Something Wicked (14 page)

In fact, if she . . .

Something caught her attention. A noise? A smell? Something was definitely out of place.

Don't be silly
, she scolded herself, but her nerves tightened in spite of herself.

She took another step.

“Hey, lover.”

His voice shot a thrill of fear through her. She glanced up again, to the balcony. He was already here!

“I'm not here to play games,” she said, but her damn voice quaked as if she were terrified.

Then she felt it come at her, like a snake, like a rope, his overwhelming sexual power. Closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, she fought it back. She seized on the idea that if she were a block of ice, he couldn't penetrate her, and it seemed to work, for she was not swamped by a desire so strong that it left her slack and panting and jelly-limbed. After a few moments, she dared to open an eye and glance upward.

He was holding a short, thick beam, his arms straining from the weight though he was strong. She registered this the same moment the beam hurtled toward her.

She opened her mouth to scream, turning.

Pain blasted through her head as the beam smashed into her. Jarred and broken, she crumpled into a loose heap. She couldn't move . . . couldn't draw a breath. For a moment she lay awake, her eyes staring upward. Vaguely, she heard running footsteps, and then he was beside her, his face swimming like a mirage, until she focused and saw the intent look in his eyes. Her last thought was,
He's watching me die. . . .

And then she was gone.

S
avannah got out of bed while it was still dark, took a shower, then dried herself off, standing in profile at the mirror to get a good, hard look at her body. Yep. Pregnant. Really, really pregnant.

She towel dried her hair, then let it land lank against the bare skin of her shoulders as she searched for what to wear. As her shape had grown larger, her wardrobe had shrunk down to a tan shirt, a blue one, and a black one, and two pairs of black slacks. Today she went with the blue blouse and a gray pullover sweater, which she would team with the black pants and the black raincoat that hung, waiting, in the closet by the front door.

She'd never been much for high heels, either, which was a bonus in the career field she'd chosen, but occasionally, right now being one of those occasions, she longed to dress up and look attractive. A short skirt, a body-hugging top, a pair of three-inch heels . . . yeah, that would be great. Except she would look ludicrous given her third-trimester shape. Maybe after Baby St. Cloud arrived, and she went through a fitness program to lose the extra pounds . . . maybe then she would treat herself to a shopping spree in Portland. Go to one of those fancy boutiques downtown or up on Twenty-third. And if she was back at fighting weight, maybe hit Papa Haydn or Voodoo Doughnut for dessert.

She was smiling as she blow-dried her hair and snapped it into a ponytail. She added a bit of blush, then called it good. She spent the next fifteen minutes packing an overnight bag and eating some peanut butter toast. Then she looped the strap of her messenger bag over her neck and shoulder, slipped on a pair of black flats, grabbed her raincoat and her overnight bag, and headed out the door. She was in the garage, climbing into the Escape, when she hesitated, feeling the chill in the air.
Cold front. Hmmm.

Back inside the house, she rummaged through her closet for a heavier coat. Finding a dark blue ski jacket, she eyed it skeptically. Sliding her arms through the sleeves, she realized it was not going to make it around her middle. She needed something bulkier, but she didn't own such a thing.

Tossing the ski jacket over her arm, she headed back outside, relocked the door, then climbed into the SUV, threw the jacket into the back footwell, and placed her messenger bag next to her on the passenger seat. She didn't damn well care what the weather was going to do at this point. If bad weather hit, she would stay overnight in Portland. No harm, no foul.

She gave one more thought to the Braxton Hicks contractions, but they hadn't started again since they'd quit the afternoon before. From everything she'd heard, first labors took a long, long time, so any way around it, she would make it back to the coast in time to have this baby. And, if by some outside chance that didn't happen, well, Portland had some of the best hospitals in the state, most of them, actually. Sure, Kristina and Hale wouldn't be there, but in some ways, that was okay with her. She wasn't sure she even wanted either of them around while she was going through labor. She didn't know if she could stand the ultra-solicitousness. A few nurses, a doctor . . . perfect.

But if all went as planned, she'd be turning and burning and back in Tillamook before it got dark, anyway.

She glanced at the clock on her dash. Six a.m.

She'd be in Portland by eight.

