Serpent's Gate Page 11

  “Sorry if I scared you with that story about the Serpent’s Gate. I just, you know, got carried away. Big house, dark night, creepy story—it all came together.”

  “That’s okay. I’d almost forgotten about it anyway,” Stephen fibbed. The truth was, Istharios had factored in his dreams, off and on, all night—though not in ways he could actually articulate. His was more like a lurking presence, fading in and out of the corners of Stephen’s consciousness even while he was thinking about other things.

  But that was too silly to be worth mentioning.

  “Good. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable here. Hopefully I can show you some more interesting nooks and crannies around the old place. There are plenty of them, as you guessed last night.”

  Stephen put down his coffee cup. Apparently Justin hadn’t realized Uncle Vernon was planning to drive them home first thing the very next morning. He hated to spoil Justin’s buoyant mood, especially since he would gladly have spent another evening or two exploring Fairbourne House with Justin.

  “Justin, I’m afraid I have bad news. My uncle and I are leaving tomorrow morning. We’re going to finish up a few last tasks in the library, type up a report and a proposal for a full inventory at another time, and then we’re done.”

  “What?” Justin dropped his own cup in the saucer with a clack. “But you’ve barely started inventorying the library!”

  “Well, we have the store to run, and this was only supposed to be an exploratory project, remember? It’s all good, though. All Roark has to do is respond to his report, haggle over whatever exorbitant fee Uncle Vernon tries to charge, and hopefully we’ll be back as soon as we can find someone to open the store on the weekends. Uncle Vernon can’t afford to stay closed more than a couple of days in a row, especially during tourist season.”

  “Wow. That’s…well, I don’t really know what to say.” His expression turned cloudy. “I just hope you’re right about coming back.”

  “What do you mean? Roark still wants the collection sorted, doesn’t he?”

  “I’m not sure. Just some snippets of conversation I overheard between him and Malcolm. It sounds like he’s having second thoughts, or maybe he’s already arranged to sell the collection and this was just a ruse to jack up the price. I don’t trust him, Stephen, and he’s been acting strange ever since I arrived. Or stranger than ever, maybe I should say.”

  Stephen’s heart sank. From what he’d seen so far, it would be typical of Roark to pull a fast one like that. What was he trying to hide?

  A possible explanation suddenly occurred to him. “Justin, can I ask you something?”

  “About Roark?”

  “No…at least, I don’t know if there’s any connection. Have you ever heard of Olive Simmons or Lucas Hodge?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Probably not. They were just…some names I came across in the library. I wondered if they had any significance to your family.”

  “None that I’m aware of. But you know I’m not interested in that stuff. I’d rather get on with the future than wallow in the past.” Justin finished his coffee, picked up a scone, and broke it into small pieces. His movements were brusque, almost angry. “That doesn’t mean I don’t see the value in what you and your uncle are doing. If it’s any consolation, I intend to fight Roark if he prevents you from finishing your inventory. I very much want you to come back…as soon as possible, in fact.”

  They shared a cautious smile. Justin reached out and covered the back of Stephen’s hand with his.

  “Believe me when I say I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here as long as I can. And I’m used to getting my way, Stephen. I want you to trust me.”

  “I know you do,” Stephen said uncertainly. He couldn’t bring himself to say more.

  They leaned toward each other and shared a lip-searing kiss over the plate of cooling scones. Stephen had never felt such euphoria and such emptiness at the same time. Maybe Uncle Vernon was right. This was too good to be true, so it couldn’t possibly last. But part of him was desperate for Uncle Vernon to be wrong just this once.

  A sharp knock sounded on the door to the room, and Uncle Vernon’s voice called to them. “Stephen? I’m ready for you in the library.”

  “Damn. I forgot to charge my laptop,” Stephen said, blushing.

  Justin laughed. “He’ll be right there,” he shouted back. After gulping down the final scone, he stood and held out a hand. “Come on. While you’re with your uncle, I’ll get to work making sure you stay here.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll try the direct route first. Talking to Malcolm and Roark, in that order.”

