Secret Worlds (613 page)

Nino’s eye twitched. “I’m sorry you got involved in all of this. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I thought it was just a fluke that you survived, but then it became obvious what you were. You survived because of your power. Then the demon changed. In time it would kill the son, but you delayed that. And then it looked like you were finally figuring out how to remove the curse,” he said, gesturing to the ritual circle. “Which is why I sent Ottavio to you.”

It felt like the room was spinning. Isobel felt sick. “You had him attack me?” she whispered.

Nino squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “That wasn’t supposed to happen, either! You were supposed to run away with him. Women always liked him, and he wanted you. I thought you would jump at the opportunity to escape. But you were so stupid—another fool woman. You’d already given your heart to the monster,” he spat, lowering the barrel slightly as he sneered at her.

It was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. She flew up from her kneeling position, holding the burning torch with a death grip. She swung it a Nino as hard as she could.

The blow struck him in the shoulder, making him drop the gun.

She should have expected what happened next. The fire was no normal blaze…and she was very angry. As soon as it came in contact with Nino’s clothing it exploded, running over him like a wild creature. His shriek of pain was enough to shatter glass. He fell to his knees, clutching blindly.

Isobel scrambled forward, crawling toward him. She had to try and control the fire enough to pull it away from him. But she didn’t get the chance. Nino pulled a blade from his boot and sprang up with a blood-curdling scream.

He was almost on her when he was thrown to the side. The
Conte
was pushing him with his forearms, kicking him hard. Nino landed face down, wheezing with a horribly wet sound. Using his booted foot, Aldo turned him over.

The blade was sticking out of his chest. He had landed on it when he fell. Aldo leaned over him, obscuring him from view.

“Matteo,” she whispered, dragging herself to her feet. Twisting, she reached for the fallen torch, but it wasn’t there.

She turned back to the circle, dismayed to find she’d disturbed her half’s salt boundary. But that wasn’t the worst thing that met her sight.

Matteo’s long arms had been enough to reach the torch. He was holding it to his chest exactly where she had, his whole body wrapped around it.

“No! Matteo, let go,” she said, falling to her feet in front of him.

Using all her strength, she tried to pry it out of his hands but he had a death grip on it.

“It’s too late,” he whispered. “Going to finish it now.” He turned to cradle the fire underneath him—out of her reach.

“No, no. Don’t do this. Please give me the torch,” she cried tearfully, stepping into his half of the circle and throwing herself on his back. She embraced him from behind and begged with a sob. “Please don’t leave me.”

He shuddered and didn’t answer as he tried to push her away. Isobel held on tighter, wrapped around his back like a limpet. Looking inside him with her other sight, she pushed down with all strength, finding the taint and directing it to the hole in his solar plexus.

The demon scrabbled inside him, tearing at Matteo’s aura as it tried to hang on. Using all of her will and every ounce of her strength, she kept going until it lost its grip and was forced down into the fire burning underneath her husband.

A rending sound filled the air. The count shifted looking around wildly for its source, but what had made the noise wasn’t visible. The painful clatter died away and Isobel’s ears popped, as if the air had shifted dramatically around them.

“Let go, my darling. It’s over. I swear it’s over. Please!” she said, rolling her husband onto his back and throwing the burning wood away.

Nausea rose up when she saw his hands and abdomen. They were a raw mass of blistered meat, black and red. The smell of cooked flesh filled the air.

Sobbing, she gathered Matteo’s large body to her as best she could, cradling him in her lap. Closing her eyes, she began to chant, trying to bind the ragged edges of his aura back together. But it had been ripped and exposed so long, it had splintered and cracked in other places. Trying to force the edges closed tore open others.

Isobel refused to let go. She covered him with her body and her mind, instinctively trying to hold him together. Giving everything she had, she clung to him, past reason and all endurance.

The world around them spun into black. She fell into the void, still holding on.

Isobel cracked open an eyelid in the bright sunny bedroom. Everything hurt. She felt like she’d been passed through a meat grinder. Her aura probably had been.

A noise made her turn. It was Aldo, shifting impatiently in a chair.