 

 

Dawn was still a long way off, but Catherine was seated at the table in the kitchen, staring out the back windows that looked upon the garden—more bare ground than plants this month—and, beyond it, the graveyard. She hadn't found the leather box with Mary's journal, and the only thing a trip to her sister's bedroom had accomplished was to leave Catherine in a state of melancholia that threatened to zap her of all her energy.

She was sitting in the dark. She didn't need a light, as she kept her gaze trained out the window and watched as the blackness seemed to be slowly lifting, the depth of hue leaching to gray as morning arrived. Seagulls were cawing loudly, and she envisioned a wildly flapping flock fluttering above the sand and slapping lightly through the receding waves, searching for a meal.

She used to love the beach. As young girls, she and Mary would race across the flattened sand and into water cold enough to numb your feet in minutes. At that time there was no worrying about “gifts,” even though there were signs of what was to come, because, although their special prowesses came into bloom when they were passing through puberty, there were tendrils that took root even early on: Catherine's faint moments of precognition, when she would see something she didn't understand, like sudden pouring rain behind her eyelids, which would disappear instantly when she lifted them and stared into a cloudless sky; or Mary's laser vision as she watched boys flying kites and using skimboards.

But she and Mary had ignored the signs. Hadn't really understood what they were. Until that time Catherine had watched two lovers kissing, the man's hand slowly sliding down his partner's back and over the rounded curve of her bottom, and Mary had said in a knowing tone, “I'm going to take him from her.”

Catherine hadn't known what to make of that. Mary was eight years old. But sure enough, she stood there in the sand and stared and stared and stared, and the man stopped touching his friend, as if he'd been burned, and he looked around, searching for something, his gaze dropping briefly on Mary but then moving on when he saw she was just a little girl.

Well. That had been just the start. Catherine had seen things that both awed and horrified her in the years since. And when she thought back to her own ill-fated affair, the way Mary had handled it, the memory left a burning cinder inside her chest that even now flamed hot with injustice. If she . . .

Movement outside the window.

Catherine froze, stayed perfectly still, her eyes straining. Someone was creeping along, trying to duck beneath the windows, heading toward the back door. Her pulse jumped, but she waited until she was certain they were past the point of seeing her, then silently got to her feet. She grabbed a small cast-iron pan that always sat on the back burner—a weapon wielded more than once before—and moved to the nearest light switch and waited. If they came in through the storeroom and alcove . . .

She heard them moving cautiously, carefully, and her heart rate increased. Had someone gotten over the fence? She knew there were places where the foliage grew close to it, and with the right amount of brush and rocks and boards, it would be possible to climb over the fence. Hadn't Ravinia done just that the night Justice tried to scale the fence? And many times since, she was sure, though the girl wouldn't admit to it.

A woman's form suddenly filled the room.

Catherine switched on the light.

“Ravinia,” she said into the sudden glare as Ravinia took a large step backward, her breath sweeping in on a gasp.

“What are you doing here?” Ravinia demanded.

“Thinking,” Catherine answered shortly. “Something you spend too little time doing.”

Underneath Ravinia's cloak Catherine saw the legs of a pair of dark brown pants. At the lodge she wore dresses, but on her evening forays it was the pants that Ophelia had made for her at Ravinia's behest.

“I'm over eighteen,” Ravinia answered hotly. “I can leave anytime I want.”

“It hasn't been that long since you fought with Justice.” Ravinia had been trying to escape at the time, but she'd been wounded by Justice's knife, and it had cooled her ardor for a time.

Automatically Ravinia reached up and touched the shoulder where the knife had penetrated. The blade had hit her collarbone, which saved her from a deeper cut. “Justice is dead.”

“If you want to go, I won't stop you,” Catherine said.

Ravinia narrowed her eyes on her aunt. “But you'll try.”

“What I don't want is to have you climbing the fence and coming and going as you please. If you want out, go. But don't come back.”

Her eyes flickered. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“No, Ravinia,” Catherine said tiredly. “I don't know where you've been all night, and I don't have the energy to care. I'm going to make the lodge more secure. I guess I should thank you for showing me there are still ways to get in and out. I'll find them and secure them, and then if you ever want to contact us, you can come to the front gate.”

Ravinia's face was flushed. “Next time I leave, it's forever!”

“Then we understand each other.”

