Secret Worlds (611 page)

Isobel shook her head. “It still wasn’t your fault. There are a dozen things I could have said and done to prevent this as well. One of them might have worked—or none of them.”

Nino sniffed, but he nodded, anyway. “I think this should do it,” he said, tying a knot at the end of the thread.

He did fine work. The stitching was neat and narrow.

“How often have you done this?”

“A few times,” he said, cleaning up the sewing materials from the table. “Would you like some comfrey?”

Surprised, she looked up. “I was not aware that you knew anything about healing plants.”

“I’ve been paying attention,” he said dismissively.

She picked up the glass again and took a large sip. The brandy burned her throat, and her eyes watered.

“Actually I made a salve that will work better. It’s in the conservatory with the other supplies,” she said, wincing at the taste of the brandy.

She’d only ever drunk wine and that had usually been watered down. No matter how expensive this brandy was—and if Matteo had bought it, then it was very costly—it still tasted like a combustible solvent going down her throat.

“I’ll go fetch it. And then I’ll help his lordship clean in there.”

Swallowing hard, she nodded as he made his way to the door.

He paused at the threshold. “It’s different now, isn’t it?”

Taking another bracing sip, she squinted up at him. “What do you mean?”

“The beast. It doesn’t kill the same way. Before all it had to do was touch someone and they died. Now it uses its strength to beat you to death. That and the way it behaves with you.”

Too tired for explanations, Isobel dismissed his comment with a shrug. All she wanted was a bath. She would worry about everything else later.

***

Hours later, Matteo walked into Isobel’s bedroom. It had taken a long time to dig a hole deep enough for the bastard’s body.

It was a macabre bit of irony. Usually Ottavio was the one digging the hole. Nino had complained that it usually went a lot faster, but Matteo refused to apologize—despite how he felt.

It had been upsetting. He’d never had to bury one of his victims before. That was done out of his sight on orders from his father. This was also the first death he remembered clearly.

He wanted to say that he would regret it. The violence and the carnage would stay with him for a long time. But he wasn’t sorry that the
figlio di mignotta
was dead.

Isobel was sitting at her dressing table in her nightgown. She was examining her bruised lip by candlelight in the looking glass. He came up behind her, their eyes meeting in the glass. Tentatively, he put his hands on her shoulders. To his relief, she didn’t flinch away.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he whispered. “I never wanted to do something like that in front of you.

Under his hand, Isobel’s shoulders shook as she took a deep shuddering breath. “That wasn’t you. Trust me, that was very clear.”

He didn’t know what to say. Well, there was one thing...

“It felt like me,” he whispered. “And perhaps there is a reason for that.”

She turned around to face him. “What do you mean?”

Passing a hand over his face, he chose his words carefully. “I mean that I would have killed him too, curse or no curse. He was hurting you, trying to rape you.” He closed his eyes, hands fisting as the rage welled up again. “Nino was right. It was my fault.”

“
Again
, that’s not true.”

His Isabella was getting angry, and it touched him. Even after everything he’d done to her, she was trying to absolve him of guilt. She didn’t understand.

“Yes, it is. Every terrible thing that has happened to you is because of me. And as badly as I felt about that, I wasn’t truly sorry because I was able to keep you. You’re my wife, and I would protect you with my life...and now I know I would kill for you too. I would do whatever I have to do to keep you safe. But
I’m
the one you need to be protected from.”

He looked down at his hands. They were clean now, but he could still see the blood on them. “Isabella, I think it’s time to end this. It’s time for me to die.”

Her brow creased and her shoulders slumped. She looked so exhausted. “
No
.”

He began to argue with her, but she forestalled him with a hand, her injured one. “No. It is not time for you to die. I’m not ready to give up—and you didn’t kill Ottavio. I did.”

Dropping to one knee he took her hand. “Isabella, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I remember everything I did. This time the memories are as clear as if they were my own.”

