page)

“We have fresh hot gingerbread, Parnell, just for you.” Johanna beamed at her grandson as the boy was carefully passed out the coach door to Long Stephen and Pershing, their strapping butler. The two gently carried him into the manor, old Bran Lanval behind them, giving orders. “I’ll bring it to you, my darling,” called Johanna, “and hot milk, too, as soon as the doctor has had a look at you.”

Parnell was in good hands. Alice relaxed for the first time since the accident, but her muscles were stiff and sore from tension and the long carriage ride. Oliver helped her from the coach and Edward followed.
 

Johanna caught Alice up in a warm soft hug, murmuring soothing words in her native German as she escorted her into the house. It was good to be home.

The Days Ahead

December 16, 1788

The gingerbread lay uneaten at Parnell’s bedside and Johanna said another prayer for her grandson. Alice, exhausted, had fallen asleep under a quilt in the high-backed Chesterfield chair that Edward had brought in for her. Firelight played over her face and Johanna said a little prayer for her daughter-in-law as well. Beautiful Alice looked old beyond her years, pale and drawn.
Let the boy heal, Lord, and his mother as well.

Thankfully, Bran said the ankle was properly set and was going to heal well - the leg was not hot; the boy would walk again, at least if he survived the fever that was upon him now.
 

Despite the doctor’s ministrations, Parnell was in the throes of the grippe. Bran continued to eschew his hospital training, avoiding bloodlettings in favor of ice packs to cool the boy’s brow and hot teas and chicken broth to warm his belly and lungs. Parnell’s breathing had grown thick and there was a rattle in his chest now when he drew breath. Bran had confided that he feared the cough would turn into pneumonia.

“Lady Johanna,” he said as he entered the room. Johanna inclined her head toward Alice, so he would see she was sleeping. He came to the bed. He was tall and well over seventy years. Not only had he delivered Johanna’s own sons, he had delivered her husband, Charles, as well. Despite his age, he stood unstooped by the years, immaculate in his elegant but unadorned tan and brown breeches and waistcoat, his white hair tied back with a black ribbon, his bald pate gleaming in the lantern light. He remained a handsome man. Lifting the quilt, he placed his ear to Parnell’s chest, listened, then looked to Johanna. Taking her hand, he briefly squeezed it in his own. “He has not improved as yet, I am afraid.”

He reached into his coat and brought out a small cloth herb bag. “I’ve made an expectorant tea to help with his catarrh. He will like it; the main ingredient is peppermint. Have it brewed and give as much of it to him as he will take.” He passed the bag to Johanna then drew a tin from another pocket. “Do you have turmeric, cinnamon and ginger in the kitchen?”
 

“Yes, Bran, we do. And plenty.”

“Make him teas of it. It will help. You must keep forcing fluid into him, especially these teas and the broth.” He lifted the lid of the tin to expose a salve redolent of menthol and rosemary and something else Johanna couldn’t identify. “This will also thin the phlegm.”

She raised her eyebrows at the new scent.
 

“It’s eucalyptus oil,” he told her. “It is a strong curative, brought back recently by the First Fleet. The Surgeon-General himself gave me a sample.” He dabbed a bit of salve just under Parnell’s nose then opened the boy’s nightshirt again and rubbed it into his chest. “It’s thought to be far more efficacious than peppermint alone,” he added. “We must refresh this every few hours.”
 

“Very well, Bran,” Johanna said.

Parnell stirred and looked from her to the doctor with fever-bright eyes, smiled slightly, then closed his lids. His chest rattled and he coughed.

“Are you considering letting his blood?” Johanna asked.

Bran Lanval looked thoughtful. “Johanna, despite my training, I have always felt that bloodletting, in cases like this, is futile. I have had many friends who were herbalists and midwives. I have as much respect for them as I do for my colleagues at Hospital.” He looked away. “In truth, perhaps more. None of these practitioners believe in bleedings and I must agree with them in this case. It will only weaken him.”

Johanna nodded. Bran Lanval was not a typical doctor, but he was the best she had ever known.