  Back in the library, Stephen set up the laptop and returned to the pile of books he’d set aside the day before. He began entering the pertinent information—author, title, date, and condition—into the spreadsheet he’d started. Despite Uncle Vernon’s admonition to work briskly that morning, Stephen found himself working more slowly than ever. The pile on the table gradually swelled to unmanageable proportions. The more he tried to speed up, the more his thoughts wandered back to the book at the bottom of the growing stack.

  Every time he glanced down, he saw the end of that dark ribbon protruding from beneath the others. As much as those strange illustrations frightened and repulsed him, he longed to pull it out and flip through the pages again. Only his uncle’s presence in the room stopped him.

  The memory of those bizarre illustrations burned fresh and vivid in his mind. He remembered the robed figures gathered around the low altar, the strange reptilian face paired with a human body, the bright flames leaping and dancing around them. Soon Stephen imagined himself in the picture, wrapped in a white sheet toga-style. He was dancing, whirling in the center of the group, standing on top of the stone altar. Various robes figures switched off as his partner, moving in and out of the circle. Their palms were leathery and the rest of their arms were covered in scales. Sharp claws occasionally glanced off his skin.

  Faster and faster he danced, lost in a blur of motion. A young man and woman danced on either side of him, their mouths open and their eyes glassy. He already knew their names: Olive Simmons and Lucas Hodge. A dull roaring sound filled his ears as the flames consumed him.

  Then, abruptly, he was back in the library with his uncle beside him. Coming back to the room felt a bit like struggling from the bottom of a deep pool toward the surface. Yet everything around him remained the same. The table, the shelves, the book itself, still closed with the others stacked on top of it.

  Concern etched Vernon’s craggy face. “Daydreaming, Stephen?”

  It took him a moment to focus. “Uh… I’m making spreadsheets,” he stammered. “Got a little behind. I’m sorry.”

  “I suspect you need a break. It’s nearly noon. Why don’t you go and see about getting some lunch for us? Mr. Argyle said we could have sandwiches made so we wouldn’t have to go back to the cottage to eat. It will save time.”

  “I…um…are you going to be all right here?” A muffled voice in the back of his mind urged Stephen not to leave Uncle Vernon by himself. Something about this room suddenly didn’t feel right. Or was that his imagination, still shadowed by the odd fantasy he’d experienced? “Why don’t you come with me? You must need a break, too.”

  “No, no. Not necessary. I’ll finish up what I’m doing here and then we can eat on the terrace. Mr. Argyle suggested it. The weather is most accommodating today.”

  “All right.” Hesitantly Stephen stood while his uncle clambered up the stepladder with an agility surpassing that of many people half his age. Hopefully Justin would make sure they continued with this project. It meant as much to Uncle Vernon as it did to him and Justin, though for very different reasons.

  The hall lay silent, dead, as if no one at all were in the house except him and his uncle. He paused when he realized he wasn’t exactly sure where the kitchen was, though he assumed it would be in the same general area as the dining room. He set off in that
direction, passing various doors both open and closed, not to mention an imitation Roman statue keeping watch from a corner. The life-sized figure sneered down his polished marble nose at him.

  On the wall opposite the statue hung a large oil painting. In it, a fierce-looking man in Puritan clothing stood in front of three grim-faced elders seated at a table. Together they examined a large book spread open in front of them, while a soldier armed with a sword and a blunderbuss waited on one side. The accused, though apparently waiting to be judged by the men at the table, did not look in the least apprehensive. If anything, he appeared haughty and impatient, eager to receive their ruling and head off to his punishment. His expression was haughty, his defiance seeming to radiate off the canvas. Stephen couldn’t help but notice a passing resemblance to Roark.

  While he stared at the picture, Stephen sensed a presence looming up behind him. He was about to spin around when a cold hand clamped over his wrist with such force that he cried out.

  “What’s wrong? What are you screaming about?” Roark demanded. His fingers tightened on Stephen’s arm.

  Stephen whirled, his heart thundering. Roark had sneaked up on him purposely. No doubt it gave him a secret thrill to frighten people out of their skins. “I wasn’t screaming. You scared me!”

  “Why are you wandering around the house by yourself?”