Her hazel eyes stared at him seriously. “I know that, but you failed to grasp one important detail. The man you pulled off me and beat until his head split open was
already
dead.” She looked away. “I guess I learned from my experience with your demon. I didn’t mean to kill him. Not at first.”

He wasn’t aware that he was gaping at her until she leaned over and pushed his mouth closed with a delicate white finger under his chin.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she nodded slowly and reached for his hand. “Come lie down with me. I want you to hold me.”

He bowed his head, his forehead touching hers. How is it she always managed to undo him so easily?

“Anything. Anything you want.”

With a hand on his cheek, she drew away from him and gave him a small sad smile. “I want you to live.”

Her words hit him like a body blow, making it hard to catch his breath. But his witch didn’t give him time to dwell. She took his arm and led him to the bed. They lay down together, and she curled against his chest. There was nothing sexual about their embrace this time. It was about comfort.

“It was awful, what it did,” she said eventually.

“What
I
did.”

“No, what
it
did. I—I may have found a way to be rid of it. Possibly. I’ve been improvising, adapting a ritual that will cure you. It involves a purge and a cleansing fire. The curse needs to be burned away at the root and your aura sealed so nothing gets back in.”

Matteo tensed. Isobel peeked up at him from underneath her lashes, her skin almost luminescent in the afternoon light. Slowly she stroked his chest with her pale white fingers.

“That’s wonderful news
mi
tesoro
.”

Her hand fisted in his shirt. “It will be very painful. More painful than you can possibly imagine. And if I do it wrong, you may not survive.” She snorted slightly. “I
do
want you to live, more than anything. But I might be the one killing you after all.”

He squeezed her tighter. “If that’s my fate, I accept it. I’ll never be anything but grateful to you.”

Isobel rested her head on his chest. “I don’t want your gratitude. I just want you.”

Despite everything that had just occurred, the world was suddenly a bit brighter.

“Well, thank you anyway...for letting me love you. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

***

Being secretive was becoming second nature to Isobel.

She kept Matteo out of the ritual preparation, despite his insistence on helping. Though she believed that the demon couldn’t know what it didn’t witness, the deeper integration of the incubus into the fabric of his being was worrisome. She had no way of knowing how intelligent it was and didn’t want to take any chances on alerting it to their plans. It knew too much already.

But she now knew something about it too. While it enjoyed her body, it abhorred her blood. It had reacted badly when it came into contact with a few drops after the attack in the conservatory. Either it had been driven away by some property in the blood, or the blood had hurt it in some way.

Which was why she was altering the ritual and not telling Matteo. If he knew the true extent of the danger, he would never cooperate.

It was something her grandmother had told her once. Blood magic meant sacrifice, sometimes your own. Adding her blood to the ritual tied her to it inextricably. If she couldn’t control the fire in the purge, it wouldn’t just consume Matteo. It would claim her too…

The
Conte
was being kept in the dark, as well. Matteo was his only heir and in spite of his pompousness and selfishness, the man did love his son.

If Aldo saw Matteo in pain, he would interfere and jeopardize all of their work. For this reason, Isobel decided not to confide in Nino either, even though she would have appreciated his assistance. However, when it came right down to it, she didn’t know if his regard for her was enough to overcome his loyalty to his employer.

She was alone in this.

At least that’s something you’re used to.

A hand on Matteo’s forehead roused him from a deep sleep. It always took him so long to wake, even though he knew it was Isobel doing the waking. It was always her. No one else ever dared to touch him.

Surfacing from sleep, he looked up at her. She was wearing his favorite day dress, a green muslin that matched the color of her eyes. It was a simple gown, modestly cut, and it always made him want to make love to her. Not the frenzied intercourse when the demon was in control, but a slow sweet joining. Something human. That wasn’t possible anymore.

If he wanted Isobel,
it
always came, eager to touch her too. Even now that he was starting to remember the experiences, to feel them as his own, it was like he was spinning out of control—a mere observer of the play. So he’d stopped asking Isobel for his husbandly rights. It wasn’t fair to her when the demon already demanded so much.

His wife leaned over him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. She never did that.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting up.

