Dawn of the Golden Promise (35 page)

The wagon shot forward without warning, clattering wildly into the night as if a legion of demons were hard upon them.

Inside, Tierney saw Morgan grasp both arms of the wheelchair and rear back with a sharp grunt of surprise. Seated on the floor across from him, Tierney pitched sideways, flinging out a hand against the wall to brace himself.

“Something must have spooked the mare,” he said, clambering to his feet. “I'll go and see.”

Hanging on to the brass rail that ran along the side of the wagon, he made his way to the double doors behind the driving bench. When he stepped onto the connecting platform, the dim glow from the front lanterns revealed Jan Martova at a crouch, leaning forward over the mare. Sandemon, his face taut and set straight ahead, gripped the bench with both hands.

Planting one foot between the two, Tierney watched Jan Martova. “What's going on?”

It was fully dark now, the moon completely concealed by dense clouds. The wind was up, whipping the tree limbs that hung over each side of the road as the wagon raced through the night.

Jan Martova glanced back at Tierney, then at Sandemon, who merely shook his head.

“Sandemon…feels anxious,” Jan replied, his attention again on the road. “He thinks something might be wrong at the Big House.”

Tierney looked from Jan to Sandemon, who still remained rigidly silent. He typically placed little if any stock in the “feelings” and premonitions of others. But he had lived around the West Indies black man too long not to take him seriously.

He thought Sandemon was downright strange sometimes. More often than not the black man could sense what a person was thinking the way other people sensed a change in the weather. There was also his way with animals, especially horses. Jan Martova said even the Gypsies didn't understand horses as Sandemon did.

If Sandemon thought “something might be wrong,” it probably was.

He shivered. “What do I tell Morgan?” he asked, looking from Jan to the black man.

It was Sandemon who answered. “Tell the
Seanchai
we knew he would be anxious to return, with night coming on.”

The black man remained silent for a moment. When he finally spoke again, there was a raw edge to his voice Tierney had not heard before. “After we arrive, stay with him,” he said, still not taking his eyes from the road. “Be sure he is not left alone.”

He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Tierney's for only an instant. But something in that dark, inscrutable gaze made the skin at the back of Tierney's neck prickle.

After a moment he turned and went back inside the wagon.

All reason deserted Finola.

The nightmare was real.

This was her darkest dream, in the flesh, standing close enough that she could see the madness in his eyes.

It was him…the monster from the black chamber of her night terrors.

An irrational, numbing sense of dread overtook her, sharpening her senses. In the dim lantern light of the stables, every line, every shape, now became clearly defined, highlighted by the pulsing glow of terror.

He stepped toward her, stopping only an arm's length away.

In the flickering glow from the lantern, his face was shadowed, eerily pale, hideously familiar.

The same wolfish, predatory face…same torn, misshapen mouth. But the eyes…the eyes were different, more frightening than before, filled with rage as well as lust, burning with madness.

Behind her she heard Gabriel begin to whimper. But shock had frozen Finola in place. She could not turn, could not look at her son or at Aine, could only stand and let her own fear wash over her like an icy waterfall.

His mouth cracked to an ugly smile. “Well, now, I see you remember me. I had hoped you wouldn't forget.”

She would never forget…how could she hope to forget?

His voice hit her with a flood of sick remembrance. Unnatural, chilling, a grating rasp of a voice that spewed words from that mutilated mouth like bullets from a gun.

Behind her, Aine was silent, but Gabriel continued to cry, harder now, huge choking sobs of childish despair.

The monster pressed closer, waved something in his hand.

A knife…oh, Lord, have mercy, he has a knife…

She heard Aine gasp. Gabriel stopped sobbing, letting out a high, steady whine that seemed to go on and on.

“Shut him up!
Now
!”

He was close enough that Finola could smell his unwashed body. Again a mind-shattering memory swooped over her. Like before, he reeked of sweat and cheap whiskey.

And something else.

Hatred…

A blistering, savage hatred emanated from him, a force so intense, so bestial, it made him seem less than human.

He came at her. Two steps, and now his foul breath heated her skin, making her turn away in disgust.

He caught her arm, holding her fast with a bruising grip.

Finola closed her eyes, trying to deny the monster holding her captive, trying to convince herself it was all a nightmare, that she would awaken any instant to find him gone.

But when she opened her eyes he was still there.

26

To our misfortune, a thing
Will sometimes prove
As deadly as it seems
In the darkest of our dreams.

