To Hell and Back (12 page)
It was blood. There was no mistaking that coppery stench. A lot of blood.
The silence was broken as music erupted from inside her Nana’s apartment. “I Fall to Pieces,” a sad lament sung by Patsy Cline, cut through the silence, and a sob escaped Rowan’s throat. It was Nana’s favorite song.
Her heart pounded crazily as she sidestepped around the sticky mess and moved toward her grandmother’s rooms. The door was ajar, and soft light fell from inside, spilling into the dark like a sunbeam, beckoning her forward. She paused, fighting fear and anxiety.
She hated Salem—the memories, the nightmares, the danger—the legacy that had taken many and driven her mother mad. It was the reason she’d left. The reason her Nana had forced her to leave.
Where was she?
Rowan slipped inside and was careful to keep to the shadows. It was automatic, the pull toward the darkness, the need to disappear—old habits died hard. The room appeared empty, but she knew that in the world she inhabited—a world most people were unaware of—looks could be deceiving.
She crept toward Nana’s bed, holding her breath as she did so, eyes moving toward every corner. Her fingers grazed the stereo on the night table, and Patsy was silenced.
Rowan exhaled and turned in a full circle, taking in everything—the heavy crimson coverlet that was turned down. The robe flung across the chair at the foot of the bed. The book that lay open upon the pillow, and the reading glasses that rested alongside it.
Her hand trembled as she picked up the book, and a sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth as her fingers touched the yellowed pages.
To Kill a Mockingbird.
How many times had they read the book together?
She held the novel tight against her chest and tried to clamp down the fear that bubbled inside. The blood in the kitchen filled her with dread. The silence that echoed in her ear made her stomach clench.
“Nana, where are you?” she whispered softly.
Somewhere in the house a noise sounded—a footstep or scuff of a heel—and she froze. Her breath caught at the back of her throat in a painful gasp as she tried to squash her reaction. When she heard it again, sweat broke out on her forehead as the fear in her gut tripled with a sharp stab.
Carefully, Rowan put the book back just as it was and reached for her cell phone, cursing beneath her breath when she realized it was in her bag.
Which was in the foyer.
Back where the weird noises were coming from.
Shit.
Someone was out there—she sensed the energy and knew it was someone powerful. Or rather, some
thing.
At this point she had no idea who or what the hell it was, but she knew it didn’t belong. Not here in her Nana’s bed-and-breakfast.
Rowan exhaled and centered herself. She needed to be calm.
She crossed to the sitting area beside the stone fireplace. An iron poker rested against the hearth and she grabbed it, holding it tight as she melted into the dark corner nearest her. With her back protected, she felt more in control and had a clear view of the room.
She closed her eyes for a second, concentrated, and felt the familiar pull of energy sizzle along her fingers. There was no way she could charm or spell; her power was weak, ill-used, but it would have to do.
She heard a step echo, then another. Anger washed over her skin in a hot wave that left her teeth clenched, her fingers tight, and her resolve firm. The bastard was playing with her.
Rowan slipped out of her heels, tossed them to the side, and spread her legs as far as she could considering the constraints of her skirt. She balanced on the balls of her feet and squared her shoulders. There was a certain sort of freedom in the act, and it wouldn’t be far off to surmise that, in fact, she relished the thought of a fight.
Come on, asshole
.
Let’s do this
.
Someone passed beyond her line of sight, then there was silence. It stretched long and thin until she wanted to scream. Rowan’s heart was nearly beating out of her chest, but her eyes never strayed from the door.
She called to the shadows, coaxing them as they slithered along her flesh and covered her body with their darkness. A small thrill shot through her as the energy around her shifted. She’d denied her gifts for so long that she’d forgotten how good it felt to use them.
Slowly the door swung open. Something big stood there a few feet beyond the frame. She couldn’t see it, but she sure as hell sensed it. She grimaced, more than a little pissed at herself for letting her powers get so rusty.
Rowan’s senses opened up, and she listened intently. She heard a scuff, like a boot scraping along the floor, and held her breath in anticipation. Who would have predicted ten hours ago she’d be hiding in her Nana’s room, gripping an iron poker from the fireplace, waiting to attack?
Back in the day, before she’d reinvented herself, it had been the norm—fighting demons and monsters. But Rowan had taken great pains to distance herself from that life—she’d gone to college and now worked at a law firm. She had a gerbil. A boyfriend.
A life.
She’d traveled halfway across the country to get away from Salem, yet here she was, back in Massachusetts, with the ghosts of her past circling fast.
A tall shape came into view. Impressively huge.
