The Witch of Stonecliff (11 page)

She rattled the knob, but it still wouldn’t turn. The air around her cooled, thickened. Invisible pressure bored between her shoulders.

Ridiculous. She was letting her fear get the better of her. She shook the knob again. It still wouldn’t turn.

The hell with it, she’d go back up and down the main stairs. Burned out sconce or not.

A loud bang exploded in the quiet. Eleri jumped, her heart lodging in her throat. The lights flickered then went out, casting her into complete darkness.

Chapter Eight

Darkness wrapped around Eleri like a shroud. Her heart thudded against her chest, nearly drowning out the sound of her own ragged breaths.

A mossy stink tinged the frigid air. Tiny, whispered voices rose up around her, their words indiscernible.

For a moment, she was a child again, locked in the cellar, screaming, pounding on the door, clawing at the wood until her fingers were bloody. All the while the thing that lived in the darkness had drawn closer.

She needed light. She slid her hand over the rough plaster feeling for the switch.

The whispers faded but the air turned colder. The stink intensified, putrid and rotting. Hot bile bubbled up the back of her throat. She clenched her jaw to keep from gagging. At last, her fingers brushed the switch. She pressed down, but nothing happened.

A thin whimper tore loose from her throat. She pressed again. Nothing.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, hammering the button again and again. The blackness closed in tighter.

Deep, rasping breaths rose up from behind her, choking, gurgling.

It was just like when Meris used to shut her down the cellar when she was a child. And she knew, just as she had then, if that thing touched her, she’d lose her mind.

Her fraying control snapped. She slammed her fists against the door. “Help! Someone, help me!”

Her screams couldn’t drown out the choking breaths moving up behind her. An icy chill radiated from its dark form, sinking into her bones.

As if it had some hypnotic power—God knew she didn’t want to look at it—Eleri glanced back over her shoulder. A man’s shadow loomed over her, tall, broad, his dark outline blacker than the darkness. She could make out the silhouette of his long coat and brimmed hat. Where his face should have been, two red eyes peered out at her.

Her lungs shrivelled. Her mouth went dry.

She whirled back to the door and pounded furiously, screaming and begging for someone to let her out.

The door suddenly gave and she stumbled forward, squinting against the light. She lost her balance and hit the wood floor hard on her knees, bracing herself with her palms. A dull ache bloomed with impact.

“What in God’s name are you on about now?”

Eleri looked up at Mrs. Voyle glaring down at her. The housekeeper stood with her hands on her narrow hips and a deep frown etched into her face.

Heat crept up Eleri’s neck. Of everyone who could have come to her aid, why Iola Voyle? She’d spread this story all over Cragera Bay by nightfall.

“I was locked in.” Eleri’s voice squeaked like a rusty hinge.

“Locked in? There’s no lock on this door.” Mrs. Voyle twisted the knob back and forth to prove her point. “And why were you standing in the dark?”

She reached into the black for the switch, and Eleri’s gaze followed the woman’s movements until she locked onto the two glowing orbs.

It was still there. Still watching.

Eleri’s stomach lurched. She leapt to her feet and bolted for the kitchen, barely reaching the sink before throwing up into the stainless steel basin.

* * *

A steady throb at the back of his skull drew Kyle into wakefulness. With every painful beat his awareness grew.

His body ached, arched and contorted. Something thick and gritty filled his mouth, leaving a sour, oily flavor on his tongue. His jaw hurt.

Cold, he shivered and reached for something to cover himself, but his arms, tingling and numb, wouldn’t cooperate. His mind swam, muddled and murky, unable to fix on any clear thought except that something felt off.

He forced his heavy lids open and blinked at the starry sky above. Damp from the ground beneath him crept into his bones. His shoulders throbbed, arms pinned beneath his back, fists digging into his spine.

He tried to move his arms, to ease the throbbing, but something kept them fused at the wrists.

Wind gusted. Goose bumps stippled his naked flesh.

Outside. He was outside, and—he tilted his head up as far as his awkward position allowed—he was naked.

He blinked. What in the bloody hell was he doing outside naked? His fuzzy head swam and he couldn’t come up with an answer.

