Abandoned (32 page)

Once she'd guided her sleepwalking grandmother to bed she spent the rest of the day practicing with the net. She’d wrinkled her nose the first time she thought of it by that name, but it was as good as anything else, so it stuck. By the time Grandad got home, her confidence was high. She could maintain her balance with no visible effort and surprised him with the extent of her recovery.

Also invisible, even to her, was the agony of yearning she felt for something, somewhere to the north. She felt like a compass needle. It reminded her of the hollow homesickness she'd suffered during the school hockey team's trip to France when she was twelve, but a million times worse.

The yearning was for her dream home. She'd always wished she could find the place, but since last night her need had become a physical pain. She tried to block out the yearning, but the attempt caused more agony than indulging the pain.

She trained herself not to glance out of windows—quite enough sensory overload indoors for the moment—and looked forward to darkness. But when night arrived the net lit up like a virtual reality landscape and she scorned her own naivety.

She went to bed early and dreamed. The pool was busy with wildlife. The breeze fluted around branches overhead and led her gaze uphill to the castle.

It was dark and empty. It was yearning for her. She stayed all night to keep it company, and promised she'd be home soon.

…It wasn’t Luke but a long, drawn-out shriek that brought Abigail thumping back to consciousness, her heart hammering triple time in her chest. Eyes wide and staring against the darkness, she warded herself just in time. Strong magic battered her. She tried to sense Luke, but that was the problem with wards. They protected by forming an impenetrable barrier and corralled her magic inside.

Whatever was pummeling her seemed to have given up. She risked chinking enough of a hole in her warding to send a tendril of magic outward because she needed information. When it came, it terrified her so badly, her heart stuttered. Dark things surrounded them: wraiths, mad wolves—those who’d been turned to serve the other side—and humans who’d sold their immortal souls for forbidden knowledge. Had the girl rallied them? How could she possibly be that powerful? Luke didn’t seem to be anywhere. Abigail hoped he’d concealed himself out of harm’s way, because the two of them couldn’t make the slightest dent in the dark horde outside. The stagecoach rocked and she realized someone was climbing onto the roof. Throat so dry she could barely breathe, she mended her warding.

The books. That’s what they want… Let them haul the miserable things out of here.
She knew she should risk heaven and hell to keep such knowledge out of dark hands, but Abigail didn’t see how throwing her life away would alter the outcome. She heard voices speaking the Satanic tongue, and then dragging sounds as someone transferred the trunk to the ground.
Luke
s
houldn’t have bothered to put it back up top,
she thought grimly
.

What had the Girauds been doing with such arcane tomes in the first place? She supposed there was the slightest chance they’d been protecting them from falling into the wrong hands.
Yes, by all means, let’s give Coven members the benefit of the doubt.
Except it was a struggle, and she didn’t know who the hell to trust anymore.

She waited until it was absolutely still outside, and a tentative scan told her the dark host she’d sensed earlier had moved on, before loosing her wards. The minute she did, she felt Luke’s energy. He pulled open one of the coach doors. “I scared up a couple of horses from a nearby farm. We need to go after those books—and the girl.”

She fought down the protest that rose to her lips, but it slid out anyway. “There aren’t enough of us.”

“Fixed that problem too.” He smiled grimly. “I can ward you if you want to stay here, but if you’re coming we need to get moving. Don’t want to let the trail get too cold.” From the smirk in his voice, she knew he was being sarcastic.

She sent her magic spiraling outward and felt the books pulsing with evil. No way
that
path would ever get cold. “Why couldn’t I feel them this strongly before? I know the trunk had to have been spelled, but still…”

“The trunk was spelled, and by someone with magic to burn. It’s over in those trees. I guess Carolyn’s minions were in a hurry and didn’t have a wagon.”

Abigail felt like a rube. The book trunk had already been packed and sealed when she’d picked Carolyn up in New York. She’d never even thought to examine it. “Did you see Carolyn?”

“Yup.” His upper lip curled into a sneer. “Caught a glimpse of her riding a mad wolf.”