Rephrase:
The ghosts of her past were about to kick her ass but good.
The door creaked as it slowly slid all the way open, the hinges dry and squeaky. Her breaths fell lightly as she struggled to keep it together, and with a wave of power, she forced them to quiet.
Rowan’s eyes widened as the intruder strode into the room like he had every right to be there, and cast a long shadow along the threadbare carpet. It was a very large, very
male
form.
Denim and leather adorned his powerful frame, emphasizing long limbs and wide shoulders. He moved with the grace of an animal—a predator—and she held her breath as his gaze swung toward her.
Was she safe? Could he see her?
His face was in shadow, but the square jaw was visible. He reeked of power; even in her weakened state she was able to sense the enormity of it, and a sliver of fear bled through her determination.
Something awful and tragic had happened in her Nana’s home. Had this man been involved? If so, what was the extent of his involvement and what did he want? Why had he come back?
He took a step forward into the light and her mouth went dry. A day’s worth of beard shadowed his chin. Dirty blond hair as thick as sable framed a face that was, without a doubt, the most devastatingly handsome one she’d ever seen.
Ever.
Hollywood had nothing on this guy.
Classic features aligned perfectly to create a face that was as arresting as the entire length of him. He was tall and brooding, with intense eyes an unusual shade of piercing gold.
Rowan knew she couldn’t take him. There was no way in hell. The man was well over six feet in height—A) she’d just tossed her heels and at five-foot-six, she didn’t even reach his chin, and B) the power that clung to him was incredibly strong. It cast a fractured light around his frame, one bled through with gold and black.
She’d never seen anything like it.
The stereo erupted once more, and Patsy’s mournful soprano sliced through the quiet. Rowan’s heart took off, banging out of control, and she tried to swallow her fear as the stranger turned fully in her direction. Sweet Mother of God, could he see her?
For one second she thought she heard her Nana’s voice whisper to her.
Always keep them off kilter. Do the unexpected.
A shot of courage rolled through her and pushed Rowan into action. She fell from shadow and stepped forward. “Who the hell are you and where is my grandmother?”
Surprise flickered across his face, though it quickly disappeared. She swallowed tightly as the stranger’s eyes narrowed into twin strips of black oil. There was no trace of gold left in their depths, that ray of sunshine fled instantly. He raised his hand, and her fingers clutched the iron poker so tightly, they cramped.
She flinched as he flicked his wrist—a subtle motion—and the music silenced.
He arched a brow. “Granddaughter?”
His eyes glittered, a strange shimmer deep within their depths. His voice was low, and she detected a slight accent when he spoke. She couldn’t place it.
“I won’t ask again.” Rowan straightened, glad her voice was firm, no matter that her insides were mush. “Who are you and why is there”—she took a moment—“blood in the kitchen?” A small tremor caressed the end of her sentence, but it couldn’t be helped.
She was freaking out, scared as hell, and there was a mountain of muscle between her and freedom.
The stranger cursed. “No one mentioned a granddaughter.”
“Listen—”
His hand silenced her—an arrogant
shut up,
as he cocked his head to the side and frowned. “We’ve got company.”
He crossed to the window and yanked the drapes into place in one quick motion. At the same time the glow from the night-light was extinguished.
Rowan didn’t know what to think, but she was starting to get pissed off.
“This is crazy. Where is my Nana?” She took a step forward.
“Cara is … ” His voice trailed into silence, and he scowled as the windows began to shake, the panes rattling against a fresh onslaught of wind and rain that hit the glass like bullets against steel.
“She’s what?” Rowan’s eyes were huge as she stared into a face devoid of emotion. There was a coldness there that was unsettling.
“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “She’s dead.”
The iron poker slipped from her fingers as she stared up at the stranger. She heard the words, but her brain wasn’t translating them. Rowan shook her head, “I don’t … that can’t be, I’d know …” She couldn’t articulate the words in her mind. None of this made sense. Her eyes fell to the book on the bed, the reading glasses at its side, and she felt something inside her break.
Nana.
In that moment she knew the truth, felt the pain and the guilt.
It’s my fault.
The whisper slid through her mind.
I never should have left.
A low keening erupted, one that shot up several decibels in seconds until the window shattered. Glass blew everywhere and shredded the curtains into billowing tatters, long plumes of crimson silk that fluttered like crazed feathers in the wind.
Rowan winced at the sharp sting of shrapnel as it sliced into her arms and legs. Searing pain ripped across her cheek, but she paid no mind. The wind pulled at her, whirling into the room with a hazy cloud of freezing mist that made it difficult to breathe.