ANONYMOUS

T
his was no nightmare. It was hideously real. He was here.

She was trapped. Just like before.

No…not like before. This time at least, she had a voice!

Somehow she forced a scream up from her throat, past the terror choking off her windpipe.
“Aine—run! Take Gabriel and run!”

In one blinding movement the man caught her right arm, yanking it behind her with such force Finola thought it would surely break. “You can talk!” he grated into her ear. The idea seemed to enrage him even further, as if she had betrayed him somehow, harbored forbidden secrets.

She screamed again, but he seemed not to hear. He dragged her over to Aine and Gabriel, who stood wide-eyed, clearly terror-stricken, as he whipped the knife over their heads.

“Either of you move so much as a hair, I'll rip your hearts out!” He snapped the knife back to wave it in front of Finola. “And hers as well!”

Finola stumbled as a storm of ugly memories exploded in her mind, whipping through her with the driving force of a hurricane.

How could it be happening again? Merciful Lord, are you really going to let it happen again?

One rough hand yanked her to her feet, while the other stabbed the air with the knife, over her head, in the direction of the children. “Now you stay put, the both of you! Not a move. Not a sound.”

His eyes blazed as he turned his attention back to Finola. “And you—if you don't want the both of them butchered as you watch, you'll keep still, mind! Not a word, understand? Not a word!” His reddened, watery eyes went over her, searing her skin, making her feel dirty, diseased.

Finola could feel his rage, the dangerous lunacy that burned from him like smoke from a fire.

“How long?” he snarled. “How long have you been able to talk? What was it with you before? An act? A game?”

Finola turned her face away, almost overcome by the stench of his breath, the raw malignance in his eyes.

He caught a handful of her hair, jerking it so hard that pain shot through her like a furnace blast. When she shrieked in agony, he pulled her hair again, pressing his face even closer. “You'll look at me when I'm talking to you, witch!”

Finola groaned. The tears she'd been trying so desperately to suppress finally spilled over.

“Stop your blubbering! Didn't I tell you to keep quiet?”

He released her hair and locked his hand around both her wrists, pinning her arms behind as he bent her backward. To keep from crying out, Finola bit her tongue with such force she drew blood.

He brought the knife blade flush against her throat. “Don't worry, lassie. I got no intention of using this unless you force me to.” He cracked a predatory smile. “At least not until I've taken my pleasure.”

Finola's blood turned to ice at his words. She had to steel herself, keep herself from flying apart. She knew if she started screaming, she would never stop.

Abruptly he wrenched her upright. “Who does the brat belong to?” he demanded, jabbing the knife toward Gabriel.

Finola's heart stopped. For one insane moment she considered telling him the truth. Would it make a difference if he knew?

Seeing her look of dismay, he sneered. “So he
is
yours, then? I figured as much, with that yellow hair.”

Appalled at the thought that had crossed her mind, she immediately quelled it. She would
never
allow this monster to know that Gabriel was of his flesh! Never! In her heart, he wasn't. Her son was not the offspring of some monstrous sin, but a living testament to God's grace—a precious gift of joy. Gabriel was
Morgan's
son…and God's.

His ugly laugh jarred her back to her reality. “He's not the cripple's, sure?” he goaded. “It takes a whole man to sire a son.”

Morgan. She could not bear even the mention of his name on this madman's tongue.

Her legs shook violently beneath her. Her heart was racing out of control, hammering against her chest so furiously she felt she might die where she stood. She knew she was dangerously close to fainting.

She despised herself for her fear, her weakness. Only her resolve to protect Gabriel and Aine kept her from surrendering to the darkness closing in on her. She dared not leave them to fend for themselves with this monster.

If only someone would come! She had lost track of time, but surely someone would be returning before long.

Please…oh, please, sweet Savior, bring someone soon…

In the same instant, she almost recanted the silent prayer of her heart. What might this animal do to Morgan, to anyone who happened to step into his path?

To her horror, she realized that Gabriel had begun to cry again, louder than before. His childish fear might soon give way to genuine hysteria. Racked with hard, heaving sobs, he sounded shrill, terrified, as if he might strangle on his own tears at any moment.

Finola could hear Aine's shallow breathing and saw both horror and anger in her stare. She feared the girl might try something desperate that would only make things worse for all of them. Their eyes met, and Finola gave a small shake of her head.
Please, Aine
, she begged silently,
do nothing foolish, or we may all die…