Come Midnight (25 page)

***

Candles guttered in the sconces hanging at intervals along the hallway, throwing ominous, flickering shadows on the walls. Caitlin tried to ignore them as she raced past on noiseless feet. Tried, but her imagination began to get the better of her. As she hurried by, the shadows appeared threatening and full of menace; they seemed to jump and recede, now beckoning to her, now luring her aside, for she knew not what. There, that one—it wore a demon's shape, sure! And there, the nameless form of some forgotten dread from childhood—now fully recalled and every bit as frightening. They're shadows, nothing more! Pay them no heed, colleen. Ach, will this wretched hallway never end?

The rooms she'd been given at Ravenskeep Hall were far grander than her single chamber in London, which had been in the servants' quarters on the third floor. These were closer, merely in another wing of the second; but as Caitlin raced against the clock ticking inside her head, they seemed impossibly far. If she failed to reach them in time, would the archfiend seize her here, in this endless, darkened hallway? Where some hapless servant, alerted by an untoward sound, might come upon them? And ask the cause?

Then again, Appleby seemed quite capable of masking what he was about. He knows he must screen his dirty business from decent folk—till he finds a way to lure them into his filthy clutches! On the other hand, she doubted the fiend would scruple to forbear whisking her out of sight, with one of those gestures that raised the hairs on the back of her neck just thinking about it. Aye, he's capable of it well enough—and right before the poor servant's startled eyes!

At best, Adam would be left to explain the sorry business, if even he could! Bad enough, he'll be left to deal with a wife found dead. And in her old chambers, far from her husband's bed—on their wedding night! Hurry then, colleen, for haven't you burdened your dear love with enough, as it is ?

She was out of breath and tense as a harp string when she at last reached her door. Her hand shook as she tried the handle—Locked! Sweet, merciful God .... But, no, it had merely stuck. With a grateful prayer of thanks—she was all prayer inside, now—she thrust it open, went inside. The small sitting room already smelled close and stuffy from disuse; but that had to be her imagination, for she had left it only that morning. Sure and there was no denying her imagination ran rampant tonight! The room, having no windows, was also black as pitch.

By memory, she made her way to the bedchamber beyond. She'd expected to find it moonlit, but was only reminded of the gathering cloud cover she'd noted earlier when she entered and found it inky dark. Chastising herself for forgetting to bring a candle, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. There was really only one reason she required light. She focused her unseeing gaze on the mantel above the small marble fireplace. Ach, what time was it? She needed to know the time!

As if in answer, at that instant, a flash of lightning struck. As the draperies had been left undrawn, it illuminated the chamber, but briefly, gone before she could draw breath. No matter. Because her gaze had been directed toward the mantel clock, Caitlin had what she wanted:

It was three minutes to twelve.

Foolish, perhaps, to place such importance on knowing the time, but the knowledge helped her to focus and gather her wits. Releasing the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, she commanded herself to relax. Now, for the first time, she realized there was a ferocious wind blowing outside. 'Twas a late summer storm, coming in fast. She'd been too overwrought by her foolish fears and imaginings to notice.

Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. Another bolt of lightning sundered the night sky, throwing the objects in the chamber into stark relief. Outside, the wind shrieked like a banshee. Or perhaps, she thought grimly, like all the souls of the damned. She could see the branches of trees through the windows, bending this way and that, whipped by the wind's force.

More thunder, nearer this time. When multiple flashes of lightning zigzagged across the sky, she used the sustained flare of brilliance to locate the tinderbox on the mantel. Succeeding in striking a spark, she coaxed a flame from the tinder, touched it to the candlestick she'd spied beside the tinderbox, and lifted the taper high. Mellow fight illuminated the face of the clock:

Two minutes before twelve.

She had just enough time to go over Megan's plan in her mind. Refusing to be distracted by the earsplitting triple boom of thunder directly overhead, she remembered the rocking chair that stood near the bed. 'Twas as good a place as any to await her adversary. She turned toward it—and stifled a cry. Appleby!

***

It was the triple boom of thunder that awakened Adam. Coming instantly alert, he knew his instinct for danger hadn't failed him. Something was terribly wrong. He jerked up in the bed, straining to see in the dark. Cursing himself for falling asleep—how could he, on this, of all nights!—he resolved not to panic. A flash of lightning, followed at once by a deafening crack of thunder, dashed his resolve to dust. His hands felt frantically about the place just beside him on the bed, and met only rumpled bedclothes. Caitlin! Where the devil was Caitlin?

***

The devil was smiling evilly at her—and sitting in her rocking chair. Tossed aside, upon the floor, was the pillow she'd sewn to cushion its seat. How dare he throw it to the floor! She recalled the tiny stitches she'd painstakingly worked, embroidering upon it for hours. It had been in those early days, when Andrew first began learning how to use the crutches. She recalled, too, matching her patience to the child's, until slowly, slowly, their persistence was rewarded. When Andrew had mastered the crutches, she had the image on her pillow completed. The pattern was the Tree of Life.

