Page 117 of His Wicked Charm

“He’s a resourceful young man,” Vesta said. “I underestimated him. But he’s too late. He can’t help you now.” She jabbed the gun at Lilah, her hand trembling so much Lilah feared she might accidentally pull the trigger. “Forward. Go on!”

Lilah moved slowly toward the opening. Con would come. She had no idea how, but she knew Con. He would find a way. She must keep her aunt occupied—and wait for a careless move, a moment of inattention, just in case Con didn’t make it in time. Lilah stepped warily through the open doorway. Energy surged in her, so strong and fast it made her dizzy. The very air crackled with it.

Lilah stared around her, too astonished to speak or even move. The room—cave?—was almost perfectly round, with two more gaps in the walls leading into what appeared to be other anterooms. Once again, the number three. A short square cabinet stood against one wall. On top of it were a few ancient artifacts, as well as a bejeweled knife that looked wickedly sharp.

Near the cabinet stood a large oval-shaped stone, hollowed out over the centuries into a shape like a great bowl. In it lay much more modern objects—bracelets, necklaces, tiepins, small books, carved figures of ivory and jade, all sorts of trinkets, piled high above the surface. Sacrifices from the Brotherhood.

It was not these things, though, that entranced her. It was the walls. They were decorated all over with seashells. Though Barrow House lay thirty miles from the sea, there were small shells by the score, of all sorts of shapes and sizes. They stretched around the room in rows, the pattern broken in three places by a spiral design.

The shells glistened in the dim glow of the lantern, appearing almost wet. Lilah looked up. Even the ceiling was embellished with shells, forming a spiral over the exact center of the cave. Below that spiral, the focal point of the room, was a long low slab of rock rising up from stone floor almost as if it had grown out of the rock.

“The altar.” Lilah could scarcely breathe. She knew this place even though she’d never seen it, knew it because it lived in her, reverberated in her. She took a step forward, hardly noticing as her aunt came up beside her.

“Yes, the altar.” Vesta’s voice was filled with awe. “This is where we must make our sacrifice.”

Her aunt moved to the other side of the altar. This was her chance. Lilah knew she should run back to the door, but she was frozen to the spot and could only watch as Vesta dropped to her knees before the altar.

Vesta braced her hands on the stone slab. Her face glowed, the light of the lantern on the floor beside her casting eerie shadows over her. She chanted the words of the creed Sir Ambrose had written, changing them by ending, “My Lady. My Queen. Come to me.”

The power punched into Lilah, sweeping through her in a storm and racing back to the altar. It pulled her forward, and she took an unwilling step toward the altar, struggling to gain command of the primitive force filling her.

Vesta gazed at her with wild eyes. “You see? You see how it must be?”

“Aunt Vesta, you must not do this.” Lilah moved toward her.

Vesta jumped up, grabbing her gun again. “No. Stop right there.”

“Can’t you see? We’re trapped in here. The minute you walk out, Con will be waiting.”

Vesta smiled slyly. “It won’t matter. By then I will have so much power he won’t be able to touch me.”

“I won’t help you,” Lilah told her flatly.

Vesta seemed unperturbed by her statement, sidling over to the small cabinet as she kept her gun aimed at Lilah. “The power will be mine, not yours.” Her eyes flashed. “At first I was furious. I thought the Goddess had betrayed me, that she’d taken back all my power. Then I realized what I must do. How I must get it back. The Goddess requires a sacrifice.” She reached out for the knife.

In that moment, Lilah understood exactly what her aunt intended to do. Lilah leaped at Vesta, heedless of the gun. She slammed into Vesta, and the pistol clattered to the floor, but Vesta slashed at her. The knife sliced across Lilah’s arm, opening a long cut, and blood welled out.

Lilah grabbed Vesta’s wrist with both her hands. Lilah had the advantage of youth and height over her aunt, but Vesta was imbued with an all-encompassing rage, and Lilah was hampered by the fact that her hands were bound. Vesta kicked and scratched and hit at Lilah with her free hand. They crashed into the stone bowl, sending jewelry and figurines tumbling, and reeled away, grappling in fierce silence.

Lilah took a step back and her heel hit the lantern Vesta had set on the floor, knocking it over. The lantern rolled across the floor into a stone wall. The flame sputtered and went out, leaving them in utter blackness. Lilah, off balance, stumbled and came up hard against the stone altar. Vesta’s weight bore her over, and Lilah fell back onto the altar.

* * *

CON BEAT AT the door, shouting Lilah’s name, teetering on the brink of despair.

No. He wouldn’t accept that she was gone. He couldn’t. Con stepped back, pushing his hands into his hair. Think. Lilah was alive. He had no idea what Vesta intended to do to her, but she was alive. And he was going to find her.

He turned back and realized that everything around him was pitch-black. His lantern had gone out when he’d dropped it. It didn’t matter. The tunnel led straight to the staircase. He groped around until he came to the rock wall, then started forward, fingers trailing along the wall. As he trotted along the tunnel, he considered his options.

The dynamite was coming tomorrow, so he couldn’t yet blow up the door. Why the devil couldn’t that old man have had the foresight to build a second entrance? After all, the tunnel could have caved in and—

Con stopped short. Wait. What if Ambrose had built a second entrance? In his ramblings about the Goddess, he had said he communed with her on a daily basis. Maybe he went in person; maybe he wanted to meditate in the Sanctuary alone. The thing lay right there, only yards from him. Why not build an entrance just for himself?

The maze. It would be in the maze. Ambrose visited the maze frequently; Vesta had said he liked to sit there and meditate. And the maze was equally close to the Sanctuary. Con took the staircase at a run. The likeliest spot for an entrance would be in the center of the maze. Somehow that sundial must move. He’d looked it over, but he must not have been careful enough. He had been too certain the Sanctuary was beneath the house.

Con grabbed another lantern at the top of the staircase, but didn’t take the time to light it. He could see well enough out here. After the total darkness of the tunnel, the moonlight seemed bright. He ran across the lawn into the maze, making his way easily through the twists and turns until he reached the center. His stomach churned as he lit the lantern and began to search the base of the sundial, looking desperately for some line or knob, any oddity to indicate an opening. Nothing.

Con stood up and braced his hands on the sundial, fighting down panic and fury. His eyes fell on his ring, and the world stopped for an instant. The ring. The frozen compass. His dream—the compass needles spinning uselessly as he fought not to fail.