Seduction: A Novel of Suspense (30 page)

I am ashamed to say that in that moment when I framed the thought that way, my mind leapt ahead and I imagined it.

What
would
it be like for this creature to open her eyes and say
Papa
and throw her arms around my neck and whisper that it was she, my darling, my Didine? An agony of pleasure and regret surged through me.

You are a coward. I am offering a respite from your suffering.

“I cannot . . . will not take it.”

While I stood there continuing to stanch the child’s wound, I suddenly wondered what I should have been curious about long before this.

“Why are you making me this offer?”

I have been maligned, and you can help me change that. Through your writings you can educate the people and redeem me. Explain that I shine the light in the darkness and explain great mysteries. That being different is not being evil, and change is not poison. You can remove the specter of evil from me. I am Lucifer. All I want is for man to have the same knowledge as God. And in exchange for your cleansing, clarifying poetry—your daughter’s soul will be reborn.

I watched the bandage. There were no telltale blood spots seeping through. I had stopped its flow. Now to get her out of there.

Carefully I lifted her. She was small and weighed so little. Her bones felt as fragile as the birds’ bones I’d trod over when I walked through the passageway.

I am only trying to give you what you want!

The Shadow’s voice was plaintive and laced with sadness. From the sound of it, I knew he lived in his own hell. And I felt a momentary pang of guilt that I was condemning him to remain there.

Do I not even tempt you?

Of course he did, but I could never admit that to him. A spirit as strong as he was could use that against me, turn it back on me somehow.

“No, I am not tempted to allow this child to die so that my daughter might be reborn.”

But even as I protested, I felt dizzy with desire at the idea of her—of Didine—of my wondrous daughter, my light, coming back to me. What would the cessation of such mourning be like to experience?

But to take one soul in exchange for another?

As I carried my burden out of the cave, stumbling over the debris underfoot, I tried to recall the steps that had opened the doorway to this strange place, the irrational world I had become involved with since arriving in Jersey and now found myself thrust into. What had I brought upon myself? What portal had I opened? And how to shut it now that it threatened me with such a heinous and tempting offer?

I thought back to the evening when I had first sat down at the table-tapping séances two years before. I recalled the questions we had asked of the spirits in the room. One by one over the last twenty-four months these beings had paraded in front of us, communicating,
teasing, titillating. When had we first summoned this Shadow of the Tomb? How could we put him back where he belonged? For we had unleashed a terrible thing. Only a true monster would put these children in my path and make it seem so easy. To arrange it so I would never have to kill them, only allow them to slip away. How easy it would be for me to succumb and take his offer.

The way up and out was long. The girl, so light at first, now grew heavier with each step. The Shadow continued talking to me, keeping up his philosophical diatribe. Tempting me by plumbing my memories and reminding me of moments I’d shared with Didine.

Do you remember when you taught her to read? The time she read one of your poems out loud? The day she wrote her own first poem and showed it to you, and how her eyes grew bright with tears when you praised her? How she would challenge your ideas, do you remember? How she used to argue philosophy with you into the night? How you used to tell her she was your brightest self . . . your wonder . . . your Didine—

“Stop!” I clutched the stranger’s child tighter to my chest, in fear he might grab her now and plead his case with even more fervor.

Hurrying as best I could, I continued my climb out of the rocky passageway. I’d had to leave the lantern behind, as I needed both hands to hold the little girl. In the dark, shadows took on malevolent shapes. I was indeed in the underworld.

I know you are curious. I can hear you wondering what it would be like to speak to her again. To engage with your daughter and enjoy her company. To have your heart mended.

“Impossible. You are no more real than the witches in
Macbeth
. As the ghost who visited with Hamlet. I am a writer. I know you are a literary trope, a metaphor. Men tell stories to distract and to entertain, to teach lessons, to give people moral compasses. We scare our readers and make them afraid of the dark so we can save them from the brink of evil and be their heroes.”

