A Rip in the Veil (42 page)

“Hmm.” Matthew was not convinced.

“Well, okay; maybe I did think about it, but…”

“Mmhm.” He closed the lid of the chest and placed the package on it, not wanting to hold this vibrating object for longer than necessary. “But you’ll burn it now.”

Alex shrugged a yes. “But…well, before I do, I’d like to look at it once more, and I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Why?” Matthew had no wish to see the painting again in his life, all of him crawling as he remembered that beckoning square of blue.

“I don’t know. I just feel I should.”

“I think you should burn it unseen,” he told her, but resigned himself to doing as she wanted. “Not here,” he barked when she made as if to unwrap it. “Outside.”

They were well away from the house before Matthew told her to stop. She kneeled down and unfolded the burlap, and with every fold, Matthew’s fear grew. The painting murmured, a seductive whisper that grew to a clamour inside his head, an imperative that he lean forward and look, drown himself in the exquisitely executed heaving sea.

Alex muttered something that sounded like a curse and reared back, banging her head hard against his collarbone. Matthew grabbed at her with urgency, closing his eyes against the suggestive pull exerted by the painting. He breathed through his nose, fighting back waves of nausea, and all along his spine sweat drops formed. His hands shook as he held her hard around her waist.

“We burn it.” This was magic – evil ungodly magic. He groped, found a stone, and drove it through the painting. Once, twice, and all that remained was a mangled mess. He bundled it into the burlap and stood. “Now.”

The picture pleaded with him to put it together and look at it, please look at it. He prayed; over and over he muttered the same short prayer, anything to drown this silent pleading. Alex took his hand, they stumbled their way back to the yard. When he made as if to enter she shook her head.

“No,” she said, “not inside. It has to be burnt here, in God’s free air.” She took the bundle from him, and he rushed inside to find a taper, just as quickly stormed back out.

She’d moved over to sit on the outdoor bench, and in her lap the massacred painting lay uncovered, her fingers caressing its sides. She swayed, made a clumsy attempt to fit the pieces together.

“Nay!”

She started at his voice, raised unfocused eyes in his direction.

“Alex, no, leave it be, aye?” He’d reached her by now, knelt to take it from her. He had to tug it free. The taper died in a gust of wind.

This time Matthew took no chances, taking the bundle with him as he returned to the kitchen for a new taper. Once outside, he made for the secluded area behind the privy, with Alex trailing him.

All of him twitched with the urge to take one last look, one final peek. A deep breath, one more prayer, and he set the bundle on fire. Smoke uncurled from the burlap and rose dark against the sky. He sniffed when the paint began to burn, tingeing the air with scents of oil and spices; saffron and cardamom, nutmeg and ginger and the pungent smell of rosemary in the sun. Suddenly it shrieked, a loud, eerie keening that filled the air. And then it was gone, small wisps of ash floating into the air when he stamped the fire into extinction.

“What was that?” Simon asked, making both of them jump when he popped his head out of the privy.

“Hmm? Oh, the sound, you mean.” Matthew hitched his shoulders. “I don’t rightly know; a bird mayhap?”

“A bird? It sounded like a flayed cat.”

“Maybe then it was,” Matthew took Alex by the hand and led her inside.

Chapter 35

“You burnt it!”

Alex jumped, whirling to stare at Hector Olivares. “Burnt what?”

“The painting. You stupid bitch, what have you done? Look at me!” He threw off his hat and Alex inhaled noisily.

She’d only seen him briefly, that afternoon back in early July, but since then things had gone downhill for the man in front of her. The last months had torn pounds off an already thin frame, and his skin had converted itself into something resembling an elephant hide, collecting in wrinkled pouches under his eyes and his chin. There were lesions on what she could see of his arms, his hands, his neck, open wounds that leaked blood and pus. And he stank; a cloying stench of rotting garbage.

“What happened to you?” Alex said, surprised into feeling pity rather than fear.

“Age; it catches up with you at some point.”He took a step towards her, crowded her back against the stone wall that bordered the higher pastures. She tried to sidestep him, but he grabbed her by the arms and slammed her into the uneven wall.

“Let go.”

“Or what? You think you can fight me just because you have a black belt or two? Think again.” As if to underline his words he slammed her into the wall again, this time with enough force for her to gasp.