Appleby noted the direction of her glance and snickered when he saw her scowl. "Tut, tut, my dear. I should think that's scarcely worth your flying into the boughs," he said with a blithe gesture at the pillow. "Ah, you mortals and your tiresome little symbols! Take it from me, you'll hardly be wanting that one where you're going. Fact is, those who come to dwell in my realm soon loathe the slightest reminder of what they've lost."

Caitlin understood the significance of the symbol she'd embroidered, for she'd chosen it with a purpose. And she knew why the devil mocked it. The Tree of Life was meant to signify not the earthly existence, but God's gift of immortal life. Yet she was about to lose only the former. Thanks to dear Megan, her soul still had a chance of attaining the gift of God's Grace, though of course Appleby couldn't know that. To keep him from glimpsing any hint of that secret knowledge in her eyes, she turned and gestured impatiently at the clock. "Ye're a tad early, Mr. Appleby."

***

Lightning flickered, and the wind howled like a thing gone mad. Adam scanned the room in a panic while another peal of thunder rumbled angrily overhead. Leaping from the bed, he called Caitlin's name, hoping she was merely in the water closet, using the necessary. When no answer came, he used the flare of another bolt of lightning to scan the face of the clock. The hands said it was not long past half-ten, but ... something didn't feel right.

***

"Early ... am I?" Appleby said with a disingenuous lift of his penciled brows. "Dear me, you are quite the stickler. I was merely being accommodating, do you see." A sheet of parchment suddenly materialized in his hand. Caitlin knew at once this was the contract she'd sworn to sign.

"You'll require the typical moment or two, to peruse this, I'll warrant, to satisfy yourself it's accurate," he added with a snide certainty as he handed it over. "And it wants sufficient time for you to sign it properly, of course." Again, out of thin air, he produced the small silver blade she recognized all too well.

Caitlin forced herself to remain calm as she read over the contract. This was the paper she must destroy before he claimed her. It wanted careful timing. She must, must not get it wrong! In essence, the language stated what they'd agreed upon three nights before: Caitlin would forfeit her immortal soul in exchange for Andrew Lightfoot's leg made whole and Adam Lightfoot's freedom. Which brought her to the next step of her agenda: "My husband's auld contract, Mr. Appleby—where is it?"

"My dear marchioness," he replied with heavy sarcasm, "have you noted the time?" He used his walking stick to point at the clock. "It is nearly—"

"Ye know very well I cannot sign this contract without seein' the ither destroyed," she said sharply.

It was clear to Caitlin that Appleby had still hoped to trick her somehow. His face contorted and went instantly sour. The rouged and maquillaged features became the chilling travesty of a clown's face: a visage meant to amuse, but upon which someone had got the paint all horribly wrong. He muttered invective against her and all the Irish—he had always hated them, he informed her with an irate snarl. But Lord Appleby— alias Satan, alias Beelzebub, alias Lucifer, alias Old Harry, Old Scratch and countless other sobriquets, great and small—produced the contract. With a sullen, put-upon look, he held it up for her perusal.

Satisfied, Caitlin gave him a curt nod. "Destroy it."

With an aggravated glare, he produced a burst of flame that came out of nowhere. Thunder growled overhead as he incinerated it on the spot.

"Now, my clever little Druid pet," he said, handing over the small silver blade, "you will sign ..."

***

Adam went to a window, hoping somehow to gain a better sense of the time from nature. He knew in an instant this was futile. The howling storm obliterated the moon and stars; indeed, made it impossible to see two feet beyond the sash. Sheets of wind-driven rain had soaked the draperies; they billowed wetly about the sash, and his bare feet squished on the carpet before the windows. Adam ignored it all, concentrating on the building sense of dread permeating every atom of his being.

He could well envision Caitlin slipping away to meet Appleby. It was just like her to do all she could to prevent him putting himself at risk trying to save her. And in that, she would not be off the mark. He had given the fiend no sworn promises! His ultimate plan, if all else failed, had been to offer himself in Caitlin's stead. After all, the little bastard had, as yet, no signed contract from her. If Caitlin were prevented from honoring her promise—even if it meant knocking her senseless, he'd do it in trice to save her—well, the fiend still had the one Adam himself had signed. He'd offer to forego the forty years clause, strike and initial it—after pricking his damned finger, of course—and go to hell, on the spot. He rather thought Appleby just might take him. A bird in hand ....

But all that was something he'd envisioned happening at the so-called witching hour. Yet here it was, not yet ten o'clock, and Caitlin ... where the devil could she be? He couldn't begin to think where she'd go, in a raging storm, in the dead of night. Unless ...