“Do you suppose there’s some way we could separate her from Goody Osborne?” Abigail bit her lip nervously.

Luke shook his head. “Even if we could—and I don’t think it’s possible—there are too many unknowns. Her parents might have been turned. If that happened, the kid could have embraced evil before it entered her body. By the time we sorted all that out, the dark would have had one too many chances to kill us.”

Abigail winced at the unvarnished truth in his words. Any residual doubts she held about the necessity of destroying the girl melted away. “Yes,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m coming with you.”

Luke boosted her onto one of the horses. She pulled her skirts out of the way. It was a normal saddle and this was scarcely a time for modesty. Luke vaulted onto his horse, kneeing it, and they took off up the Overland Stage Road at close to a full gallop.
“We’re making too much noise,”
she sent.

“Doesn’t matter. They’ll expect us to come after them.”

She clung to the horse with her legs, enjoying the feel of not having to ride sidesaddle. Luke’s horse was larger, faster, and soon pulled so far ahead she could barely see him. She kneed her horse, urging it to greater speed, but the animal shied, and then reared. Abigail struggled for balance and called magic to calm the spooked animal. Something sprang at her and knocked her to the ground. She sent killing magic to stop its heart, before realizing what it was. Panting, she crawled out from under a black and gray mad wolf with blood dribbling from its nostrils, and glanced warily about. Were there more of them?

Carolyn stepped from the shadows. It looked as if she was alone, but Abigail suspected otherwise. “What do you want?”

“Simple enough. I plan to use you to get rid of Breana Giraud—and others.” A sneer twisted the girl’s features into something unpleasant. “You think people don’t know you’re part of Coven government?”

Abigail set her mouth in a hard line. “Fine. So the other side knows about me. Question is, who are you really?”

“Don’t you recognize me?” Carolyn stepped closer and turned her face from side to side as if posing for a photographer. “I gave you my name, but I am far more than that.”

She’s arrogant. Perhaps I can use that in some way
. Abigail spread her hands in a placating gesture. “Because I’m used to seeing you as Carolyn Giraud, I’m not certain who you are.” She paused for emphasis. “I’d like you to tell me.”

“Certainly.” A feral grin made the child look like something out of a nightmare. “It is always better to know who your adversary is.” Her voice became soft and silky. “I have access to magic you would kill for. You may not know it, but you’d like to work for us.” She laughed, but it sounded more like broken glass shattering against itself, than a twelve-year-old girl’s mirth. “We have real power, not that paltry tripe the Coven settles for.”

Abigail waited. When Carolyn didn’t say anything else, she said, “I’m listening…and considering your offer. Life is always better than the alternative.”

“Ha! They said you couldn’t be turned, but I told them they were wrong. I am The Promised, resurrected out of legend. Goody Osborne was but a start, and this little girl is merely a convenience.” Something like an outraged squawk followed the words, but Goody silenced Carolyn almost immediately. “What I really want is you, Abigail Ruskin.”

Shit! She couldn’t be The Promised…
“You mean the Dark Messiah?” Abigail scrunched up her face and held her breath, hoping against hope she’d gotten it wrong.

“The same.” A supercilious expression etched into the girl’s features. “At least the other side has heard of me. Warms my black, black heart.”

“The books—?” Abigail hunted for a connection while she rode herd on terror that threatened to immobilize her, and clouded her judgment. If ever she needed a clear head, it was now, but her mind raced feverishly.

“They weren’t doing the girl’s parents any good moldering away in that underground chamber. I’d actually been searching for them for years.” She flashed a sly smile. “They used to be mine…”

July 2, 1919

Rosalind exited the ward quickly, trying to pretend nothing was wrong, as if she hadn’t cast a glance across a row of beds and almost asked why they were bothering with number six—she’d be dead by morning. She pressed her fingers to her lips to seal the words in, then snatched them away again for fear someone would see her distress.