When he saw she was awake, he nodded at her. “It’s over now. I told him the truth before he died.”

Isobel burst into tears. “Matteo’s
dead
?”

Aldo flinched and gave her an apologetic glance. “No. He’s...sleeping. I meant Nino. About his daughter.”

She sat up and crossed her arms. “You do remember her.”

It was a statement of fact.

The
Conte
nodded. “And she is dead, but I never harmed her. Gina died in childbirth.”

Understanding dawned. “And the babe was yours.”

“Yes. I never let any of my friends share her. She didn’t want that and I respected her choice. And I didn’t force her either. I made sure Nino knew that. And about the child.”

Surprised, she narrowed her eyes. “The child lived?”

Aldo inhaled, drawing himself up. “Yes. It’s being taken care of.”

Out of sight and out of mind, she thought.
What a mess.

“Does Matteo know?”

He looked away. “He has enough to worry about.”

That was more than enough to get her out of bed. She stood up stiffly. “Where is he?”

He gestured to the connecting door, and she hurried through it to Matteo’s bedroom.

Her chest squeezed her heart when she saw him. His aura was intact—mostly. A few glints of green, the distinctive shade of her own aura, could be seen here and there. She picked up her hand and examined the shimmering haze surrounding it. A few prominent streaks of red ran through it.

Somehow she’d blended their auras, weaving hers over the tears in his. In turn some of his had been transferred to her.

We’ll always be tied together now.

Unfortunately, Matteo’s hands and chest hadn’t fared as well. They were wrapped in white gauze, but badly. Bits of burned flesh were visible between the strips. And it was starting to seep. If she didn’t clean the flesh and change the bandages, it would grow infected.

“I didn’t really know what to do and neither did the staff,” Aldo murmured “We sent for a physician, but the sawbones was soused and could barely stand. I didn’t let him near my son. I was going to send for another doctor, but I think you can do better.”

Isobel walked up to her husband, inspecting him closely. She nodded in agreement. “Go fetch me clean gauze and scissors. I’ll need the crates in the greenhouse, as well. The one’s holding all of my supplies.”

“Will he live?”

Leaning over, she put her hand on Matteo’s chest. His breathing was shallow, but even, and his heart was steady. His aura looked bad, but it would mend.

“Yes, I think so,” she whispered.

“What about his hands?”

She glanced down at them. They were curled into claws, likely a reflex to all of the damage. Whether or not he would be able to use them again was doubtful.

“I don’t know, but we can’t go waste anymore time. My things, please,” she said, waving him away.

Once he was gone, she sat on the bed. To her relief, Matteo’s lids fluttered and opened. Despite the pain he must be suffering from, he smiled weakly at her.

“Still alive,
bella,
and
all alone.”

Isobel frowned, and was about to assure him she wasn’t going to leave him when what he meant became clear. There was no “other” in his body anymore, and he could feel it.

Inhaling deeply, she relaxed. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she whispered, “Yes, my love, you are.”

Days passed in anxious vigil. Isobel tended to Matteo’s burns with healing poultices and restoratives draughts, getting little sleep. What rest she did get was snatched sitting up in bed at his side.

But day-by-day he improved and eventually the risk of infection passed. The burn on his chest scabbed over and by moving gingerly he was able to sit up and eventually stand and walk.

Unfortunately, his hands were far worse off. The skin had been badly burned and the musculature deeply damaged. He couldn’t move them. They hung at his sides, lifeless claws he couldn’t open or close. Without a miracle, it was likely he would never be able to use them again.

Despite being witness and catalyst to the events in the greenhouse, the count couldn’t stop from criticizing her role. Upset over Matteo’s hands, he cornered her in the parlor a few days later. He argued that she should have found a way that wouldn’t have left his son scarred if things went wrong.

Hanging onto her temper by a thread she defended herself, and Matteo, who had been willing to risk everything—including death—than live with that blackness in his soul.

“And let’s not forget exactly why we are here now,” she added through gritted teeth. “This is because of you and your arrogance and sense of self-entitlement.”

“What does that mean?” he argued back.

