Page 43 of Ondine

As in a dream, she could not make a sound.

She dashed toward the main aisle, yet the creature blocked her, and she was forced to the far right.

There she gave no heed to her surroundings; she ran, not daring to see if she was pursued.

She found her voice and called out, grateful for once that Jake lurked nearby.

Yet she did not know if he responded to her call, for the creature had taken a different path between the pews and awaited her at the end.

She paused, backing away once again. Dimly she realized where she stood—before the ornate and beautiful monument to the last Chatham to have passed beyond the portals of death.

Genevieve’s tomb.

And even as she came to that awareness, she discovered that where her sightless journey had taken her there was no flooring.

There was stone beneath her feet as she stared at the cloaked creature, then there was nothing.

With a scream she pitched downward, and the sound of her voice was lost in echo.

Her skirts saved her from injury as she fell, yet she felt no bumps or bruises, so desperate was she to discover her whereabouts.

She stared upward, at the empty space above.

She saw nothing but the eerie blue light, and then heard a scraping, a rasping, and realized that a stone—removed so that she might fall! —was being slid back into place.

And once it was done, not even the eerie blue light would come to guide her.

She rose, reaching above her to stop that stone from falling. “No!” she raged, but the sound of her own voice was horrible, echoing all about her.

She closed her eyes tightly, stunned and trembling and afraid. She tried to tell herself that she did not believe in evil death ghosts, in spirits or the like.

Oh, it was impossible not to feel the chill, the terror! Impossible not to know that she was surrounded by the coffins of those Chathams memorialized above her!

She swallowed fiercely and opened her eyes, then half shut them, seeking something, some pencil streak of light to guide her. And, ah, there was light! Oh, vague, vague hope—a ribbon-thin streak that beckoned her, far along a tunnel.

Yet when she would have moved, she paused instead, bumping into the coffin beside her. She had to blink again, strain desperately to see.

And then the most horrible scream welled within, a scream of unspeakable terror.

The coffin had been opened. Within its silken lining lay a body, and even in the darkness Ondine knew it to be a woman, clad in rich velvet, the hands locked in prayer, hair spilling long about the pillow . . . face rotting, as time and death would have its way with even the greatest beauty.

Genevieve . . .

She knew no sense or reason, no courage whatsoever. In that moment Ondine knew nothing but panic, blind and raw. She edged by the coffin, dimly saw row upon row of those that stretched beyond it.

Then she ran for that thin streak of light, that one ray of hope. She was in some tunnel, some tunnel damp and rank with moss and the eternal odor of death. A place where shrieks that were not her own, but those of rats and mice, disturbed the silence in a mortal terror not unlike her own.

She ignored them when they tread over her feet, when they scampered along her path, and coughing, gagging, choking, she likewise ignored the spiderwebs that clung to her face and gown. Spitting, half sobbing, she clawed at them, even as she ran, learning to place her hands before her.

At long last she reached the source of the light—another wall, where but a crack lay open.

Still sobbing, she raised her hands against that stone, pulling and prodding, scratching her flesh and breaking her nails.

It refused to give, and she lay against it, panting raggedly, then set forth once again, feverishly clawing at the stone.

Then she forced herself to stop, stop with her heart pounding like a hammer against an anvil.

Logic, sense, patience, oh, God, how desperately did she need those virtues!

She breathed deeply, paused, then once again set to her task, pitting all her weight against the stone.

It groaned, as if long untouched; as if it balked and fought her. She rested and panted again and returned once more to the labor, using all the reserves of her strength. And then . . .

Quite obediently and unexpectedly, the stone slid back, as if on some ancient hinge. Amazed and panting still, Ondine stepped past it.

A certain darkness lingered here, too, but from the wall, light glowed from two candles set in service sconces.

She was in the wine cellar, she realized with disbelief. Some secret path had taken her from the chapel, past the armory, and below the kitchens. There was a stairway at the end of the room that would take her to the larder, she was quite certain.

She stared at her hands; they were bloody and raw. Her clothing was covered in a thick mist of webbing, and she knew she was adorned head to toe likewise. Dear God! Loathesome creatures might well crawl in the tangle of her hair even now.

“Uggh!” she spat aloud, still trembling, still terrified—but also furious and determined.