***

Days passed, Christmas week drew closer, Parnell grew weaker, and Bran Lanval had begun to consider bloodletting. He sat in his study in his chambers on the second floor, near the family’s own; he had finally taken up the invitation to keep quarters at Ravencrest two years ago when he reached his seventy-third year. He had finished training a younger physician and sold him his home and office in town. His old bones ached now, especially in the cold; it was time to retire, at least from running around St. Albans at all hours. Nowadays, his only patients were the Manning family and their multitude of servants; they were more than enough. And being so near to Johanna Manning warmed him.

Young Parnell’s illness was vexing. He had taken steps to avoid the grippe before the symptoms worsened. The boy was solid and healthy, never ill a day in his life and Lanval was sure the ankle was not the reason he was not improving. He had been well taken care of since the accident and should never have become this ill.

“What do you think, Odin?” Bran spoke to the raven perched atop a globe next to his desk. Hearing his name, the bird flew to its master’s shoulder.
“He needs limes.”

Lanval laughed. “I never should have purchased you from a naval physician.”

“He needs limes,”
the bird insisted.

“Let’s go see about that diagnosis, shall we?” The doctor stood and left his rooms, the bird riding his shoulder as he made his way to Parnell’s chamber by the glow of the wall sconces. Little light entered the windows; the day was dark and foggy.
 

Johanna dozed in the Chesterfield and did not stir. The boy slept fitfully, propped up on a mound of pillows to ease his lungs. Lanval lifted the covers to listen to his breathing. It was, perhaps, worse than two hours ago, and he feared he might lose the young master. Sending a silent prayer to the Celtic gods of old - his ancestor’s gods - he began to cover the boy, but one of the cushions slipped and Parnell slid sideways. Carefully, the doctor began rearranging the pillows, pulling them together behind the boy. He pushed his hand beneath the bottom one and felt something there, something small and rough. Clutching it, he drew it forth.

It was a burlap pouch sewn together with three broad stitches. He held it to his nose and sniffed, and dropped it in disgust. “Witchcraft,” he whispered.

“What?” Johanna said, her voice thick with sleep. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, Johanna.” Like Edward, Johanna was a good Christian and Lanval was unsure how she would react to spell-casting; causing a witch hunt would not help Parnell. “Nothing. I was checking on the boy. He has a bit more color.”  

Parnell opened his eyes. “Odin.” It was the first word he’d spoken in days.

“He needs limes,”
answered the raven.

Parnell smiled.

Spell Casting

Just inside the Ravencrest stables, Carmilla Harlow hid her ceremonial dagger in the sweet hay. Then she dropped her dark cloak, removed her dress, and let the lantern light shine down on her naked flesh.

The stableboy, Jacques Ferrant, who’d been on his rounds bringing the horses fresh buckets of water, froze and stared at her, just as she’d intended.

He was everything she needed for her purposes: young, strong, and virile. And it didn’t hurt a bit that he was as handsome as he was, with his tanned skin and glossy blond hair that often covered his blue eyes. Those eyes were hungry now as he watched her fold her cloak and dress, and set them aside.

She turned toward him, giving him a full view. “It is your turn now.” The words escaped her in white frosty plumes as she ran a hand up her abdomen, trailed it across her breasts, paying special attention to her nipples. It was cold, but that worked in her favor. This kind of chill drew bodies together. She enjoyed the shock and arousal on the young man’s face as he removed his breeches.

She appraised him. He was no Thomas Manning, but he was attractive.

In one of the stalls, a horse whinnied.

Carmilla smoothed some of the hay and lay back on it. “Come,” she said, opening her legs to him.

The man sat beside her and with a trembling hand stroked her thigh. “You are beautiful, mademoiselle.”

“I have wanted you for a long time, Jacques.”

He gazed at her. “I did not know. You gave no indication.” The smell of whiskey on his breath was powerful.

“I am a lady,” she said, almost laughing aloud at the audacity of the statement.
 

“Yes,” said Jacques. “A beautiful lady, mademoiselle.”

She grew impatient and reached down and took his manhood in her hand. It was thick, rigid, and ready. “Do it,” she said. “Now.”

He scrambled on top of her, moving this way and that as the smell of whiskey washed over her, then in one clumsy thrust, he entered.

She gasped in delight at his size.
 

As he grunted and pumped, Carmilla reached into the hay, found the handle of her athame, and waited.
 

“Oh, Jacques,” she whispered. “Oui, oui.”