The touch of his hand on her flesh pulled her from the darkness. The roaring dialed down, and as she stared up at him her lungs expanded and she was able to draw a shuddering breath.
“Who … who did this?” she rasped. She had no idea who the hell he was, but in that moment she knew he meant her no harm. The darkness,
the
evil,
wasn’t in this room. It was out there, beyond the broken window.
“I think your answer is there.” His solid, flat, black eyes were intense, and the white of his teeth flashed through the gloom as he spoke. He pointed outside, and Rowan turned to the window. Thunder and lightning had joined the chaotic dance of rain and wind. A bolt of energy streaked across the sky, illuminating the entire front yard in a flash of white.
It was a quick, precise hit, and gave just enough light for her to see seven hulking figures standing in the pouring rain.
Their scent reached her, and she nearly gagged on the thickness of it.
Demons.
Their eyes glowed red.
Blood demons.
A weird calm settled over her. She’d come full circle, it seemed.
Rowan squared her shoulders and glanced up at the man beside her. “Who sent you?”
He was silent for a moment. “Someone who cared deeply for your grandmother.”
She felt her stomach twist. She didn’t like the stranger’s vague answer. Her Nana was dead, and outside seven blood demons called—his presence was no coincidence.
A guttural cry rent the night—a harsh echo that slid like nails against chalk—and her hackles rose. She didn’t have time to worry about the details.
“I’m Rowan. What should I call you?” she asked as she grabbed the iron poker off the ground.
“Azaiel.”
The name whispered through her mind.
The demons howled in unison, their voices rising into a crescendo of noise that dropped suddenly until there was nothing but the rain to break the heavy silence. It was eerie.
The tallest of the demons grunted and started toward them, a deadly machete trailing behind him in the mud as it took slow, deliberate steps. Another series of lightning strikes crashed across the sky, and its ugly horned face split open into what she supposed was a grin.
“I’m sorry, but it looks like things are about to get nasty,” she whispered, her gaze focused upon the gathering outside. “But then again, with a name like that, I suppose you’ve not forgotten.”
“Forgotten what?” he asked, moving beside her.
Rowan whispered. “What it feels like to get your ass kicked.”
JULIANA STONE lives with her family and dog somewhere in Canada. Her passion for music and the written word has been a lifelong addiction, which explains her love of romance books and ’80s rock. Juliana is currently at work on the next book in her League of Guardians series.
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Tuesday, August 29, 1769
“I
say, dear gel, how much do
you
cost?”
Virginia's mouth dropped open. “IâI beg your pardon?”
The bewigged, bejeweled, and bedeviling man who faced her spoke again. “You're a fetching sight and quite sweet-smelling for a wench who has traveled for weeks, imprisoned on this godforsaken ship. I say, what
is
your price?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The rolling motion of the ship caught her off guard, and she stumbled, widening her stance to keep her balance. This man thought she was for sale? Even though they were on board
The North
Star
, a brigantine newly arrived in Boston Harbor with a fresh supply of indentured servants, could he actually mistake her for one of the poor wretched criminals huddled near the front of the ship?
Her first reaction of shock was quickly replaced with anger. It swelled in her chest, heated to a quick boil, and soared past her ruffled neckline to her face, scorching her cheeks 'til she fully expected steam, instead of words, to escape her mouth.
“How . . . how
dare
you!” With gloved hands, she twisted the silken cords of her drawstring purse. “Pray, be gone with you, sir.”
“Ah, a saucy one.” The gentleman plucked a silver snuffbox from his lavender silk coat. He kept his tall frame erect to avoid flipping his wig, which was powdered with a lavender tint to match his coat. “Tsk, tsk, dear gel, such impertinence is sure to lower your price.”
Her mouth fell open again.
Seizing the opportunity, he raised his quizzing glass and examined the conveniently opened orifice. “Hmm, but you do have excellent teeth.”
She huffed. “And a sharp tongue to match.”
“Mon Dieu
, a very saucy mouth, indeed.” He smiled, displaying straight, white teeth.
A perfectly bright smile, Virginia thought. What a pity his mental faculties were so dim in comparison. But she refrained from responding with an insulting remark. No good could come from stooping to his level of ill manners. She stepped back, intending to leave, but hesitated when he spoke again.
“I do so like your nose. Very becoming andâ” He opened his silver box, removed a pinch of snuff with his gloved fingers and sniffed.
She waited for him to finish the sentence. He was a buffoon, to be sure, but she couldn't help but wonderâdid he actually like her nose? Over the years, she had endured a great deal of teasing because of the way it turned up on the end.