The Egyptians, the Greeks, the Chinese believed. Even you say you believe in the transmigration of the soul, how it travels from one body to another as it makes its trek though eternity, ever growing, ever changing. Why wouldn’t that be a story to write about? Think of how it would sell! A
tale of how a soul returned. Think of the wealth you would amass. The fame. Think of it!

“I have the ideas for my novels already. I have my themes. I write about injustice and freedom. Let me be.”

Admit it, you have lost the ability to write your novels since coming here. We spirits are now your obsession.

I finally reached the mouth of the cave and stumbled out into the fresh night air. I could hear the ocean again and the far-off sounds of men farther up and down the beach, still searching, still calling out to each other as they covered more ground.

I turned to my invisible companion, but could sense he was gone.

Shouting for Trent, alerting him that I’d found the child, I was suddenly filled with a bone-crushing fear. Anxiety flooded my body and pushed through my veins. I had seen men who had gone mad. Was that my fate?

If it wasn’t, if I wasn’t going mad, then the possibility of what had been offered me would surely make me go mad. How could a man live knowing the creatures of our nightmares were real? That we could be haunted and possessed by devils and demons? What if God was not a heavenly being but only a choice between dark and light, good and evil? What if there
was
a power but it was man’s own power to choose?

Trent was running toward me now, with a man by his side. The expression on his face needed no interpretation. He was the child’s father, staring at the bundle I carried.

“She’s hurt,” I said to him as he reached for her, “but alive. She has a wound on her head but it has stopped bleeding.”

He didn’t say a word. I didn’t imagine he could have. He simply nodded, and when he raised his head, his eyes were shining with tears.

When Jac had returned to the hotel the night before, there was a phone message for her from Ash Gaspard asking if she was free for breakfast. She’d telephoned, gotten his voice mail and accepted. She wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to see her, but after the events at the Gaspard house she thought maybe he’d be able to help make sense of the visitation.

The two brothers were the light and dark halves of the same coin, and getting to know Ash might help her understand Theo, whose mysterious brooding had captured Jac’s imagination. In fact the whole family had. The dowager sisters, the rambling ancient house filled with antiquities, the strange ancestors who engaged in séances and studied magic, the tragic death of Theo’s wife, the hidden Hugo treasure . . . she was as caught up in it as in any myth she’d ever studied.

Three tables in the dining room were occupied. Ash Gaspard sat at one by the window. The hostess sat Jac so that she had the view of the rough waves and overcast sky.

“Good morning,” he said. “I heard from my aunt Eva there was quite a scene last night at Wells in Wood.”

“There certainly was.”

“They can be quite a pair, those two. I hope it was at least amusing.”

“It was far more disturbing than amusing.”

“You don’t believe in all that stuff, do you?” He was looking at her earnestly with almost the same eyes as his brother’s. But Ash’s had laughter in them.

“Your aunt Minerva and I had this conversation last night. No, I’m a rationalist. But I will admit there are occurrences that test my ability to reason them out. And last night was up there with the best of them.”

“What are some others?” he asked.

Ash was leaning toward her and she could smell his cologne. As she had the first time they’d met, she ran through the notes, mentally listing them. Lemon, verbena, bergamot, tonka bean, patchouli and something else . . . but what was it?

“I hope you won’t think I’m rude, but can you tell me the name of your cologne? My family is in the perfume business and I’m usually good at identifying scents, but I’ve never smelled whatever it is you’re wearing.”

Ash smiled. “That’s because—”

The waitress arrived and he broke off.

Ash ordered the full English breakfast with tea. Jac asked for coffee and yogurt with fruit.

“Where were we?” he said once the order was taken. “Oh yes, I was going to tell you about my mysterious cologne.” He smiled as if the idea of sharing his secret gave him a great deal of pleasure. “After breakfast, if you have some time, there’s someplace I’d like to show you. I can explain about the cologne then, all right?”

For the rest of the meal they talked about his aunts and the séance.

“I have a favor to ask you,” he said as they were finishing up.

“Yes?”