She’d sat by many bedsides in France, when she’d had time to spare from her normal duties. Dying people were nothing new. More importantly, Jefferson Hospital wasn’t the 38. There wasn’t a severe staff shortage, or an epidemic, or an endless influx of wounded.

An orderly hurried by her with a laundry cart, then a harassed-looking doctor followed by two civilians—visitors—in laborers’ clothing. Rosalind’s shift had ended. She really had no reason to be loitering in the corridor like this. In the ladies’ lounge, she removed her apron and cap and tidied her hair. Her feet throbbed and so did her eyes. She didn’t want to look at herself in the mirror. She ought to tell Matron she felt sick, that she couldn’t come in tomorrow.

She signed herself out at the desk, turned, and saw Matthew Riekert in the waiting area, struggling to his feet. His hat brim hid his face but she could tell from his movements that he was in pain. She hurried over and asked, “Are you all right?”

He braced his crutches more firmly under his arms and said, “I thought I’d walk you home.”

Rosalind bit back a sarcastic remark. He was white-faced and tightlipped with pain, but he presumably knew his own limits. “Let’s go, then,” she said. She kept an eye on him as they left the building. He didn’t seem likely to fall. “Were you in for PT today?” she asked. “Physical therapy,” she explained, at his blank look.

“Yeah,” he said. They stopped at the corner to let a succession of autos pass and he took a deep breath. “New exercises,” he said.

“I imagine they told you to take the trolley home, or a cab,” Rosalind remarked.

“Faster this way,” he said. “No waiting.”

The right leg was the wounded one, she had noticed when she’d first met him at Camp Meade. She wondered what happened—bullet or shrapnel, most likely—but didn’t ask. She didn’t know how he would react to the question. She didn’t know him very well at all beyond their similar educational backgrounds and a rather puzzling irrational liking she felt for him. Perhaps that was because the first time she’d seen him, in Kearney’s photo, he’d been smiling. He’d seemed like a person one would like. She had never seen him smile as in the photo.

Also, she remembered, she knew he was a terrible card player. She’d learned that his third night in the house. Even blind, Kearney was a better card player. But Matthew had been good-natured about the game. No posturing and, even better, no complaints about the cards he was dealt.

She considered asking him if he wanted to rest as they crossed the street into Washington Square. Matthew halted at the first bench they reached and grunted.

“No, I don’t mind if we stop here for a few minutes,” Rosalind said.

“Hah,” he said. “Funny.” They sat and he removed his hat, wiping his face with his hand. “Knew you wouldn’t fuss.”

“I suppose that means, you knew I would go along with your stupidity,” Rosalind said.

“No,” he said, surprising her. “It means—” He winced and rubbed his thigh. She could see the muscle twitch as it spasmed. “—It means you’d let me be an idiot and not—ahh—”

“Not what?” Rosalind asked, after giving him a moment to catch his breath.

“Not treat me like I’m pathetic.” Matthew leaned back and stared up into the trees. “I hate that.”

“You shouldn’t overwork that leg,” Rosalind pointed out.

“I know.” He closed his eyes. “I thought if I fell, you wouldn’t…I thought you might be a good person to have nearby.”

Rosalind sat in silence with him for a time. People passed by, engaged in their daily business, and three children ran around in the grass, yelling over who would get the hoop next.

Matthew looked at her. His eyes were a distinctive dark brown; they gave him an earnest look. He said, “I had to get away from there. And I wanted a friendly face.”

Rosalind knew what he meant. The sounds, the smells, the pitying glances, the pain both experienced and remembered. She wasn’t sure what to say. She felt as if they’d just shared something appallingly intimate. She eyed him speculatively. Finally, she said, “I understand.”

He smiled then, a flicker at one side of his mouth and the barest creasing at the corners of his eyes, but it was enough to stop her breath before it faded. Then he said, “Are you all right?”

“Me? Perfectly,” she said.

“When you came to meet me, at the hospital, I thought you looked—”

“I had a long shift,” she said, not about to inflict her moods and doubts on him.