Come to Castlemoor (28 page)

I reached the entrance and stumbled. My heel broke. I fell to the floor with stunning impact. White cambric billowed about me. Iron fingers pulled me up. Edward held me against him, my face buried in folds of cloth. Buck was shouting. Edward silenced him with a word I couldn't understand. I was trembling violently. Edward held me away from him and looked down into my eyes. He was smiling. I tried to break free. He raised one arm, the great white sleeve fluttering like a rustling wing. He released me and clenched his fist. He looked at me almost tenderly before smashing the fist against my jaw. I cried out as the pain shot through my body and blankets of darkness smothered me, heavy, wet, pushing me down, down into a white-hot oblivion of pain and terror.

Sensation piled on sensation, dark, murky, vivid, obscure. I was drowning, enormous waves breaking over me, and I welcomed them. A light burned dimly far, far above me, and I tried to reach it, failed, fell back down into a pit full of shifting black shadows. Layer by layer they lifted, and reality returned, ever so slowly. My eyelids were heavy. It took great effort to lift them. I was in a small cell, not much larger than a broom closet, rotten straw on the floor, damp stains on the wall, a barred window looking out onto the hall, where a torch burned briskly and shed enough light for me to study my surroundings.

I was on a narrow cot littered with rags. I sat up. My head whirled, but my jaw no longer hurt. There was a dull ache, but the pain was gone. I must have been here for a long time, two or three hours at least. I went to the door and looked through the bars of the window. A heavy lock secured the door, and there was no way I could escape. I staggered back to the cot and sank down, my temples throbbing. Panic rose up, disappeared. Fear vanished. All feeling vanished. A numbness set in. Trancelike, I sat on the cot and waited. I was objective, curious, almost as though this were happening in a novel I read, not real at all, a fiction that did not really involve Kathy Hunt. I watched the shadows cast on the wall by the fire, and time passed without my being aware of it. Fifteen minutes, twenty, an hour, two: I don't know how long it was before I heard the footsteps in the hall outside the cell.

Buck unlocked the door and pulled it open. The hinges creaked loudly. He jerked his head, summoning me. I stood up on shaky legs. Buck wore a white robe too, now, of a coarse white linen not nearly so fine as the one Edward wore. Edward was behind Buck, waiting casually in the hall. I took a step and stumbled forward. Buck caught me, supported me, led me out of the cell, holding my elbow firmly. The three of us began to walk down the hall, one on either side of me, their robes swirling with the movement and rustling, Buck's stiffly, Edward's with a soft, silken sound. The hall was long and narrow and seemingly endless, and soon the brick walls gave way to walls of solid-packed earth braced with strong wooden beams. We were in a tunnel smelling of damp earth and root and the smoke of torches that burned in brackets every fifty yards or so. Alan had once mentioned a secret tunnel that was supposed to lead out onto the moors, although no one was certain it actually existed. This must be that tunnel, I thought. It really did exist, and it went on and on, endless.

We must have walked at least a mile. The tunnel grew more narrow, and there was a new smell, curious, like peat. Buck still held my elbow. His face was impassive. I glanced at Edward. He seemed to be meditating, his eyes far away, unseeing, his full lips moving silently, one heavy wave of dark-gold hair fallen across his brow. His hands were clasped in front of him, and he had the appearance of a priest going to some sacred ceremony. I moved like an automaton, awake yet asleep, aware of everything around me, yet curiously detached. It was as though I had been given some potent drug that allowed me to move but prevented me from feeling anything.

Far ahead, two torches burned, one at either side of a small door at the end of the tunnel. Buck released me and hurried to open the door. Edward fastened his hand around my wrist, pulling me along with him. I moved jerkily. Buck held the door open, and we stepped outside.

The door was completely hidden by a towering pile of broken stones. We stepped around them. The sky was dark black, starless. An enormous white moon spilled milky light over the ruined city, gilding temples and columns and ruins with murky silver and spreading bizarre purple-black shadows over walls and ground. Far away, among the ruins, I saw flickering orange flames that burned like an apparition from Hades, and I heard the distant chanting, a strange, murmuring sound, monotonous, rhythmic, music made by a coven of lost souls, satanic. Centuries disappeared, time vanished, and I was in a living nightmare of the past. Numb, trancelike, I walked beside Edward, my body moving of its own volition, while inside a silent scream shattered all semblance of reality.