He had to get inside. Before he froze.

He struggled to sit up, but couldn’t. Numbness tingled from his shoulders, down his arms and into his fingers. His leg muscles jiggled like strands of wet spaghetti. A sliver of uneasiness cut through the murk in his brain.

He turned his head. Black water stretched out beside him.

The Devil’s Eye.

The witch. The legend. God help him, it was all true.

Terror exploded in his head, melting away the haze like the sun burning through morning mist. He shifted, struggling to free his arms, fighting the rough binding at his wrists.

Footsteps crunched the dry leaves on the forest floor. He jerked his head in the direction of the sound. A figure wrapped in a black cowl came toward him.

Death came toward him.

He struggled to sit up, but his hands bound behind his back wouldn’t move. A scream rose up from his throat, but the cloth fit tight around his mouth held the sound at bay.

The figure loomed closer.

Heart slamming against his ribs, he rolled onto his side. He pushed with his feet, propelling himself shoulder first through the bed of leaves and twigs, all the while fighting the binds wrapped around his wrist.

Tiny stones and sticks dug into his flesh like grasping claws, but the sharp stings barely registered. He had to get away. He had to—

Vicious fingers tangled in his hair. Stinging needles stabbed his scalp. His head jerked back then slammed forward. Pain burst in his forehead. The scents of wet earth and rotted leaves filled his nostrils. He tried to push on, but his bare feet slid on the cold, damp grass.

Another set of hands gripped his ankles. He tried to kick free but they held tight.

Something cold and thin slipped around his neck, tightening until it bit into his flesh and cut off his air. He gasped and choked. The binds at his wrists cut into his flesh. Warm liquid dribbled into the palms of his hands and down his fingers, making his wrist wet and slippery against the ties. If he could just get his hands free.

The wire around his throat squeezed tighter. Consciousness ebbed away, pulling him down toward a sweet and glorious abyss. White mist returned to his mind, but cruelly didn’t claim him entirely.

Fight!

He forced his eyes open. One hand slipped free of the bind. Fire lit across his neck, followed by a hot, wet rush.

Kyle sat straight up in his bed, body bathed in icy sweat, gaze darting about the shadowy bedroom. His breath heaved fast and ragged. He grasped his neck. No blood. Just a scar.

“Shit,” he whispered and collapsed back onto the bed. His sheets were tangled and damp with his sweat. God, he hadn’t had a nightmare that bad or that vivid in months. Though, after yesterday, he shouldn’t be surprised. And after his visit to The Devil’s Eye, he would no doubt have more—especially with Eleri James in tow.

What in the hell had he been thinking when he’d decided to bring her with him. He’d told himself it was all part of his grand plan–take her there, tell her in explicit detail what had happened to him and watch her reaction. Then he would finally be able to say one way or the other whether she was guilty or innocent.

As if you could tell
, a nasty voice in the back of his brain chuckled.
If she’s guilty, she’s been lying convincingly for the better part of her life. You just don’t have the bloody nerve to go by yourself
.

Maybe the ugly little voice had a point.

He scrubbed both hands down his face, rolled off the bed and padded across the hall into the bathroom. Once showered and dressed, he made his way to the kitchen and started the coffee. He should eat something, too, but the images from his dream still swirling inside his head had killed what little appetite he’d had.

He’d skipped dinner last night, too. His conversation with Eleri had brought up memories that affected his appetite the way his nightmare had. A heavy dose of guilt hadn’t helped either.

Everything Eleri had accused him of had been true. When he’d written those articles, he’d believed she was guilty, but he hadn’t cared if she was or not. He would have written those stories anyway. He’d been addicted to the fame, the money, the lifestyle.

Growing up, in that rambling, dilapidated farmhouse filled with his father’s strays and dressed in his brother’s hand-me-downs, he dreamed of a lifestyle with money and nice things, would have sold his soul for it, and in a way he had.

He poured himself a coffee and wandered to the kitchen window. Outside, thick mist hovered over the forest floor, blotting out the trees as if the lodge had been wrapped in a cloud overnight. His own reflection stared back at him through the glass, translucent like a ghost.

