Secret Of The Manor (16 page)

Warren closed his eyes and tried to think.

As he concentrated, a sweet scent invaded his senses and unknown words whispered in the breeze.

Na thee vash ki dahh.

Som se san. Som se san.

Tali firette lani tan.

Suddenly, Warren couldn’t move. Vines of ivy clamped his ankles to the ground. Another wound around his waist. Warren looked from side to side, at a loss as to what was happening. All the vegetation was moving. Gnarled fingers of branches descended, reaching out to him, ominously slow but intent on their target. Warren clawed at the mauling wood, with limited success. Brambles wrapped around his throat and wrists, halting his actions, while roots covered his legs. “Ahhhh, ahhhh, Argo!” He screamed as the brambles dug in deeper. He felt every spine pierce his skin.

Som se san. Som se san.

Qui noli. Eui fal thee naa.

Warren wanted to howl, but the pressure around his throat prevented him from doing so as the roots dug into his flesh and the earth beneath him moved. The plants were attempting to pull him into the hard, frost-gripped ground. His lungs ached as he fought to draw more breath and failed. Short, sharp inhalations dominated his consciousness. The thing he feared most was being buried alive.

He was light-headed and saw spots before his eyes as the pressure built around his chest and legs. He was moving. His unwilling body was being shifted to lie flat. He tried to fight back, but the more he fought the tighter his bindings squeezed. He felt something creep up the back of his neck, into his hair, and along his cheek. Tendrils of something smooth, cold, and hard slowly crept over his cheek and into his nose. He tried to snort it out, but the lack of air in his chest wouldn’t allow it. Moisture from his brow trickled south. The closer to the ground he sank, the more he could hear a sound akin to a squelching tub of worms working its way to his ears.

Suddenly, thundering vibrations in the earth caught his attention.

Then he heard a scream, and a voice shouting, “Stop ’im. Stop ’im.”

The undergrowth shot from Warren’s skin, biting and scratching as it went. He gagged when something fine slithered from the back of his throat out via his nostril.

Warren gasped for breath and scrambled on hands and knees away from the tomb. He emerged from the corner, coughing and spluttering. His senses detected the hustle of a fight, but he found it hard to concentrate. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, and it came away stained with blood. As he continued to cough, it took everything in him not to pass out—he had to be rid of whatever was left in his throat. More gagging and spitting later, the last brown vestiges of undergrowth landed on the ice, accompanied by small spots of blood from what Warren knew was his scratched oesophagus.

He wanted to collapse on the ground, but he couldn’t. Someone or something was trying to help him. It wasn’t in him to pass out and leave his survival to fate. If nothing else, Warren was a survivor.

Looking up, Warren saw Argo herding a figure covered in black. The person wasn’t lithe, but whoever it was dodged behind a gravestone and lashed out at Argo with a long stick and a feral snarl. Argo tossed his head in the air and the weapon caught his coat instead of his face. The figure took off again, and Argo jumped a stone coffin to gain ground. A whinny and a harsh snort later, Warren noticed the person had caught hold of Argo’s reins. A curse and slap to Argo’s face made Warren wince. Argo reared and his hoof knocked the stick out of its owner’s grasp, sending it flying across the churchyard.

Warren shakily made it to his feet, determined to assist his horse. “Argo,” he croaked, unable to voice anything louder. The battle before him waged on around several more headstones. Then Argo’s assailant tripped and stumbled into the church wall. When the covered person looked up to the looming black horse, their body language changed.

Instead of vicious snarling, there were deep breaths of silent seething. “Get ‘im off me,” Warren heard yelled again. Argo’s response was to puff and move in closer.

Becoming more aware by the second, Warren tried to place the familiar voice. He unsteadily closed in on Argo. When he saw who it was pinned to the wall, he lost his footing again and had to balance himself on a nearby railing. “Vicar!”

“Get. Him. Off. Me,” she growled.

“Argo.” Warren placed a hand on his horse’s withers.

“It’s not your horse... it’s his.”

Warren stroked the neck of the brave steed and noticed his eyes. There was a mist of blue covering them. “Ebony Air?” Warren breathed. The horse snorted. Warren took that as an affirmative.