  Stephen twisted his arm free, calmer now but still annoyed at Roark’s patronizing tone. “My uncle wanted lunch. He told me to go to the kitchen and ask if we could get sandwiches. What’s the big deal? You act like you’re going to call the cops on me.”

  “Of course I’m not.” Roark’s tone softened, but his eyes remained harsh and cold.

  “You act like I’m casing the joint, looking for stuff to steal. Trust me, if I wanted to make a quick buck, I’d have stuffed a few of your rare books in my laptop case before I left. No one would ever know. Including you.”

  “I wasn’t implying dishonesty. I just thought….” Roark shook his head. “Okay. Never mind what I thought. I misinterpreted the situation.”

  “Just a little,” Stephen huffed. He waited for an apology, but wasn’t too surprised when he didn’t get one.

  “You were examining that painting. Do you like it?”

  “It’s very…dramatic.”

  “It’s based on a real event. Painted long after the fact, but supposedly faithful to every detail. That’s Obadiah Fairbourne. He stood accused of witchcraft in the late seventeenth century, before this house in its present form even existed. That’s his grimoire, or spellbook, the judges are looking at. Apparently what they read on those pages was so shocking they convicted him on the spot. No jury necessary.”

  “What a great advertisement for American justice.”

  Roark shrugged. “They were scared of him, and with good reason as it turned out.”

  Stephen studied the bold face in the painting, the teeth half-bared in a sneer. Had that been the artist’s imagination at work or had Obadiah really been so defiant?

  “Was he burned?”

  “Witches were never burned in the New World. They were hanged,” Roark corrected. “But no, Obadiah didn’t suffer either of those unpleasant fates. He was found guilty, yes, and sentenced to the gallows—but the night before he was to die, the gaol caught fire. All the guards, along with the executioner who was on site preparing the rope, died in the blaze. The men who prosecuted him—the ones depicted in that painting—also got burned trying to put out the flames. Two died a few days later, after unimaginable suffering. The third, who had expressed doubt about Obadiah’s guilt but eventually allowed the others to persuade him, became disfigured for life.”

  “Wow. How awful.” Stephen examined their stern faces one at a time. Their pitiless expressions suggested they had no qualms about declaring Obadiah’s life forfeit. Maybe they had even tortured him first. In some ways, maybe they got what they deserved. “And Obadiah? Did he die that night, too?”

  Roark offered a wry smile. “That’s the interesting part. No one knows. After the smoke cleared and the bodies had been dragged from the rubble, Obadiah disappeared. Either he burned to ashes in his cell, or he went on the run for life, leaving his wife—my ancestor—and their children forever. Some claimed he used his powers to escape. More than a few assumed he’d started the fire in the first place, knowing it wouldn’t hurt him—only those who had tormented him. And in fact the flames never burned a single person other than those who worked in the gaol. No other building in the village caught fire, though the blaze roared on throughout the night. In the morning, it went out by itself.”

  “I’m sure there’s a simpler explanation. Fires must have been pretty common back when everyone used candles and fireplaces all the time. No doubt Obadiah just slipped away in the confusion. The town probably owed its survival to the direction of the wind.”

  “Maybe. No way we’ll ever know for sure.” Roark shrugged. “So you said you were looking for the kitchen? Come on. I’ll take you.”

  “Thanks,” Stephen said coldly. As he started to follow Roark, he glanced back one more time at the painting. This time, a single detail caught his attention. He blinked and squinted, but he couldn’t deny what he saw. The book in the picture, lying open on the table in front of the elders, bore the same odd symbols as the book Stephen had found in the library.

  Minutes later, they entered an enormous and surprisingly modern kitchen. Ivy stood unloading a huge stainless-steel dishwasher that wouldn’t have been out of place in an expensive restaurant. She straightened up, clearly thrilled to see Roark walk in, but her expression turned sour when she saw Stephen behind him.

  “Stephen and his uncle are ready for lunch,” Roark announced without bothering to greet her. His brusque manner bordered on rudeness, but no doubt he considered servants unworthy of a civil tone. “Can you make sandwiches for them?”

