Moonspun Magic (Magic Trilogy 3)

“I agree, but nonetheless, that is what he said. Ah, here is your husband.”

Well, Victoria thought, giving him a brilliant smile. He hadn’t lied to her about being here. He looked lovely in his black evening clothes, her favorite of his vests—a soft pearl gray—contrasting with the black of his coat and the snow white of his linen.

“Do you know where Damien has gone, Rafael?” Elaine asked, rising ponderously.

“Some business he had to attend to.”

Victoria snorted. “Nonsense,” she said. “I think there is some sort of conspiracy here, Elaine. I shall take this husband of mine away and pry it out of him.”

“No, I pray not, Victoria. I’m hungry. Ligger, bless you, old man. Is dinner ready?”

“Yes, Master Rafael.”

Conversation over dinner was light, amusing, and Victoria found herself forgetting, for a few moments at a stretch, that it was All Hallows’ Eve, a night when this Ram fellow would more than likely indulge in some wickedness. How could she really worry, though, for her husband was here, safe as could be, across from her, chewing on some delicious stewed venison.

After dinner Victoria was delighted to see that Rafael didn’t remain in splendid isolation in the dining room with port. He assisted Elaine from her chair, offered each lady an arm, and escorted them back to the drawing room. Victoria begged Elaine to play.

“A Beethoven sonata, if you please,” said Victoria. “He has such passion. I heard you practicing the other morning. All right, Elaine?”

Elaine settled herself, barely able to reach the keyboard now that her belly was so large. Her hands came down with impressive drama on a C-minor chord.

It was at that exact instant that there was the sound of shattering glass from behind Victoria. Just as she jerked about, a shot rang out. Victoria saw Rafael slam back against the wall, stand very still for what seemed an eternity, then very gracefully, slowly, slide to the floor.

She heard a hoarse, ugly cry. A scream, and it was from her own mouth.

23

Truth and hope will always come to the surface.

—SPANISH PROVERB

The Ram was pleased. Soon, very soon now, his success would be confirmed. He’d sent his trusted and loyal man Deevers to Drago Hall. He looked toward the baron, who was chatting easily with Vincent Landower. He had no doubt that the baron would eventually approve of what had had to be done. Even if the baron didn’t approve, he would keep his mouth shut—oh, yes, he would, because he was as deeply embroiled as every other wicked young fool in this room.

The Ram was aware of tremendous elation tonight, for it was Satan’s night, and thus, his own night. He’d worked long and hard refining his rules, his beautiful rituals, delighting in their near-perfection, molding the men in this room into the image he desired. Oh, yes, it was a wonderful feeling he had.

“Gentlemen,” he said, gaining their attention. “It is symbolic that we meet on All Hallows’ Eve to toast our brotherhood and our continued success. We’re becoming known. Soon the Hellfire Club will be infamous, its members an elite who are feared and respected and held in awe, in short, envied by all men. Gentlemen, a toast to our continuation, to our surpassing the infamy of the original Hellfire Club.”

There were cheers, a few grunts, but general head-nodding, and everyone drank the rich brandy from the cups. The Ram wished he could take a whip to all of them. They should have been shouting at the top of their bloody lungs. Damned fools. The Ram then saw Baron Drago rise slowly from his chair. He saw him turn and look at the girl who lay in a drugged stupor on the long table, her arms and legs spread away from her slight body, bound at the wrist and ankle, awaiting her initiation.

“Something troubles you?”

“No, not for very much longer.”

Then, to the Ram’s consternation, the baron slowly drew off his hood and tossed it to the floor. Then he ground the soft velvet beneath the heel of his boot.

“Stop,” the Ram roared, his fists on the arms of his high-backed chair. “That’s against the rules. Your hood must be on at all times during our meetings.”

“Why?”

“Damien, what ails you? Are you foxed? You continue in this disrespectful manner, and you will be chastised.”

The baron laughed. “Really? But why can’t all my friends see me? Why can’t I see them? I want them all to study my face when I thrust into that girl over there. She is all of thirteen years old. I want them all to see how much I enjoy raping a senseless child, how much I will delight in making that small heap of humanity bleed and shudder in pain.”

“Shut up, you young fool. Have you lost your bloody mind?”

Johnny Tregonnet jumped to his feet, his brandy snifter falling unheeded to the floor beside him. “You’re not Damien. Damn you, you’re Rafael.”

Very smoothly Rafael drew a pistol from the pocket of his capacious black cloak. “You’re right about that, Johnny.” Rafael turned slowly toward the Ram. “I have tried to place your voice. It’s familiar to me, but you are disguising it effectively.” He shrugged and smiled, a very bad smile. He turned back to the members. “Now, dear friends, I want all of you to remove your hoods. I want us all to see each other. Now.”