Warren’s mind reeled.
If Ebony Air was possessing Argo, and the vicar knew who it was, then the vicar was in the middle of things. Holy shit, the minute the horse stepped in, the brambles disappeared. That meant....

“You hurt my horse!” Warren spat at the woman, as he did a quick assessment of Argo-cum-Ebony Air. He noticed a small cut close to Argo’s bit. Where she’d hit him, the ring the reins were attached to had slammed into the side of his face. Warren was seething, but aside from that Argo looked unharmed, though Warren would do a more thorough check again soon.

“If the bloody thing hadn’t been here, it wouldn’t ‘av had anything to go into and you’d be gone.” Vicar Carol was running on pure hate.

Warren tapped the horse on the shoulder. “Stay there.” Ebony Air’s rigid stance suggested he wasn’t going anywhere, but Warren felt better for saying it. He dug deep into his pockets where he held a host of “just in case” items for when he was out riding alone. Penknife, hoof pick, hip flask, antiseptic wipe, lead rope, and string. He kept the string in hand and dug into another inside pocket. He found a large white plaster and some medical tape—even better.

The vicar was so wrapped up in the looming Ebony Air that she didn’t see Warren close in on her. Her gaze was fixed and she was muttering something he couldn’t hear, but he could feel the ground around him shift. Warren quickly stuck the plaster over her mouth. “That’ll stop you chanting.” With the same speed, he grabbed her hands and bound them with several rounds of medical tape. She struggled like hell, kicking and squealing through the plaster.

Warren avoided her legs and got in her face. “You’ve been caught. Try to kick me again and I’ll bind your legs, too,” he warned. He then backed up the plaster on her mouth with the medical tape. That earned him an extra round of protests. Warren hopped back, retrieved the lead rope, and held it up for her to see. The vicar quieted, but didn’t stop her evil glare.

“You just try me,” Warren snarled, and coughed again at the scratch in his throat. He undid his hood and placed it on the ground before urging the vicar to sit on it. She was well clad in winter clothing, but a gentleman couldn’t let any woman, no matter how evil, sit on bare ground.

Without turning his back, he retrieved his hip flask and—after taking a swig, which stung as it went down—poured the remaining contents over the cut on Argo’s mouth. Cognac wasn’t the best liquid to clean the cut of munched grass and blood, but it was better than nothing. Ebony Air flinched, but did nothing more. Warren patted the amazing horse on his withers. He didn’t know how much of the struggle was Argo and how much was Ebony Air; either way he was grateful for the intercession. “Thank you, boy.” It was only then that he spied the broken reins out of the corner of his eye.
Oh, great.

The strong stance of the horse at his side subsided, his eyes cleared, and he nuzzled at Warren’s pocket. At that moment Warren was sure Argo was once again with him. Warren clipped the lead rope onto Argo’s bit, and secured the reins to the stirrups. He then gave in to his steed’s demands for a mint.

While Argo munched away, Warren contemplated his next course of action. He couldn’t call the police. He doubted he could call Oliver and receive constructive help. He wanted to call Carl, but he knew all hands were needed for a busy yard of pony-clubbing children, full of chocolate and Christmas spirit. As it was daytime, he couldn’t call Alex as sod’s law dictated someone in the village would see him. That left James.

Warren fished out his mobile and dialled. As soon as James answered, Warren rasped, “Warren here. How soon can you get to the church?”

“You sound awful—why?”

“Your vicar just tried to kill me.”

“That’s not possible. How....” James sounded confused and stopped his questions. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

JAMES’ ANSWER flustered Warren, and for the next hour he tried to ignore the scraping in his throat, the aches and pains, and pondered the issue. Had he gotten the wrong person? Was there someone in the surrounding woods? But the vicar knew Ebony Air had shown himself. Only someone who knew the secret of the manor would have known about Ebony Air. That alone told Warren he was right.

Warren saw the vicar shiver, and as much as he wanted to let her freeze to death, he removed his coat and covered her with it. She still growled at him like an angry cat and lunged at him from her seated position. Warren fell out of her reach into Argo, startling the animal. After some soothing words and a walk on the lead rein, Warren made sure he was safe and allowed him to wander around the graveyard. To keep himself warm, Warren paced. All the time the vicar never took her eyes off him.

