The Haunting of Brier Rose (30 page)

Rose hung in his grip, half-numb with trauma and fright, as she
stared dully at the garden, so soft and peaceful in the twilight. She hoped the
dogs would come and deliver her from Seth. Yet she knew in her heart that the Rottweilers
were somehow connected to Seth and probably did his bidding. If that were the
case, the dogs would not appear, or if they did, Seth would bring them to heel.
Either way, she would not escape her fate. Tonight she would become the ritual
bride of Seth Bastyr and forget everything and everyone she had ever known. To
lose her memory and her self-will would be like dying. Rose faltered, terrified
at the thought, and Seth turned to glare at her.

"You'll never have me," she declared vehemently.
"Not all the way. I'll fight you, just as my mother did."

"Your mother was a fool." He tightened his grip on her
upper arm, watching to see if she would show any sign of pain. Rose kept her
chin up and her shoulders straight, refusing to give him the satisfaction
of seeing her wince. "She took her life when she had everything she could
possibly want," Seth continued. "I gave her everything."

"You took two children from her."

"They were unworthy of carrying the Bastyr name."

"You took her life, her identity, her soul."

"To make her over, Roselyn, to make her better." He
stroked her cheek. "Women are frail, my dear, in need of direction. And a
strong hand such as mine molds a strong character."

"You had no right to try to change her." She twisted
out of his grip. "And as God is my witness, you won't change me!"

"Oh?" He pushed her against the edge of the sundial.
"We shall see about that, Roselyn." He drew the scarf from his jacket
and placed it on the flattened stone. "We shall soon see the stuff of
which you are made."

Taylor opened his eyes, blinded by Bea's flashlight and a halo of
sparkles in the periphery of his vision, caused by the blow to his head. He
moaned and tried to sit up. His stomach protested the movement, reminding him
of Seth's excruciating kick to his diaphragm. He was exhausted, not only from
fighting Seth, but also from his efforts to block the overwhelming sound he
heard in Seth's presence. He had succeeded admirably in repelling the
discordant noise but had failed in the hand-to-hand-combat department.

He rolled onto his side and let a wave of nausea pass over him.

"Mr. Wolfe, are you going to be all right?"

"Yeah, Bea. Hold on a minute."

"We don't have much time. He's taken Rose."

"Bastard." Taylor coughed and managed to prop himself
up on one elbow. "God, my head is ringing like St. Mark's."

"You hit it on the rock. You're lucky to be alive."

"I don't feel lucky. I feel like hell." He took another
breath and sat all the way up. Another wave of nausea swept over him, and he
closed his eyes, forcing it to subside. Then, using all his willpower, he rose
to his feet. He swayed.

"Mr. Wolfe!" Bea clutched his arm while she held out
his cane.

"I'll be all right in a minute. I'm dizzy, that's all."

Dizzy, hell. His leg was on fire, his abdomen felt as if a
logging truck had run over him, and his head throbbed and pulsed with each beat
of his heart. Any minute now he expected his skull to explode from the
pressure. Yet he couldn't fall apart. He had to find Rose and get her away from
Seth.

Taylor took the cane and leaned on it. One more beating from Seth
and he would be in no condition to save anyone.

With his cane on one side and Bea on the other, Taylor managed to
stumble through the cellar passageways until they reached the stairs. For a
moment he had to rest and catch his breath before ascending. He couldn't
believe he had lost so much physical strength that he had to lean on a
seventy-year-old woman for support. Some heroic savior he was. Taylor frowned
and slowly made his way up the steps.

Once in the hallway on the main floor, Taylor paused, unsure
where to look for Rose.

"Where would Seth have taken her?" he asked, glancing
down at Bea.

She fingered the edge of her collar. "I haven't the faintest
idea, Mr. Wolfe."

The sounds of their voices must have alerted Edgar, for he hopped
out of the kitchen and cawed.

"He's shown me where Rose was before," Taylor mused.
"Maybe he can help us." Taylor held out his wrist in the position he
had observed Rose take when she wanted the raven to perch on her arm. Edgar
obliged by flapping up to him.

"Where's Rose?" Taylor asked, staring the bird in the
eye.

Edgar cocked his head. Then he took off toward the rear of the
house.