“My brother hasn’t been himself since his wife died, and we’re all worried about him. He’s letting his work slip. The gallery is closed half the time and he hasn’t hired anyone to replace Naomi. Instead of taking care of his actual responsibilities, he’s become obsessed with this search he’s brought you here to help him with.”

She didn’t feel right talking about Theo behind his back. “What is it you want me to do?”

“Can you just be aware? He won’t let any of us get close to him but he seems to trust you. If he starts acting erratically, or talking about things that don’t make sense—if you feel at all that he’s losing touch, I want you to call me or Minerva. She’s tried to get him to see a therapist but he refuses. She does her best to talk to him, watch him, help him, but he doesn’t believe he needs any help.”

“I haven’t seen him for almost twenty years. I’m not sure I’d know if he wasn’t behaving like himself.”

She was sure there was a subtext beneath Ash’s request, maybe even a warning . . . but she couldn’t be sure.

“You’d know. His wife knew.”

“Of course she did. She was married to him.”

“Yes, but they hadn’t actually been married that long. Theo had become uncomfortably jealous of any time she spent out of his sight. He was accusing her of having affairs in London whenever her work took her back there. He was reading her email and checking her phone records. It all came to a head when he found out she was confiding in me about his behavior.” Ash shook his head, pained by the memory.

“What did he do?”

“He tried to lock her up.”

“Theo did?” Jac remembered how he had taken his aunt’s hands the night before. How gentle he’d been.

“I know. It was hard for me to believe too. But something in him snapped. She climbed out the window and drove off. I think she was on her way to see me.”

“The night she died?”

Ash nodded. “Theo blamed me. He thought I was the one she was having an affair with and said it was my fault. That she was distracted and upset because of me and that’s why she wasn’t paying proper attention on the road. The police have made it clear that she swerved to avoid another car and the accident was the other driver’s fault, but Theo wants to believe what Theo wants to believe. We haven’t had a civil conversation since. He won’t listen to reason. We’ve always had a
difficult relationship but it’s never been like this before. And now he’s obsessed with finding the Hugo papers. As if they hold some secret that is going to make things better.”

Jac now understood a little better why Theo had been so angry to find her talking to Ash the other night.

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable with all this, though. It’s as if you’re asking me to be a psychic spy.”

“I am sorry. But Minerva and I did think you should know and at least be aware. She wanted to talk to you herself. I think she would have done a better job of it too, but it was difficult for her to figure out a way to get to you without Theo around.” He put down his napkin and signed the check. “Shall we go? I promise, I won’t make any more uncomfortable requests for the rest of the morning, just show you something I think will fascinate you.”

 • • • 

He drove down the same country roads she’d traveled twice with Theo. Ash didn’t talk much on the ride. Some silences can be uncomfortable, especially between people who don’t know each other well, but this wasn’t. Their quiet was oddly companionable. Once he turned and smiled at her and she returned the gesture. It was a lovely, sunny morning and she found herself excited about the prospect of seeing something intriguing.

They’d reached the end of the long twisting road that signaled the beginning of the Gaspard land. Ash took a right, drove past the silver birch forest and then through the woods. It was darker under the canopy of trees and turned darker still as they wound their way through it. Suddenly the wind picked up, whipping the tree branches so the silvery undersides of the leaves showed and warned of rain. Right before they reached the hooded sculptures leading up to the main house, Ash made a sharp left onto an even narrower road that twisted and turned and then came to a stop.

“My home,” Ash said.

For a moment all Jac saw was more woods. Then she saw a Victorian building made of red brick, peeking out through a curtain
of ancient ilex, oak and hazel trees. Some were so close to the building, it seemed as if the architect had designed the structure to accommodate the trees.

Ivy climbed the brick, covering several windows. A wisteria vine, its trunk as thick as a man’s arm, wound its way around and around the porch railing, up onto the roof and down the other side. It seemed as if, long ago, nature had claimed the house for its own and no one had ever fought back. Jac thought it was enchanting.