His eyes looked hollow, dark smudges curling beneath them, and his features were bony bordering on gaunt. If his mother were here to see him looking like this and skipping breakfast no less, he’d never hear the end of it.

With his family in mind, he set his coffee cup down on the kitchen table and fished his phone from his jeans pocket. There were no urgent text messages, but if he didn’t phone Sophie within the next twenty minutes there would be.

He made his morning call, promised Sophie he’d ring their parents later, too. When he disconnected, self-loathing wrapped around him and squeezed the air from his lungs.

He’d been lucky to escape this place with his life, lucky to have what little voice remained, lucky for every day he’d had since.

Why wasn’t lucky enough?

He was tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop, of waiting for them to find him and finish what they’d started, of waiting to die for real this time.

Whatever happened here, at least he wasn’t waiting.

He dumped his cold coffee dregs into the sink and set his mug on the counter. When he left the house, he locked the door then started for Stonecliff.

The mist had thinned out since he woke, the sky overhead bright fragments of blue peeking through the swirling gray clouds. The air was warmer than yesterday, a teasing glimpse of spring.

He followed the same path he had two days ago when he’d come across Eleri and Stephen Paskin. Making an enemy of the man might have been a mistake. He had questions for him, holes in his inebriated memory that needed to be filled in, but he wouldn’t have handled the situation any differently.

The path spat him out in front of Stonecliff. The house’s slate walls were dark against the light gray cloud. The relentless hush of the surf beat the shore at the base of the cliff. In the distance, blue sky stretched from the horizon over the sea.

Kyle slipped his hands into his coat pocket and walked to the front door whistling “Here Comes the Sun.” He banged his fist against the heavy wood door and waited. No answer. Frowning, he tried a second time. Still no one answered.

Where was she?

He stepped back from the vestibule and peered up at the silent house. Apprehension scuttled from the base of his spine. Images of everyone inside dead, their bodies tossed into The Devil’s Eye flashed through his head. His insides squeezed.

Pull it together
. With a big house and few people living inside, the odds that someone hadn’t heard him knocking were pretty good.

He made his way to the back, no longer whistling. Light spilled through one of the windows and a thin flicker of relief lit inside him. He knocked on the back door and waited. A moment later the door opened a few inches and the housekeeper’s narrow face poked out from the gap.

“What do you want?” she asked, scowling.

“I’ve come to meet Eleri,” he told her, unperturbed by the woman’s less than cordial greeting.

Her brows arched, eyes widening. “Have you, now?”

He shrugged. “Is she here?”

“She’s not down yet. I’ll tell her you were by.”

She started to pull the door closed, but his hand shot out and gripped the edge. Her scowl deepened.

“I’d like to wait.”

“No one’s stopping you.” She tried to tug the door closed, but he tightened his grip and forced it wide.

“Eleri’s expecting me,” he told her, shoving past her into a small utility room.

“Maybe she is,” the housekeeper bustled after him, “but she wasn’t well last night. I can’t say when or even if she’ll be down.”

Something entirely too close to concern flickered inside him. “Is she all right?”

The housekeeper snorted. “Depends on your definition of the word.” She nodded at the door to the kitchen. “If you insist on waiting, might as well come in then.”

When he’d been here two years ago, he would have given his left nut to interview this woman. So many of the tales—according to rumor—stemmed from her. She’d refused to speak to him, likely under strict orders from her employer along with the rest of the staff. He’d had to settle for interviewing people from the village, most of whom had minimal interaction with Eleri but plenty of stories about her supposed exploits, and Stonecliff’s one-time groundskeeper who hadn’t worked for the family since Eleri was a child.

He followed Mrs. Voyle into a spacious square kitchen. A large pot bubbled on the stove, smoke streaming up.

“Look what you’ve done,” the woman said with a sniff. “It’s burned.”

She turned the knob, shut off the gas and pushed the pot off the burner. Thick liquid—oatmeal by the looks of it—with a color and consistency like wallpaper glue slopped over the edge and onto the stove.

She glared, snatched up a wooden spoon and waved it at the table and chairs in the middle of the room. “Sit. Who knows when Her Highness will make her way down?