Catherine climbed to her feet and forcibly collected herself, feeling both despair and relief over this final decision. She headed upstairs again, aware Ravinia was staring after her, as if she'd lost her mind, and glanced down the length of the gallery to the steps that led to Mary's room. A faint slip of light showed. Catherine frowned. Daylight was creeping in, but this was lamplight, and the only way there could be lamplight was if the door to Mary's bedroom had been left open.

She walked to the stairs and looked upward, seeing more light. Carefully, she climbed the steps, and when she crested the last one, she gazed down at the locked door. Only it wasn't locked. It was ajar.

Catherine wished she'd hung on to the frying pan, and was debating whether to go in search of a weapon or just boldly walk into the bedroom when she saw a figure come out of the room and softly close the door behind her. Catherine didn't move a muscle as the figure walked from the gloom at the end of the hall across the gallery, toward her, stopping short upon seeing her standing at the top step.

“Ophelia,” Catherine said.

She was holding a leather box in her hands. Mary's or her own, Catherine couldn't tell.

Ophelia didn't say a word as she held out the box to Catherine. Catherine took it silently, a thousand questions racing through her brain as she gazed at her niece. Ophelia was in her late twenties, and her hair was the blondest of Mary's girls. She was the one who'd wielded the cast-iron pan against Justice, driving him away from Ravinia, saving her sister's life. Of all of them, Ophelia had the tendency to stay silent and observe, and sometimes Catherine felt she was the niece she knew the least.

“Is this mine?” Catherine asked as she took it.

“It's the one you were looking for.”

“Mary's? Where was it?”

“In her room. Behind a panel in the wall.” Catherine stared at her, and Ophelia added, “I used to play in her room. She was nice to me. As soon as I saw you looking for it, I remembered where it was.”

“You knew I was looking for it?”

Ophelia nodded. “You told me you wanted it.”

“No. I didn't tell anyone.”

“Didn't you?”

Catherine wagged her head slowly from side to side, and Ophelia seemed suddenly embarrassed. “You read minds,” Catherine said.

“Only some,” Ophelia said, disabusing Catherine of that notion. “Only when you're desperate.”

Catherine absorbed that, wondering how many thoughts of hers Ophelia had read over the years. Until this moment, she'd had no inkling of Ophelia's particular gift; the girl had hidden her abilities well.

Lifting the box, Catherine asked, “Do you know what's in it?”

“Her special things . . . There was a pin . . . and some coins . . . and a book.”

In her mind's eye Catherine saw the pearl brooch and the coins from another century, gifts from their ancestors. They were extremely valuable, but it was the book she wanted. Mary's journal.

“Are you afraid to open the book in front of me?” Ophelia asked.

“You haven't looked in it?”

She shook her head.

“Were there any . . . papers with the journal?” Catherine asked diffidently.

“No. Should there have been?”

Catherine had believed the boys' adoption papers were tucked inside the journal, but before she could respond, quick footsteps sounded below them, coming up the first flight of stairs. Ravinia's. “Can we talk about this later?” Catherine asked.

Ophelia nodded, and Catherine moved quickly down the third-floor steps, tucking the box under her arm as she passed Ravinia and headed to her own room, where she shut her door behind her and threw the bolt. Then she pulled up the curtains and let the sunlight stream in.

She sat the leather box on her nightstand and carefully opened the lid. The brooch gleamed lustrously, and the coins were scattered along the faded velvet lining on the bottom of the box. There was a hairpin with a line of emeralds, as well, and some earrings that were not heirlooms, just Mary's favorites. But it was the journal that she wanted. A small booklet with a spiral binder, it was tucked beneath another book, a copy of
A Short History of the Colony
, a gift to Mary from that lovesick dope Herman Smythe.

Now she slid the journal from beneath Smythe's chronicle. Gingerly, she opened it to the first page, and a loose folded paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up, unfolded it, and a chill slid down her spine.

Her mouth went dry. She had a momentary vision of Mary writhing atop the one man Catherine had ever cared about, and she forcibly stamped it out. It wasn't the truth. It was only her fear. Mary hadn't been with him.

But Mary had been pregnant shortly thereafter, and the gleam in her eye had begged Catherine to ask her, just ask her, but Catherine hadn't had the nerve.