Buck glided ahead of us, passing through misty light and shadows, his robe floating about him, now silver, now a mere white blur in the darkness. The moonlight illuminated parts of the city, picking out each detail in sharp silver-blue and black, while other sections were in total darkness, masses of impenetrable black that seemed curiously alive with movement. Edward's fingers were like iron bands fastened about my wrist, pulling me along beside him. He was mumbling to himself, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. We stepped over stones, moved around columns, passed through stretches of darkness alive with darker forms moving quietly and whispering with the sound of wind, phantoms risen from the past to observe this revival of their long-dead rites.

Ahead, the flames seemed to burn more brightly as we drew nearer. The fire burned in the circles of stones where I had talked with Burton Rodd. I remembered the altar with its brown bloodstains. No, I cried, no, no; but no sound came. The cry was silent, inside, piercing nerve and fiber while I moved along beside the man in billowing white cambric, drawing nearer and nearer the circle. I could see the columns now, glowing reddish orange with firelight, and through the stones I saw the figures in white moving slowly around the altar, their shadows following them like black spokes of a revolving wheel. The muted, monotonous chant was music heard in nightmare, an insane sound droning on and on and sweeping away all hope.

Buck stopped at the portals of the circle and pulled on his hood, then moved inside. The chanting stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was even more terrifying than the sound had been. It hung over the city like a threat. The stillness was the stillness of death. Edward and I moved toward the circle. Our footsteps sounded incredibly loud. I could hear now the crackle of the flames and smell the odor of oak boughs burning. Edward tightened his grip, and I felt sure my wristbone would snap. It was useless to cry out, useless to struggle. I moved through hazy nightmare air shimmering with imagined horror, for it couldn't be real.

We moved into the circle of stone. At least twelve figures stood in a semicircle behind the altar, all in white robes with hoods that concealed their faces. I could pick out Buck only because of his enormous size. All of them raised their arms in unison and chanted some ritual greeting in a language unlike any I had ever heard. Edward returned the greeting, pronouncing the unknown words in a harsh, guttural voice. He was the only one who did not wear a hood. He released me. Two of the others moved forward solemnly and took hold of my arms and led me to the altar, standing guard while Edward launched into a tirade long and loud and completely incomprehensible to me. The fire burned fiercely. The wood crackled. The circle was filled with orange glow and black shadows and figures in white who gave ritual replies to the sentences Edward unleashed with furor. I felt a cold terror as I listened to those mad voices.

I remembered the factual accounts I had read about these ceremonies. I remembered all the gruesome details. I shook my head, trying to push those lurid pictures out of my mind, but it was impossible. As the fire crackled, and the furious, incomprehensible tirade continued, I kept seeing graphic scenes I had read about with scholarly relish—a stone, a girl, a group of robed men removing their robes one by one, and one by one approaching the stone, the girl. It couldn't be happening, I told myself. Things like that happened only in the pages of musty old books. This couldn't be real. Please, I whispered to myself, please, don't let it be real … don't let it happen.…

I closed my eyes, my lips moving in silent prayer.

I must have fainted, for when I opened my eyes I was leaning against the altar, and the only sound I heard was the sound of my own labored breathing. All else was silent. I lifted my head. The figures were standing in a wide circle around the altar, spaced out several yards away from me. The fire had burned down to a heap of glowing orange coals. There was no movement, no sound. I felt curiously languorous and empty-headed, no longer afraid, no longer truly aware of my plight. There was an empty cup on the altar beside me, a few drops of liquid spilled on the stone. I smelled a strong, cloying odor. They must have forced me to drink some kind of narcotic, I thought, and I tried to sit up. When I moved, it was as though I were moving under water.

Edward was approaching me. His face was severe, his mouth turned down, his eyes like agate.

“You have sinned,” he said. “You must pay.”