Oh, but Warwick would explain this time!

Feet stamping against the stone, she headed for the stairway.

Then she paused. She had no wish to scare the servants.

She took another breath, pursed her lips in grim demand, and started more quietly for the stairs.

She would evade the servants—and accost her dear lord of Chatham totally unannounced and unprepared.

* * *

As it was, Warwick was not unprepared for trouble. He was, at that very second, staring at Jake with horror and disbelief.

“What do you mean— she disappeared! Women do not disappear. You say you are positive she entered the chapel?”

“Warwick, I swear it! I thought I heard her call, but the door was bolted. In time, I broke it—but she was not there! Her roses were upon the altar—but she was gone!”

“Damnation!” Warwick swore, tense as he hurried for his office door, his heart thundering, his soul in terror. Dear God, but how—

He did not reach the door; it flew open and an apparition in a mist of gray flew into him, slender hands rocketing against his chest in a whirlwind of fury.

“My dear lord of Chatham, I have had it! Beasts and whispers, mistresses, friends, enemies, whores, and ghosts! No more! You! You vile wretch! You and your talk of rescue and salvation! You’re mad! You and your entire household! What in the name of all the blessed saints goes on here!”

Warwick was so stunned by her absolute disarray of appearance—and then so taken aback by her fury—that he actually backed away, receiving each of her blows in shocked silence.

His head blurred even with his vision; he could think of nothing at first except that she was found; she stood before him.

She lived, oh, yes, lived, in a spinning fury, dirtied and grimed and almost comical, but, oh, so alive and vibrant with her special passion for life!

As if awakened by his very thoughts, he stood his ground, catching her flailing fists. “Give pause, madam, I pray you! What is this? What has happened?”

“What has happened?” She shrieked out the words.

“From what moment, my lord? Shall I begin with your charitable—diabolical!—plot to steal a woman—any woman—from the gallows? Oh, you bastard! No more! And I was supposed to grovel on the ground where you walked for eternity because you saved my life, only to offer it up for some more heinous death!”

“Nay, that was not the plan!” he retorted harshly, at which point she took a full fisted and furious swing at him.

He ducked, grabbed her once again, and brought the two of them crashing down to the floor together, Ondine panting heavily, Warwick amazed at the strength it took to hold her, and Jake quite confused—anxious over her appearance as well as totally amused by the entire matter.

“I’d like to hang you by your toes, Lord Chatham!” Ondine said, pinned at last between his thighs, his fingers twined over hers. “I’d like to see you on the rack! Gibbeted, disemboweled—”

“Shut up!” Warwick hissed, and she did, for they all three heard the footsteps nearing the door, then a tentative tapping.

“Milord!” Mathilda called. “Is something amiss?”

Warwick gazed briefly at Jake; Jake slipped on through the door and murmured some assurance to Mathilda. Ondine did not know why she remained silent, but she did, watching her husband’s tense features, seeing the gravity in his eyes.

At last they heard footsteps moving away. Warwick did not change positions; Ondine pressed against his hands, suddenly aware that she was very close to tears and not about to betray them to this man.

“Dear God!” she whispered. “Will you tell me what goes on here!”

He released her hands and sat back upon his haunches, then stood and reached a hand to her. She took it hesitantly. When she was upon her feet, he did not speak, but touched her hair, removing from it a skein of the spiderwebs.

“Aye,” he said then softly. “I will tell you. But first . . .”

He absently clutched his hands behind his back and paced the area before his desk. Then with sudden decision he strode to the door and opened it carefully.

“Jake!”

“Aye, milord!”

The little monkey of a man scampered back to them from the ballroom. “I can’t have her running about looking so.”

“No worry; I’ll call the lads for hot water at your order, thus avoiding my lady’s maid.”

“Aye,” Warwick murmured. “And we’ll give leave with a great deal of laughter, climb the stairs as one—young lovers not to be interrupted, even to dine.”

Jake disappeared. Warwick hovered by the door, then motioned to Ondine. She could but stare at him as if he had indeed gone mad.

“What—?”

“Get over here!” he rasped in command.

“You’ve not answered a question yet, Warwick Chatham! I’ll not jump at your orders like a frightened hare—”