The tiniest smirk betrayed her before her countenance sobered.

“It’s time, Matteo.”

“Oh.” His head suddenly felt like it was filling with air. He gave himself a hard shake before following her out of bed. Regaining his equilibrium, he put on his boots. “I had no idea that you were so close to being ready.”

“I thought it better to surprise you, in case...”

She didn’t need to finish.

Nodding, he followed her out of the room. Once in the hallway, she gestured for him to head down the stairs. On the other side of the windows the light was already fading, which meant he’d slept most of the day away. Again.

At the foyer, he hesitated. Had she prepared the ritual in the library or the conservatory? It made more sense to use the conservatory since the ritual was supposed to use fire, but he hated going in there now, and Isobel must despise it.

“Where are we going?” he asked when Isobel led him past the entrance to the library and down the hallway to the kitchen.

There was no one there. They didn’t have many staff, but the few they did have always congregated in the kitchen. If nothing else, Cook was a fixture there. But the kitchen was still and dark, the hearth cold. He found it disquieting.

“I gave the entire staff the night off,” she said belatedly before opening the back door.

A blast of icy wind greeted them. It was bitingly cold outside, and Isobel was only wearing a light dress.

“I think you need your pelisse. Have you chosen the woods as our venue?”

“No, and don’t worry. It’s not far.” She pointed at the external greenhouse.

Of course, he should have realized. They had never used it, but he’d been assured by his agent that it was in good working order. Since the conservatory had been more convenient for their use, he’d never even bothered to go inside. As far as he knew no one else did either. Isobel had chosen well.

The inside of the greenhouse was a large rectangular space. Old work benches and tables lined the walls, leaving a cleared area in the center. Grooves in the dirt showed that Isobel must have recently moved the tables herself. Other miscellaneous garden tools and supplies were stacked in the corner nearest the door.

The cleared space wasn’t empty. A large circle, bisected in half, had been drawn in white in the dirt. It was surrounded by a few crates filled with small boxes and little bottles. A larger dark brown glass bottle stoppered with cork and wax was set in front of the boxes. On the other side of the circle rested a small stack of kindling. There was an unlit lantern next to it.

“You’ve been busy. I’m sorry you had to do all of this on your own,” he observed.

“It wasn’t all that much work,” she said dismissively, but the tension in her posture was obvious.

Now that they were in the greenhouse she was moving stiffly, the line of her shoulders unnaturally straight. He wanted to reassure her, but his own anxiety was eating at him.

Watching with interest, his eyes tracked her as she reached into the crate for a small box and began pouring more white powder on the circle’s diameter. It glittered oddly.

“I thought that was chalk, but it’s something else isn’t it? Some sort of mineral? Powdered quartz or some other semi-precious stone?”

Isobel smiled as she lit the lamp, the light casting a golden glow on her face. She had never looked more beautiful. But then again, he thought that every time he saw her.

“It’s salt, actually.”

That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “Salt?”

“A substance of vastly underestimated properties.”

He snorted slightly. “A bit like governesses.”

Her eyes glowed in the lamplight, but she didn’t reply. “You should take off your shirt for this. I think direct contact with your skin will help,” she said with a duck of her head and a trace of apology in her voice.

Feeling a bit more like his old self, he gave her a teasing smile.

“If you wanted to see my bare chest, there’s no need to make excuses,” he said as he pulled off his waistcoat and thick cotton shirt. “All you ever need to do is ask.”

She didn’t smile back. “Unfortunately, direct contact with your skin means a greater likelihood of sustaining burns. In this case, they would be to your chest, just here,” she said, placing her hand high on her stomach.

“Why there? Wouldn’t over my head be a more likely choice?”

Isobel fiddled with a piece of kindling. “I’ve no wish to burn your face off, my lord. I’ve grown quite fond of it. And the choice is significant. It’s something my grandmother taught me that I’ve been able to confirm with my reading. There are centers of power in the body, sort of like openings. A trained practitioner can access some of these with their healing if they’re skilled enough or...”