***

Caitlin took the proffered knife and pricked her finger. She stared stoically at the tiny drop of blood that welled scarlet at the tip. Wet and glistening like a crimson tear in the candlelight, it stood out starkly against her pale skin. She handed back the knife. The thunder overhead was deafening.

"Excellent," said Appleby, and the blade vanished. Though he never raised his voice to be heard above the storm, Caitlin noted with a shiver, he nonetheless made it possible for her to comprehend every syllable clearly. "Now, he added, "it wants a proper nib.'' He produced an elaborate quill, out of nowhere again, just as he'd done with all his other nefarious equipment. With a mocking flourish, he handed it to her and gestured at the little escritoire by the window. "Over there!" he snapped, all courtly behavior suddenly gone. "Quickly!"

Taking contract and quill with her, Caitlin crossed to the writing desk, keeping a careful eye on her adversary. He'd risen from the rocker and was standing before it, watching her intently. Laying the contract atop the desk's flat surface, she dipped the nib into the blood on her finger, began to sign ...

The crash of the door against the wall was nearly obliterated by the latest crack of thunder. Adam burst into the room with a vengeance. "Appleby," he demanded, "take me instead! Now, this very instant! I'll make it worth your—"

His eyes found Caitlin at the escritoire, and they widened in terror. "Caitlin—stop it! I can't let you do this, d'you hear? It's got to be me. "He dashed across the small space that separated them, panic-stricken, for Caitlin's shoulders had squared, and she resolutely continued to scratch out her name.

Then several things seemed to happen all at once. Ding. The clock on the mantel, a delicate thing with a charming sound, began to chime the hour of midnight. Ding. As Adam tried to force her hand from the parchment, the fiercest bolt of lightning yet split the heavens. Ding. Caitlin caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Ding. It was Appleby! Ding. He strode toward them. Ding. The fiend's hand was raised. Ding. 'Twas a gesture she recognized. Ding. He was after stopping Adam with one of his horrific little lessons, sure! Ding. Without thinking, Caitlin shut her eyes and invoked the charm toward her husband. Ding. The contract dropped to the floor, forgotten. Ding.

But she'd already signed it. Ding. And midnight was upon them! With her eyes closed, the Gaelic words still tumbling forth, it was only when the fiend's hand closed on her arm that Caitlin realized her mistake: She'd sacrificed her soul for nothing. He wasn't after harming Adam at all. Her contract was in his hand—and with the other, he was claiming her.

As the last syllables left her lips, she opened her eyes and squirmed in the archfiend's grasp, desperate for a last look at her beloved. As she did this, her hand involuntarily brushed against the parchment.

Appleby screamed. An inhuman sound, monstrous in its hatred and rage, it contained all the writhing agonies of the ages. The contract went up in flames, consuming an entire sleeve of his dandified coat, turning it and the fine linen shirtsleeve beneath to ash, the skin of his arm to a charred and blackened ruin. "Scheming Irish witch!" he shrieked. Venom and fury lanced each syllable, overpowering the storm that howled and raged overhead. "You tricked me—me, the Lord of Hell!"

"Thank God, oh, thank God!" Adam's hoarse cry rose above the storm.

Caitlin heard, and her eyes, fierce with triumph and joy, met the fiend's. "Ye'll not have either of us, now, Father o' Lies." She lifted her arm, pointed to her husband. "Adam Lightfoot just prayed."

The look on Appleby's face said he knew she spoke the truth. Rage, primeval and terrible, distorted his dandy's mask. The storm outside shook the room as he swelled and grew. Gigantic, membranous wings crowded the walls and ceiling. Assuming his true shape, he towered over them, blood and gore dripping from inhuman jaws as he gnashed his razor teeth. With a last, bloodcurdling howl of rage, he vanished.

Caitlin slid lifelessly to the floor.

"Oh, my God—Caitlin!" Adam ran to her, dropped to his knees beside her prostrate body, and felt for a pulse. It was thready and weak. "Caitlin, please ..." His mouth twisted in anguish as he closed his eyes and whispered brokenly, "Not now, oh, God, not now." Tears clogging his voice, he caught her to him. "Caitlin, I beg of you—don't die."

He felt a slight movement. Hardly daring to believe, he pulled away to look at her face. Her eyes fluttered open, just briefly, but it gave him a thread of hope. Her voice was weak, the barest whisper. "We . .. won,
a sto
r ... we ... beat him." She lost consciousness again.

The wind outside had died to nothing. Adam didn't notice. Grief and loss, terrible and all-consuming, washed over him in a gray tide of despair. Clutching his wife's lifeless body to his heart, he closed his eyes. Tears coursed down his face, unchecked. With the storm gone, his quavering voice echoed loudly in the still room:

"Our ... Father ... ," he began, groping for the words that had once been familiar, so many years ago, "Who art in Heaven ... hallowed ... hallowed be Thy name ..."