"Come on," Taylor said, hobbling in pursuit. Bea followed
him to the back door.

"There they are!" she exclaimed, pointing to Seth's
tall, dark figure and Rose's slender form standing by the sundial. She reached
for the handle of the door.

"Wait. The dogs might be out there."

Bea pressed close to the window and looked out.

Taylor let his eyes go out focus, searching the grounds with his
special vision. Just as before, he caught sight of four black wraiths slowly
circling the huge sundial. Were the wraiths the spirit form of the four Rottweilers?
He had a hunch they were. Yet why didn't they dissipate at the appearance of
Bea's emerald? Were they stronger now that Seth stood with them? And what would
they do if Taylor and Bea stepped out of the house?

They had no choice but to continue toward the garden.

Taylor led the way out the back door onto the flagstones, half
expecting the black wraiths to transform into vicious dogs and attack them
again. But the dark shapes continued their slow circling around the sundial, as
if unaware of the two strangers approaching.

Though Seth's back was turned to him, Taylor caught snatches of
his voice as he spoke to Rose. She seemed to be in a trance, standing in the
fading light as he loosened the braid of her hair and spread her fiery tresses
around her shoulders. He had removed his gloves, obviously to relish the
texture of her hair, a fact that caused a hot flare of jealousy to flash
through Taylor. He didn't want Seth to touch Rose—not her hair, not her
body, not any part of her.

"Let her go, Seth," Taylor demanded, brandishing his
cane.

"Ah, Mr. Wolfe." Seth turned, not in the least concerned
about the cane. "We have been waiting for you."

He motioned toward the wraiths, which shimmered and roiled,
gradually taking the shapes of figures dressed in black robes.

Taylor stared at them, hardly believing his eyes. What kind of
magic was this? What kind of creatures were they? Humans? Spirits? Seth seemed
to possess a fairly normal human body, except for the fact that he was
impervious to bullets and could turn into a smoky haze and enter Rose's aura.
But these wraiths were part dog, part shadow, and part human. Were they members
of the Bastyr family, too? And if so, what other powers did they possess?

He glanced at Rose, who was watching the robed figures, her
expression white with shock. The wind blew tendrils of her hair across her face,
but she did nothing except stand motionless beside the sundial. What had Seth
done to silence her? Had he hypnotized her? Threatened her into submission?

He had to keep her from the Bastyrs. Taylor held the cane in both
hands, ready to strike, while two robed figures stepped away from the sundial
and flowed over the flagstones toward him. He knew only one way to defend
Rose— with brute force. But would it be enough?

"Take Mr. Wolfe to that tree and tie him," Seth instructed.

"You'll have to fight me first!" Taylor tapped the
wooden cane on his palm and planted his feet.

"You are tiresome, Mr. Wolfe." With amazing speed and
strength, Seth whipped out his arm, grabbed the cane and flung it to the far
side of the garden. Taylor fell in a clump of poppies from the force and speed
of Seth's attack and for an instant sat there dazed. He hadn't even seen Seth
turn for the attack. He hadn't struck even a single blow in return. And before
he could scramble to his feet, he was grabbed by his arms and hauled to a fir
tree by the robed figures. They tied him to the trunk with a length of rope,
pinning his upper arms to his sides. Taylor pulled at the bindings until they
gouged into the flesh at his elbows, but he couldn't break free.

"The old woman, too," Seth commanded, pointing at Bea.

She turned to run, but the robed figures quickly outdistanced her
and tied her to the tree next to Taylor. Edgar flapped to a branch near her
head.

"You'll pay for this in hell, Seth Bastyr!" Bea
shouted.

"Hell holds no threat for me, old woman." Seth smiled
at her and then returned his attention to Rose. "Now then," he
announced. "Let the ceremony begin."

Without another word he reached out and tore Rose's dress,
popping the buttons down the front. Taylor caught glimpses of her slip and bra
straps as Seth pulled off the blue cotton fabric. Taylor yanked his arms,
jerking like a wild animal to free himself, but he remained lashed to the fir
tree, helpless, watching as Seth continued to disrobe Rose.

In moments she stood completely naked in the deepening twilight,
her ivory skin glowing in the darkness, her hair an undulating diaphanous
cloak. Even in the dusk he could see the rosy tips of her breasts, the creamy
curves of her slender hips and the hidden womanly place he had thought would be
his alone.