  Ivy slammed the dishwasher shut. “My mother made chicken salad this morning.” She glared at Stephen as if challenging him to object. “I take it that will suit the two of you?”

  “Sure.” Stephen hoped she didn’t blame him for Roark’s bad behavior. “Anything’s okay with me. My uncle isn’t fussy, either.”

  “Ha! I’ve heard that before. Then when I get the tray ready, someone complains that it isn’t the bread isn’t gluten-free, or the soup has celery in it, or whatever. But never mind, I’ll do the best I can.”

  “Good. We’ll wait.” Roark crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, watching Ivy stomp across the room and fling open a refrigerator the size of a compact car. She snatched out a cellophane-covered serving bowl and a loaf of white bread, which she banged on the counter. Every now and then, she shot Stephen a murderous look while she hacked at the bread with a long, serrated knife.

  “Should we help?” Stephen asked Roark in a whisper.

  “No. Ivy knows what to do,” Roark replied without bothering to lower his voice, leaving Stephen mortified. Ivy ignored them both, her shoulders taut as she worked.

  “I suppose you’ll want something to drink, too,” she barked at Stephen when she’d finished. “Iced tea okay? There’s plenty left over from the party last night.”

  “That would be fine.” Stephen assured her, eager to get away from Roark and his attempt to play lord of the manor at Ivy’s expense. She was welcome to his boorish company. He watched as Ivy opened the enormous fridge and removed a tall pitcher. Moments later, he was gasping as a torrent of frigid liquid blasted down the front of his shirt.

  Chapter 9

  “Ivy!” Roark shouted, furious. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” The picture of innocence, Ivy righted the iced tea pitcher that had just deposited most of its contents on Stephen’s chest. “I guess I wasn’t holding onto it tightly enough. Can I get you some paper towels?”

  “Don’t…don’t worry about it,” Stephen gasped, holding his soaked shirt away from his skin. “At least it wasn’t hot.” Quite the op
posite, in fact. It felt like she had dumped a bucket of ice over him.

  “There, you see? No harm done.” Ivy handed him a wad of paper towels. Stephen was sure he heard her snicker at him under her breath.

  “I can’t go back to the library like this,” Stephen said, ineffectively mopping at himself with the paper towels. Roark and Ivy stood on either side of him, glaring at one another. “I need to change. Can someone take the sandwiches to my uncle and tell him I’ll be right there?”

  “I’m sure Ivy would be happy to handle that,” Roark said through clenched teeth. “Surely we pay her enough to make our guests a few sandwiches and deliver a tray. Bring the stained shirt back with you and she’ll launder it for you. Right, Ivy?”

  “Sure thing,” Ivy said with a smirk.

  “Thanks,” Stephen said, eager to get away from both of them and their ridiculous power struggle. He hurried out of the kitchen and back down the hall, heading for the French doors closest to the cottage. The Roman statue sneered at him again as he passed.

  He had hoped he might see Justin on his way through the house—while he changed his shirt, maybe they could talk a little or even enjoy a few minutes of privacy while Uncle Vernon ate his sandwiches. Unfortunately, there was no sign of him. He had disappeared after they’d eaten the scones, not even showing up at the library to check on them the way he’d done before.

  He took his time choosing and putting on a new shirt, thinking Justin might hear about the incident in the kitchen and sneak down to see him after all. While he bundled up the wet shirt and stuffed it in a plastic bag to take back for washing, his anger at Ivy for humiliating him softened into something like pity. In a way, he could understand her frustration and her resentment at waiting on Roark’s guests without much in the way of gratitude from him. To Roark, Ivy was just a fixture like the fridge or dishwasher. The fact that she obviously had feelings for him didn’t matter to him at all. It probably made tormenting her even more fun.

  The house was quiet again when he made his way back to the library, carrying the bag with his wet shirt inside. Curiously, the tray Ivy had prepared sat on the floor, untouched, outside the closed door. So Uncle Vernon hadn’t eaten after all. Maybe he’d been waiting for Stephen, or he’d become absorbed in his work and hadn’t found the time to climb down the ladder and get it. Then again, maybe Ivy had just dropped it there and stalked off in a huff.