“Have you any idea? Can you imagine what it’s like to be imprisoned in a body that’s falling to pieces and be denied the release of death?”

Alex shook her head, licked at her lips. He held up a desiccated hand.

“See? A walking skeleton, and still I live on. And it’s all her fault, it’s all that accursed Mercedes’ fault and now you – you! – have destroyed my last chance to make my way home to my time, my
Sevilla
!”His hands closed round Alex’s neck, shaking her like a ratter shakes a mouse.

“Aagh,” Alex croaked, trying to prise the fingers off her.

“I hate her! She stole my life from me, witch that she is!
Te odio, Mercedes, te odio
!” Hector’s fingers sank deeper into Alex’s skin, and all she could hear was the whoosh of her blood, the throbbing of her imprisoned pulse behind her temples. He’s going to kill me, oh my God, he’s going to strangle me to death! Her arm flapped, she struggled, saw huge circles of black rise before her. Knee him…yes…try…No air, no strength. She clawed at his cheek, tried to draw in air. His face was very close. She was going to die. Her baby! Matthew… Her vision shrank to a narrow funnel. And then the pressure was gone, and Alex crumpled to the ground, sucking air through her mouth, her nose.

She raised her face. Hector was on his feet, backing away from Matthew. His hand went to his sword, and where before Matthew had been advancing, rake in hand, now he was retreating, parrying a flurry of blows. Alex planted one foot on the ground, another, and heaved herself up to stand.

Before her, Hector and Matthew were engaged in a silent deadly battle, and however much of a novice Alex was when it came to sword fighting, she could see Hector was a master at it. Graceful and fast, he thrust and retreated, lunged and danced away, and with every blow the wooden handle of the rake lost in solidity, shredding into an ineffectual defence.

She should do something. Alex took a tentative step in their direction, raised her skirts in preparation. Do what? She was woozy and dazed, her limbs uncoordinated. Kick him; yes, kick this Hector character before he hurt her Matthew. Too late. One well-directed thrust and the rake flew from Matthew’s hand. Hector slowed his movements, his lips curling into a sneer.

“You’ll die,” he said to Matthew.

“Aye; but not today.” Matthew’s eyes never left the by now bloodied sword held so confidently by Hector.

“Oh, I think today.” Hector moved swiftly.

Alex gasped, expecting to see Matthew skewered on that flashing sword. But Matthew rose on his toes and instead of retreating, he jumped towards Hector. He hissed when the sword sliced down his flank, but managed to clamp his hand down on Hector’s wrist. It was like watching someone grab a tiger by the tail – a dangerous tiger that kicked and punched and bit.

A wrench and Hector had his hand free. It all seemed to be happening in slow motion. The sword rose high up in the air, Hector’s fingers tightened around the hilt, and then down it came, whistling through the air. Matthew threw himself to the side, but she heard him exclaim and knew the sword had at minimum nicked him.

Up came the sword again, Matthew kicked Hector in the knee. Not enough to throw Hector to the ground, but enough for him to lose his balance. A low tackle, and Matthew brought Hector down, using his weight to pin the man to the ground.

Hector screamed him in the ear. Matthew reared back and crashed his fist into the smaller man’s face. Hector jerked and went still. Matthew got to his feet, kicked the sword well out of reach, and turned to Alex.

“Are you alright?”

Was she alright? How about him? He was bleeding from gashes all over his arms, his hands, the side of his shirt was wet with blood. She nodded, succeeded in crossing the few yards that separated them.

“…” she said, hands flying over him.

“Don’t try to talk.” Matthew ran a finger over the collar of sore and burning skin that circled her neck. She flinched, swallowed. Had he not arrived when he did, she’d have been dead by now. She rested her face against his chest for an instant. Warm. Alive.

“…” she tried, pulling her brows into a frown. She turned to where Hector was groaning back into life. “He said I burnt it,” she finally enunciated. Jesus that hurt!

“Burnt what?” His hands spanned her belly, as if reassuring himself the baby was still safe.

“Painting.”

“We did.”

Alex gave him an irritated look. “H…?” she croaked. She swallowed, tried again. “How does he know?”

“I heard it shriek,” Hector said, making them jump – Alex away from him, Matthew to more or less land on him.

“Skulking on my land, were you?”

Hector waved a hand at him, as you’d do with an enervating fly. “No. I was on the moor.” Hector attempted to sit, was arrested by Matthew’s grip on his neck.