I tried to answer him, but no words would come. Edward frowned, and then his face seemed to soften, grow human again. He took a deep breath, swelling his chest. His robes swirled softly, blue-white with shadow, the material rustling. He glanced over his shoulder at the cultists stationed around the circle, then turned back to me.

“I'm sorry, Kathy,” he said, his voice low-pitched, barely audible. “I'm going to be merciful. I've persuaded the others to forgo the customary procedures. There will be pain, yes, but it will be over quickly. You'll be spared the other …”

I stared at him, and I saw that he held a great curved knife in his hand. The blade gleamed and glistened. He took another step and raised the knife. It was very long, very sharp. I studied it objectively, thinking how lovely it was, steel reflecting the glowing orange coals. I heard a shout, but I paid no attention to it. I was fascinated by the blade. I was aware of flurried movement, low voices, a maelstrom of activity, but it didn't concern me. There was the blade, only the blade. Edward paused a few feet away from me, a look of bewildered amazement on his face. Why? What was wrong? Then I saw his face contort with savage anger, and the drug stopped working, and I saw death and tried to scream, and he raised the knife for the final plunge. An orange flash streaked across the air; he let out an anguished cry, and strong familiar arms pulled me away from the altar as Edward fell hurtling to the ground.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Now, in June, it was over, and London was warm and green and full of noise and activity. From the hotel window I could see the park across the way, blue pond afloat with toy white boats, children playing under leafy boughs, nursemaids in starched uniforms keeping an eye on their charges or pushing black perambulators along the sun-flecked walks. Elegant carriages and humble carts clattered down the street. Beautifully dressed women studied the windows of expensive shops, and a tough-looking man in leather apron cried the virtues of the flowers in his white wooden cart. I had missed all this during the weeks at Castlemoor, but now I felt a certain sadness that made it all seem less inviting than before.

The door flew open, and Donald came charging into the room, tossing his top hat on the sofa, flinging his gloves on a chair. His handsome face was aglow with excitement, dark-brown eyes sparkling merrily, cheeks ruddy with health. Seeing him now in his gleaming brown boots, plum-colored suit, and white silk shirt with ruffled front, I found it hard to believe that just a few weeks ago he had been thin and pale, cheeks sunken, dark smudges under his eyes. For a few days the doctors had been deeply concerned, but with proper nourishment and care, he had soon lost the haggard look and regained his energy, enough to fight with the reporters who clamored around him as he left the hospital, enough to sit through hours of hearings at Old Bailey while the cultists were tried and convicted. They were behind bars now, and Edward was buried in a musty country cemetery. The policeman who had shot him had received a promotion.

“It's done!” Donald cried. “I've signed a staggering contract. They agreed to everything—and handed over a whopping big advance. Seems everyone's eager to know about the man who returned from the dead. My publishers believe the book will be a fabulous success.”

“I'm so glad,” I said feebly.

“They want an exposé—a personal account of my adventures—but I told them I intended to include chapters of scholarly information as well. Readers will skip the academic sections, I know, but I intend to include 'em just the same.”

He pulled off his jacket, tossed it on a chair, and loosened his brown silk tie. “Where's Bella? She's going to have to get a move on! We're leaving for Castlemoor first thing in the morning.”

“Oh?”

“I've already made the reservations.”

“Well, you can cancel mine,” I said firmly.

“What? What is this? What do you mean?”

“I'm not going back to Castlemoor.”

“Nonsense! You know I have to be there to write the book, and you know I can't do it without you. What's the matter with you? You look like you've just made peace with God and taken the last sacraments.”

“Nothing's wrong with me. I just don't plan to go back to Castlemoor. Aunt Clarice came to call this afternoon while you were at your publishers. She wants me to spend the summer with her.”

“You've lost your bloomin' mind, that's what! I know for a fact you'd rather cut off both arms and part of one leg than to spend three days with that old hag! What is
wrong
, Kathy girl?”

“Nothing!” I snapped irritably.

“Ah, so—” he replied quietly, drawing the words out. “I know. Yes, indeed. You've been moping around here for the past month, and it just now dawned on me
why
.”