Eventually an anxious James arrived, and, to Warren’s surprise, he was shadowed by an even-more-worried Alex.

As the men approached, they shouted two questions at him.

Alex ran past James and reached Warren with an, “Are you alright?”

While James’ more practical side showed. “Why are you out here, instead of in the church?”

Taking Vicar Carol into the church hadn’t crossed Warren’s mind. In all his visits to Little Walmsley, he’d never been inside the structure. Not only that, he also felt safer outside with Argo than alone inside with the vicar.

All three men stood looking at the woman, two out of breath from running. Her demeanour had changed from the mild-mannered lady considered to be auntie of her flock, to one whose face was contorted with hate and anger.

“Tell me everything, Warren,” James insisted. Warren did his best to comply. To save his voice, he kept his report short and to the point. While keeping an eye on the witch, he showed James and Alex what had happened to Nicholas’ wreath. He followed it with the spell, the appearance of Ebony Air, and finally his visible injuries. Alex inspected the wounds and winced at the blood-smeared skin. Warren donned his best British stiff upper lip and, though internally he was shaking like a leaf, externally he was the picture of calm.

By the time they returned to the vicar, Alex was mumbling obscenities and James was outright furious. One of the people who had put the Walmsley family through hell was within reach, and Warren wasn’t sure what James was going to do, especially when he hauled her into the church.

Inside the building, Warren was stunned at the beauty—much of the crafted interior reflected its ancient outside in design of the era in which it was built. There were wooden pews, not the chairs so often seen in modern churches. White walls were adorned with plaques of previous lords of the manor and high black beams. A single long, time-beaten carpet ran up the centre aisle to the slightly raised pulpit and font. Two stone steps heralded the opening to the apse. The family coat of arms was woven into a rug on the floor and into the tablecloth of the altar. The altar area itself was adorned with many candles and several tapestries that hung from the walls and choir stalls. There was a door off to the left, which Warren suspected led to the vestry.

“Is there an organ?” he whispered.

“It’s in the north transept, behind the curtain.” Alex spoke softly. “Prominent members of the manor are beneath us in the family crypt. It’s accessed from a trapdoor by the altar.”

“Wow. It’s as beautiful inside as it is out.”

“Yes, it is.” Alex lit one of the small mobile gas fires that were the church’s only source of heat.

James had found a chair by the pulpit and sat the vicar upon it. When Warren and Alex joined him, he issued the vicar a warning. “I hear anything but answers to my questions cross your lips, I’ll tie you up again. Understand?”

The vicar, in another complete change of demeanour, from hate to compliance, nodded her understanding.

James tore the plaster from her lips, then demanded, “How? Why?”

The vicar tried denial as a way out of her position. “Don’t know what you mean, dearie. I was just going about my business when this black ‘orse chased me around the yard. Scared the living daylights out of me, it did. I tried to defend myself, but it was evil it was, evil. Pinned me to the wall it did. Needs destroying that animal does—the sooner the better.”

“Liar.” Warren coughed.

James held out his hand to stop Warren from advancing. He expanded on his original outburst. “How can a witch become part of the church? Witches don’t believe in God.”

“Exactly, witches don’t, which proves I’m not a witch. So, you holding me here is nonsense,” the vicar protested.

“Carol. You were caught red-handed. You knew Ebony Air was with you. Warren heard you.”

“He must’ve heard wrong.”

Vicar Carol’s denial continued, and everyone in the room was getting more frustrated by the minute. She kept on the same circle of deduction and insisted at every turn that it was Argo who was possessed and needed his throat cut to bleed out the evil.

Warren was close to combusting. Everything inside him vibrated with anger, scared at the prospect that, eventually, James would believe the long-term family acquaintance and attempt to have Argo destroyed. That was, until Alex snagged Warren around the waist. He gave James a quick, stern, don’t-mess-with-me look, then turned Warren at a slight angle away from his brother, but still in full view of the vicar. He focused again on Warren. “Go with me on this,” he whispered into his ear.

Alex kissed Warren’s neck, which initially made him flinch as Alex caught his scratches, but soon Warren moaned at the touch.

The vicar’s ramblings stopped.