“Don’t move,” Matthew said. “Don’t provoke me into killing you.”

Hector laughed. “You can’t kill me.”

“Would you have me try?” Matthew sounded as if he really wanted to. She wasn’t about to stop him.

“Do your best,” Hector said, offering him his neck.

Matthew looked taken aback.

Hector’s brows rose contemptuously. “Such hesitation could cost you your life.” He whipped out a small dagger from his boot. Like a viper, Matthew’s hand closed around Hector’s, and the knife landed in the grass.

“Enough of this,” Matthew said, heaving Hector up to stand. “I’ll have you accused of attempted murder.”

“Really? And what do you think will happen when I tell them you’re married to a woman born three hundred odd years in the future?” Hector leaned towards Matthew, eyes like ice. “She’ll burn, Matthew Graham, burn like her grandfather did, like her aunt did, like her mother should have done all those years ago in Seville!” He cackled, the sound cut short when Matthew’s hand closed around his scrawny neck.

“Burn? Why did they burn?” Her voice surprised her, a whispered hoarseness that scarcely carried over the few metres between them. Matthew released his hold on Hector, allowing him to retch and cough air back into his system.

Hector wiped at his wet eyes and sat up. “Why? They were enemies of the Holy Church.” He lifted his lip in a little sneer. “I bet you didn’t know that, huh? Just as you didn’t know that your fucking mother was a witch.” Alex tried to make sense of what he was saying. Her family, burning to death? But no, stuff like that didn’t happen…she brought herself up short. Didn’t happen? It happened all the time in the here and now.

“I didn’t mean to,” Hector said, sliding down to sit on the grass. “Such a bloody mess, all of it.”

“Mean to what?” Alex tried to catch his eyes, but he looked away.

“Never mind. And anyway, what was I to do? I would have hanged! And they were heretics, false converts. They deserved to burn, both of them! Yes, they did, they did. I was only doing my job.”

“Your job?” Alex was very confused; what was he, some sort of inquisitor? He groaned, clutched at himself.

“Dolores,
perdóname
, Dolores.”

“Forgive you for what?” Alex said.

Hector didn’t seem to have heard, muttering something in Spanish, a rather incoherent rambling where the only thing she could make out was her aunt’s name along with a whispered avowal that he, Hector, had loved her – once, before it all went ugly.

“What did you do to her?” Alex demanded.

“None of your business,” he snarled, reverting to form. He scowled at her, eyes so cold she flinched. “All this is Mercedes’ fault. Damned witch! First she yanks me out of my time, and then she curses me with eternal life unless I make it back.
Bruja
!”

“My mother?” Alex shook her head in mute denial.

“Well she did, okay? And all because I was a good servant of my queen,
Reina Isabel
, and my church.”

What? No, she must have misheard. “Isabel? Like in Isabel and Fernando?”

Hector nodded, mouth twisting into a crooked smile.

“But that was ages ago!” Right; her brain just didn’t want to handle this. Too much information – impossible information. Her mother was from medieval Seville? Her family were heretics? No, shove this away, stuff it into a drawer marked FORGET.

“And the painting is important why?” Matthew asked.

“A portal, one of Mercedes’ time tunnels,” Hector replied.

Alex shuddered. Thank God they’d burnt it!

“And do they all lead to long gone Seville?” Matthew sounded impressively matter-of-fact.

“No, unfortunately they don’t. You fall towards what you see in them.” Hector glared at Alex. “I saw my Diego, didn’t I? And why was he here, hey? He was here because of you!”

“Me?” Alex said.

“I sent him to find you.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did he? Find you, I mean.”

Alex nodded. “He’s dead.”

“I know.” Hector threw her a black look. “Your fault.”

“My fault?” She was getting tired of being blamed for all this mess. “How can it be my fault that you send someone to harass me? And what about Ángel? What about what he did to me? Is that my fault too?” She leaned towards him. “Well, is it?” She was awash with anger, wanted nothing so much as to rip into him.

“Ángel acted outside his instructions.” Hector scooted away from her.

“Really?” Alex came after. “Now why don’t I believe that?” Matthew grabbed her by the waist, and she was glad he did, needed his restraining hands to stop her from doing something unacceptable – like kick this bastard in the mouth and watch him spit teeth all over the place.