He snapped his snuffbox shut with a click. “Ah, yes, where was I, becoming and . . . disdainfully haughty. Yes, that's it.”
Heat pulsed to her face once more. “I daresay it is not surprising for
you
to admire something
disdainfully haughty
, but regardless of your opinion, it is improper for you to address me so rudely. For that matter, it is highly improper for you to speak to me at all, for need I remind you, sir, we have not been introduced.”
He dropped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Definitely disdainful. And haughty.” His mouth curled up, revealing two dimples beneath the rouge on his cheeks.
She glared at the offensive fop. Somehow, she would give him the cut he deserved.
A short man in a brown buckram coat and breeches scurried toward them. “Mr. Stanton! The criminals for sale are over there, sir, near the forecastle. You see the ones in chains?”
Raising his quizzing glass, the lavender dandy pivoted on his high heels and perused the line of shackled prisoners. He shrugged his silk-clad shoulders and glanced back at Virginia with a look of feigned horror. “Oh, dear, what a delightful little
faux pas
. I suppose you're not for sale after all?”
“No, of course not.”
“I do beg your pardon.” He flipped a lacy, monogrammed handkerchief out of his chest pocket and made a poor attempt to conceal the wide grin on his face.
A heavy, flowery scent emanated from his handkerchief, nearly bowling her over. He was probably one of those people who never bathed, just poured on more perfume. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand and gently coughed.
“Well, no harm done.” He waved his handkerchief in the air. “
C'est la vie
and all that. Would you care for some snuff? 'Tis my own special blend from London, don't you know. We call it
Grey Mouton
.”
“Gray sheep?”
“Why, yes. Sink me! You
parlez français
? How utterly charming for one of your class.”
Narrowing her eyes, she considered strangling him with the drawstrings of her purse.
He removed the silver engraved box from his pocket and flicked it open. “A pinch, in the interest of peace?” His mouth twitched with amusement.
“No, thank you.”
He lifted a pinch to his nose and sniffed. “What did I tell you, Johnson?” he asked the short man in brown buckram at his side. “These Colonials are a stubborn lot, far too eager to take offense”âhe sneezed delicately into his lacy handkerchiefâ“and far too unappreciative of the efforts the mother country makes on their behalf.” He slid his closed snuffbox back into his pocket.
Virginia planted her hands on her hips. “You speak, perhaps, of Britain's kindness in providing us with a steady stream of slaves?”
“Slaves?”
She gestured toward the raised platform of the forecastle, where Britain's latest human offering stood in front, chained at the ankles and waiting to be sold.
“Oh.” He waved his scented handkerchief in dismissal. “You mean the indentured servants. They're not slaves, my dear, only criminals paying their dues to society. 'Tis the mother country's fervent hope they will be reformed by their experience in America.”
“I see. Perhaps we should send the mother country a boatload of American wolves to see if they can be reformed by their experience in Britain?”
His chuckle was surprisingly deep. “
Touché.
”
The deep timbre of his voice reverberated through her skin, striking a chord that hummed from her chest down to her belly. She caught her breath and looked at him more closely. When his eyes met hers, his smile faded away. Time seemed to hold still for a moment as he held her gaze, quietly studying her.
The man in brown cleared his throat.
Virginia blinked and looked away. She breathed deeply to calm her racing heart. Once more, she became aware of the murmur of voices and the screech of sea gulls overhead. What had happened? It must have been the thrill of putting the man in his place that had affected her. Strange, though, that he had happily acknowledged her small victory.
Mr. Stanton gave the man in brown a mildly irritated look, then smiled at her once more. “American wolves, you say? Really, my dear, these people's crimes are too petty to compare them to murderous beasts. Why, Johnson, here, was an indentured servant before becoming my secretary. Were you not, Johnson?”
“Aye, Mr. Stanton,” the older man answered. “But I came voluntarily. Not all these people are prisoners. The group to the right doesn't wear chains. They're selling themselves out of desperation.”
“There, you see.” The dandy spread his gloved hands, palms up, in a gesture of conciliation. “No hard feelings. In fact, I quite trust Johnson here with all my affairs in spite of his criminal background. You know the Colonials are quite wrong in thinking we British are a cold, callous lot.”
Virginia gave Mr. Johnson a small, sympathetic smile, letting him know she understood his indenture had not been due to a criminal past. Her own father, faced with starvation and British cruelty, had left his beloved Scottish Highlands as an indentured servant. Her sympathy seemed unnecessary, however, for Mr. Johnson appeared unperturbed by his employer's rudeness. No doubt the poor man had grown accustomed to it.
