The Devil's Mistress by David Barclay (summer reads txt) 📗

the remaining survivors, swimming to the deck and clambering their way up. There were far too few. Jacob realized the weakest had already succumbed to the cold. Many more would be dead from cold sickness before the night was done.

He helped those who could not climb on their own. They were aghast when they saw it was the boy they had condemned to die upon the muddy shore and the Indian who had once been buried in an earthen cell. Many cried for forgiveness. One of the men who had helped string Jacob to the tree fell to his feet and kissed the boy’s wooden leg.

“Get up now,” Jacob said. “Go on, inside.”

A monstrous scream came from the other side of the flames. The figure of a young woman stepped from the shadows. Ghost-like, she was, with jet black hair, and sunken eyes, and skin the color of the deep, blue sea. A creature who had once been the light and love of all of Blackfriar, and was now something else entirely.

“Elly,” Jacob whispered.

The young woman snarled, and all at once, one of the wolves charged toward the flames. It leaped through the smoke and hit the deck in a ball of fire. The tavern crowd shrank back as the creature—now bathed in flame—hissed and rolled toward them.

Hunter stepped forward and swung his leg like a hammer. The kick landed in the beast’s ribs and sent it rolling into the water. The animal yowled and splashed, sinking into the watery abyss.

A voice blew in upon the wind, both soft and menacing in its lilt. “Who are you?”

Jacob looked at Hunter, who was readying an arrow, and stepped in front of him. “No. Wait.”

“Out of the way.”

“Wait,” Jacob insisted.

He held his hands out, showing himself to be unarmed, then dropped into the mud next to the pier.

“What are you doing?” Hunter called.

The boy walked up the shore, both hands still in the air. Half a dozen wolves circled round him, barking and yipping, but none attacked.

The voice came again. “Who are you?”

“Elly,” Jacob whispered again. Then, louder, “I am your…your servant boy.”

“My what?”

The girl looked confused. She began to walk toward him, one hand rising as if to touch him. Jacob suddenly wanted to feel that touch. Needed to feel that touch, if only to make sure she was real and not some phantom of his imagination. She came within five paces, then her shoulder snapped backward. A look of fury bloomed on her face. There was an arrow in her arm, buried half-deep in the flesh of her bicep. She looked toward the pier, where Hunter was readying a second shot. Then, with a gleam of rage that looked nothing at all like the Lady Ashford, she howled.

“Elly,” Jacob cried.

“That is not my name!”

A blast of wind rolled in from the forest and rattled the pier. Pieces of burning hay flew onto the roof of the building and ignited several patches of wood.

“Inside! Get inside, ye fools!” It was Carla, motioning the crowd into the building.

In the next moment, the dark figure was gone, vanished as if she had been sucked into the night itself. The wind quieted. The wolves turned and ran into the darkness, disappearing somewhere off into the town.

Jacob returned to the water and climbed back up. Hunter had already retrieved the bucket and was using it to douse the new fires.

“Why did you do that?” Jacob yelled. “Tell me why!”

“Perhaps I should let you die next time.”

“She only wanted to touch me. Are you listening?” Jacob grabbed the man by the wrist. “I’m talking to you, savage!”

Hunter spun, drawing a knife and then halting an inch from Jacob’s head.

“Are you going to kill me, too?” he asked.

Hunter stared stoically at his companion, then withdrew, returning the knife to his belt.

Jacob let go of his wrist. “I’m going after her.”

“Then I go with you.”

“No.”

“I must.”

“You will not harm her,” Jacob yelled. “She knows not what she does.”

A great weight seemed to drop from the heavens and land upon his chest. He stumbled to one knee, wracked with a sudden and unassailable despair. His Elly had survived, aye, but she was different. The Lady of the Hill had worked her ways upon her. And at the end of the day, whose fault was it? Who had taken her to that evil place beyond the potter’s field?

Hunter hauled him up. “There shall be time for this later.”

Jacob stared up into the man’s eyes, finding no patience, nor forgiveness. He jerked free. “I cannot stop you from following me, but if you harm her, I swear—”

“I understand,” Hunter said.

“I do not need your help.”

“I can track her.”

“There’s no need,” Jacob replied, turning to face the other side of town. “I know where she’s going.”

Chapter 28

Thomas Huxley stood upon the balcony outside his mother’s study, frowning at the strange burst of light. Something was happening at the pier. If Sloop had chosen to put on a carnival show for Twelfth Night and he had missed it, he would have choice words for the old bugger. Of course, ’twould be his mother’s fault more than anyone’s. You need to appear bereaved, Thomas. The town will expect it. If that weren’t a merry farce.

He had taken a glass of brandy to the overlook, and he sipped it thoughtfully. The truth was, the last thing he felt was bereaved. His fiancée was gone, true, but she had been a bit prudish. And he was so young to get married. There were many oats that needed sowing, and he had just the tool to do it.

He went back inside and crossed to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. He was shirtless, but his chest had grown a recent coating of manly brown fur. He stood for a moment admiring it. “A good physicality is so important, wouldn’t you agree, Winifred?”

The girl sat upon her knees in the center of the room, trembling as she gazed upon the floor.