He groaned. The young Frenchman was taking a long time but she was surprised by her own uncharacteristic patience. How could she be angry, after all, when she knew the outcome of her deeds? Edward Manning was impossible to enchant, not without much stronger magic than even the stableboy could provide. She’d stood a better chance with Thomas, but even he had resisted her advances; stronger spells would be needed to secure his affections as well. To become the mistress of Ravencrest, she must first dispose of the heir, and that had proven more difficult than she had expected.
 

Parnell was surely the last child Alice and Edward would have. Carmilla knew Alice could not bear another loss after the devastating disappearance of her babe last February. Losing Parnell would undoubtedly throw her into an even deeper melancholy - one that would weaken her enough for Carmilla’s spells to easily oust the mistress of Ravencrest from her sleeping body, so Carmilla herself could enter and become, to the outside world, Lady Alice Manning, wife of Baronet Edward Manning. The added benefit was that Parnell, Edward’s rightful heir, would be out of the picture, further securing her new position as mistress of the manor. After two hundred years, the Mannings - and Ravencrest - would finally be hers to command.
 

The trouble was that no matter what Carmilla tried, Parnell would not die. He was ill, yes, and although his condition was not improving, it wasn’t worsening enough, and Carmilla was beginning to suspect the involvement of another spellcaster.
Lanval.
If that were the case, she needed to do something more extreme. Which is what had brought her to the stables this night.
 

The man on top of her began to increase the speed of his thrusts. His breath became quick and furious, his movements more determined. The scents - hay, horses, dung, whiskey, and male sweat - mingled to become something not at all unpleasant. Her own pleasure grew.

Carmilla’s grip tightened on the blade’s handle as her ecstasy hitched again. It was almost time.
 

He grunted. “I’m going to-”

“Do it.” Carmilla’s free hand clutched his firm posterior and she dug her nails into his flesh.

This pushed him over the edge. His body seized, and as if in the throes of a fit, his handsome face contorted into an unattractive mask of something that looked altogether painful. He grunted as a droplet of sweat rolled off a lock of his blond hair and onto Carmilla’s cheek. She cried out as her own excitement peaked.

A new wet warmth blossomed inside her. This was her cue. As the man spent, she drew her athame across his muscled throat. The flesh parted without effort, as if it were a loaf of bread, hot from the oven.

His grunts became gurgles. His eyes showed shock and rolled back in his head. Warm blood spurted from the crimson arc that smiled beneath his gasping mouth.

Carmilla dug the nails of her free hand deeper into his backside, relishing the warm wet life that now bathed her as a final climax took over. She lifted her hips, bucking into the dying man, taking him deeper and deeper.

Jacques Ferrant collapsed atop her. The weight of him, although crushing, satisfied. It felt so complete. So final.

Her ecstasy drained away as his warm blood pooled in the hay beneath her, its metallic scent joining the other perfumes of the stable. She savored this a short moment, then used all the strength in her arms to push him off. She stood, took a deep breath, and looked up at the lantern-lit rafters before she spoke. “I give to Thee now the life he lives.” She ran her hands over the cooling blood that covered her, letting it move through her fingers. “And as well, the life he would produce.” Reaching down, she gathered the warm slick seed that now escaped her body. “Life for life.” She sucked the blend of fluids off her fingers. It wasn’t as sweet as the blood of a babe, but it warmed her despite the frozen air.

No bolts of lightning flashed and no voices answered. Nothing happened at all save a cool gentle breeze that swept across her blood-covered body, letting her know her the sacrifice had been accepted.
 

Smiling, she walked to one of the water buckets and washed the boy’s blood, seed, and sweat off of her, then used a pitchfork to bury the soiled hay and the man himself. Finding a single silver coin in his pocket, she took it. Satisfied, she dressed, eager to return to Ravencrest where she could watch Parnell Manning. She would enjoy his inevitable decline.

Parnell Hangs On

Dec 20, 1788

Still, Parnell suffered. Odin supervised from atop the globe as Bran Lanval sat in his study, pouring over medical and herbal texts. The boy had improved the moment he had removed the witch’s hex bag from beneath his pillows, but he had not gotten well. His breathing was easier, yet he remained weak and had to be forced to drink his broth and tea.