"No!" Taylor bellowed. How could Seth humiliate her
like this? How could he let them see her like that, exposed to everyone's eyes?
And what did the ritual entail that she had to be naked? Wasn't this supposed
to be a wedding ceremony?

Slowly Seth turned around to face him, his hand draped across
Rose's right shoulder.

"Look upon her, Mr. Wolfe. Does she not arouse you?"

"Let her go, you bastard!"

"Is she not beautiful?"

"You're insane!"

"You love her, don't you, Mr. Wolfe? Admit it." He drew
back Rose's hair to provide Taylor with a clear view of her breasts.
"You'd cut off your arm to save her, wouldn't you?"

"Is that what you want—my arm?" Taylor retorted,
pulling at his bonds.

"Oh, no, Mr. Wolfe. I want something much more precious,
much more rare and so much more subtle than self-mutilation." He stroked
Rose's cheek. "I want to feel how much you love this young woman."

"Bastard!" Taylor strained with every fiber of his
being in an effort to break free of the rope. The sight of Seth stroking Rose's
skin sent him into a paroxysm of rage so great
,
he thought he would burst
. He could feel his heart
thundering in his ears, his neck and his chest, as if huge clots of anger
pulsed in his veins. "Sonofabitch!"

"Excellent, Mr. Wolfe. Simply excellent!" Seth turned
back to the remaining robed figures, which had climbed up on the giant sundial.
"Lift her up," he instructed.

The figures pulled Rose up to the surface of the rock.

"Kneel," Seth barked. Rose sank to her knees and hung
her head in despair.

Taylor leaned his head against the tree and panted in
frustration, gritting his teeth with the effort it took not to scream. What
could he do? Somehow he had to get hold of his emotions and try to think
logically. His blind rage was doing nothing but fueling Seth's passion, which
wasn't helping Rose at all. Desperate, Taylor pulled at his bonds again. This
time, when his hand brushed the pocket of his jeans, he felt the outline of his
Swiss army knife.

His anger shrank to cool calculation.

"Distract him, Bea," he said out of the corner of his
mouth.

Bea tilted her head. "How?"

"Ask him questions."

"All right." Bea paused to marshal her thoughts and
then cleared her throat. "Mr. Bastyr, I just want to know one thing,
before you go on."

Seth hesitated in the process of removing his robe. "And
what is that?"

"I want to know why. Why the ritual?"

Taylor half listened as he strained to push the bump of the knife
upward, moving in such a way as not to draw attention to himself. He forced his
expression to remain blank and his eyes focused on Seth, as if hanging on his
every word.

"It is a ritual of renewal, old woman." He pushed back
the hood of his robe. "Roselyn's purity shall renew us. She is a symbol of
the mother earth, of fertility, of birth. Without her, we grow old. Without
her, we die."

"But why can't you have someone else? Why a Bastyr?"

"Because she keeps us untainted, pure, a race apart from the
rest of the world. The people of this world are a race of mongrels, old woman.
They have lost their strengths through the breakdown of their bloodlines."

Taylor eased the knife out of his pocket. Straining with
concentration, he held it between his fingers and wedged open the blade with
his thumbnail. Then he curved his hand backward, struggling to saw the rope that
imprisoned his arms.

"We Bastyrs have kept our bloodline pure for centuries, for
millennia. That is the secret of our special powers and our supreme
intellect."

"But what if Rose isn't a full-blooded Bastyr?"

"That is impossible." Seth unfastened a clasp near his
neck. "Roselyn is the embodiment of the best of the Bastyr genes. She
shall be a glorious bride. Glorious."

"She isn't your daughter, Seth Bastyr."

"Lies shall get you nowhere."

One strand free! Taylor felt the slight release of his bindings
and centered his attention on the remaining rope. The muscles of his wrist
burned in protest, but he continued to saw the rope, aware that if he failed,
Roselyn would be lost to him.

"It isn't a lie. Rose's father was my son, Will Anderson."

"Impossible."

"Impossible?" Bea leaned forward, as if to break from
her bonds. "All you could create with Deborah were monsters—pitiful
twisted little creatures. My Will gave her a perfect child. Rose."