“
Gina
.”

He scoffed. “I provided for the child and would have done so for the mother had she lived.”

In spite of everything that had happened, all the damage and destruction he had witnessed, his tone was still dismissive. Nino’s revenge hadn’t been enough to pierce his thick shell of overblown sense of privilege. She was about to blister his ears when they were interrupted.

“You may have provided for your other child, but have you acknowledged him? Or is it a her?”

Matteo was standing in the doorway of the parlor. He was dressed in the same breeches she’d helped him into that morning. He’d somehow managed to throw a shirt over his shoulders, but left it hanging open over his bandaged chest.

“Son, you’re awake,” Aldo said, twisting to face the door.

Matteo nodded slowly and then turned to smile weakly at Isobel before looking back to his father. “And you still haven’t said whether or not I have a brother or a sister.”

Aldo frowned. “That doesn’t matter. I’ve already told you, the child is provided for.”

Matteo came inside and sat next to Isobel on the settee. “And what kind of life do they have?”

His father’s mouth firmed. “A perfectly decent one. One of my tenant farmers took the babe. He and his wife had no children at the time. It was a good fit for him.”

“Him?” Matteo narrowed his eyes at his father. “My brother is going to be a tenant farmer? On an estate I will someday inherit?”

His mouth twisted in distaste.

The count tsked. “He’s a
bastard
. I’ve made arrangements for him. He’ll get his own plot someday,” he said with the air of someone who felt truly magnanimous.

“That’s not good enough. He should get his fair share.”

“He is getting what he deserves. Few illegitimate children are so lucky.”

“And whose fault is it that the boy isn’t legitimate?” Matteo said, forgetting himself and throwing up his bandaged hands before wincing.

Aldo swore. “What did you expect me to do? Marry his mother?”

“Why not?” Matteo yelled.

The
Conte
looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You
don’t
marry a domestic,” he said incredulously.

“I did,” he replied quietly.

Isobel turned to Matteo, slipping her hand behind his back to rub it in small circles.

Aldo passed a hand over his face “A governess is different. Her father was a gentleman.”

She suppressed an ironic smile.

“Well, at least you acknowledge that much,” Matteo said quietly.

Rubbing his face with both hands, Aldo sighed loudly. “We can discuss this later. You need your rest. I’m going to go home.”

Matteo leaned forward. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Sighing, Aldo rose. “I’ll call again tomorrow.”

“No. I think it would be a good idea if you went home to Italy.”

His father stared at him, hurt deepening the grooves on either side of his mouth.

“It’s for the best, father,” Matteo continued.

“But you’re still injured...”

Matteo glanced at Isobel. “I’ll be in good hands. In fact, I’ll probably heal much better if we’re on our own,” he added gently. “Once I’m able to travel we’ll follow.”

His father frowned. “When?” he asked.

“Soon,” Matteo sighed, giving her a sideways glance. “The climate of this country doesn’t suit me.”

Inhaling deeply, Aldo finally nodded. “All right, but you’ll come directly home once you’re able?”

“We will see,” Matteo said slowly.

They said their goodbyes, but Matteo stopped Aldo at the doorway.

“Father, we’re not done talking about my brother yet,” he added.

Aldo sighed loudly, his shoulders slumping before he nodded.

Once he was gone, there was silence. Matteo just stood there, looking at the doorway for several moments.

Isobel marched up to him. “Bed.
Now
.”

He smiled slightly. “Yes, madame witch. Your wish is my command.”

***

Upstairs, Isobel changed Matteo’s bandages with quick efficiency. He was quiet, his face grave throughout the procedure. When she tried to give him a healing tonic, one she hoped would help repair the musculature of his hands, he shook his head.

“Darling, what’s wrong?”

Matteo cocked his head at her, giving her a wry glance. He gestured down at himself with a quick motion of his head.

She sighed. “The scarring will improve. In time, you’ll be able to walk normally. My grandmother’s poultices will help keep the skin soft and pliant enough to stretch. This tonic will help the damaged muscles. There’s every chance you may regain some use in your hands. You mustn’t give up hope.”