She gave Mr. Stanton her stoniest of looks. “Thank you for enlightening me.”
“My pleasure, dear gel. Now I must take my leave.” Without further ado, he ambled toward the group of gaunt, shackled humans, his high-heeled shoes clunking on the ship's wooden deck and his short secretary tagging along behind.
Virginia scowled at his back. The British needed to go home, and the sooner, the better.
“I say, old man.” She heard his voice filter back as he addressed his servant. “I do wish the pretty wench were for sale. A bit too saucy, perhaps, but I do so like a challenge.
Quel dommage
, a real pity, don't you know.”
A vision of herself tackling the dandy and stuffing his lavender-tinted wig down his throat brought a smile to her lips. She could do it. Sometimes she pinned down her brother when he tormented her. Of course, such behavior might be frowned upon in Boston. This was not the hilly region of North Carolina that the Munro family called home.
And the dandy might prove difficult to knock down. Watching him from the back, she realized how large he was. She grimaced at the lavender bows on his high-heeled pumps. Why would a man that tall need to wear heels? Another pair of lavender bows served as garters, tied over the tabs of his silk knee breeches. His silken hose were too sheer to hide padding, so those calves were truly that muscular.
How odd.
He didn't mince his steps like one would expect from a fopdoodle, but covered the deck with long, powerful strides, the walk of a man confident in his strength and masculinity.
She found herself examining every inch of him, calculating the amount of hard muscle hidden beneath the silken exterior. What color was his hair under that hideous tinted wig? Probably black, like his eyebrows. His eyes had gleamed like polished pewter, pale against his tanned face.
Her breath caught in her throat. A tanned face? A fop would not spend the necessary hours toiling in the sun that resulted in a bronzed complexion.
This Mr. Stanton was a puzzle.
She shook her head, determined to forget the perplexing man. Yet, if he dressed more like the men back homeâtight buckskin breeches, boots, no wig, no lace . . .
The sun bore down with increasing heat, and she pulled her hand-painted fan from her purse and flicked it open. She breathed deeply as she fanned herself. Her face tingled with a mist of salty air and the lingering scent of Mr. Stanton's handkerchief.
She watched with growing suspicion as the man in question postured in front of the women prisoners with his quizzing glass, assessing them with a practiced eye. Oh, dear, what were the horrible man's intentions? She slipped her fan back into her purse and hastened to her father's side.
Jamie Munro was speaking quietly to a fettered youth who appeared a good five years younger than her one and twenty years. “All I ask, young man, is honesty and a good day's work. In exchange, ye'll have food, clean clothes, and a clean pallet.”
The spindly boy's eyes lit up, and he licked his dry, chapped lips. “Food?”
Virginia's father nodded. “Aye. Mind you, ye willna be working for me, lad, but for my widowed sister, here, in Boston. Do ye have any experience as a servant?”
The boy lowered his head and shook it. He shuffled his feet, the scrape of his chains on the deck grating at Virginia's heart.
“Papa,” she whispered.
Jamie held up a hand. “Doona fash yerself, lass. I'll be taking the boy.”
As the boy looked up, his wide grin cracked the dried dirt on his cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”
Jamie winced. “Mr. Munro, it is. We'll have none of that lordy talk aboot here. Welcome to America.” He extended a hand, which the boy timidly accepted. “What is yer name, lad?”
“George Peeper, sir.”
“Father.” Virginia tugged at the sleeve of his blue serge coat. “Can we afford any more?”
Jamie Munro's eyes widened and he blinked at his daughter. “More? Just an hour ago, ye upbraided me aboot the evils of purchasing people, and now ye want more? 'Tis no' like buying ribbons for yer bonny red hair.”
“I know, but this is important.” She leaned toward him. “Do you see the tall man in lavender silk?”
Jamie's nose wrinkled. “Aye. Who could miss him?”
“Well, he wanted to purchase meâ”
“
What?
”
She pressed the palms of her hands against her father's broad chest as he moved to confront the dandy. “ 'Twas a misunderstanding. Please.”
His blue eyes glittering with anger, Jamie clenched his fists. “Let me punch him for you, lass.”
“No, listen to me. I fear he means to buy one of those ladies for . . . immoral purposes.”
Jamie frowned at her. “And what would ye be knowing of a man's immoral purposes?”
“Father, I grew up on a farm. I can make certain deductions, and I know from the way he looked at me, the man is not looking for someone to scrub his pots.”
“What can I do aboot it?”
“If he decides he wants one, you could outbid him.”
“He would just buy another, Ginny. I canna be buying the whole ship. I can scarcely afford this one here.”