Valentine's Vow (Avenging Lords 3)

Valentine glanced at Ava and forced a smile. She looked gaunt, a little terrified of what the night might bring. It crossed his mind to put an end to this debacle, but then Cassiel spoke.

“Let us move to our respective rooms. Let us hear the messages from the dead.”

Chapter Fifteen

The room was dark. Blackness invaded every space. The incandescent glow of the snuffed candlewicks had long since faded. Having doused the fire’s flames with water—for the spirits moved best when the room was ice cold—Ava saw nothing before her eyes but indiscernible shadows.

The tick of the mantel clock mirrored the thump of her heartbeat.

Every hair on her nape stood to attention.

Mr Cassiel had brought a chair from the dining room and placed it in the middle of the plush Persian rug. He had stood behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, rubbed back and forth in what was supposed to be a gesture of reassurance. Yet something about his manner stirred painful memories of the past. Something about his manner caused nausea to roil in her stomach.

“I sense your mother” was all he said before leaving her alone in the darkness.

Time ticked.

The faint click of the door opening sent a shiver from her neck to her navel.

A grey silhouette moved towards her.

Ava’s breath caught in her throat as her heart raced.

“It is I, madame, do not be alarmed,” Mr Dariell whispered as he moved to the window seat. He raised the lid and slipped inside.

Knowing the Frenchman was hiding there brought mild relief. The charged energy in the room felt very much like it did on her previous meeting with the mystic. Shadows swayed. One might think that the spirits of the dead filled the gloomy space. But fear played havoc with one’s mind.

A host of thoughts filled her head. Would she hear from her parents? Was this all a wicked trick to prey on the weak and helpless?

The tread of footsteps on the stairs drew her attention. A board creaked.

Her ragged breathing grew too loud for her to concentrate on the sounds.

The door opened. She knew the approaching figure was that of Mr Cassiel.

Fear might have choked her again had she not smelt the fragrant tones of her mother’s favourite perfume. Hints of frankincense filled the air. An exotic scent bought by her father on a trip to the Arabian Peninsula.

Ava closed her eyes.

Her mother felt close, so close Ava envisioned reaching out to touch her.

Tears splashed on her cheeks as she fought the urge to whisper her mother’s name, knowing this was all a cruel figment of her imagination.

Mr Cassiel did not attempt to settle her nerves. He began his strange mantra, the stream of words he repeated over and over and over until she felt herself sinking deeper into the depths of her body. Down. Down. Down, her mind spiralled. As she slipped farther into the distance, her anxiety melted away. A hazy mist appeared, swirling to hinder her vision, surrounding her, carrying her forward now.

“Let me take you back to the night before that fateful day. Back. Back. Back to your last conversation. Do you remember, my dear?”

The cloud dissipated as she stepped through into another dimension. She was no longer in the drawing room on Wimpole Street but walking from the house overlooking the Aegean Sea. She felt hot under the rays of the midday sun, so hot beads of perspiration formed on her brow.

“Something is wrong.” Ava spoke with a genuine concern for a moment in time that had long since passed. “I am heading towards the tent near the mine.”

“Your mother is worried.” Mr Cassiel’s words drifted over her. “Her spirit cannot rest.”

Somewhere in a distant corner of her mind, Ava heard her mother crying. “My mother is upset because she does not want to return to England. My father insists it is necessary.”

“Yes, your father is frightened.”

Ava struggled to accept the comment. Nothing fazed Hamilton Kendall. “No. Not for himself, but for his family.”