He stared up at the dark fortress that sat atop the mountain like a great bird of prey. Gathering his courage, he urged Raven forward.
Trees dripping gray-green moss grew on both sides of the narrow path, their extended branches hovering over him like the bony fingers of death. He heard the croaking of frogs. The hoot of an owl sounded nearby, ominous somehow. Some thought the screech of an owl signified bad luck; others thought it was an omen of impending death.
He drew in a deep breath. There had been a time when he hadn’t believed in such nonsense, but Charmion had changed all that. A shiver of unease snaked down his spine as a huge white owl flew past his shoulder.
As he climbed higher, a strange silence fell over the land. No birds sang in the trees; even the wind was still. Raven snorted as they rounded a sharp bend in the trail. The left side of the path fell away into a deep abyss.
And still the trail climbed upward, higher and higher, winding round and round the mountain until, at last, they reached the top.
Built of black stone, Charmion’s fortress rose up from the earth like an enormous beast of prey. Two huge stone gargoyles flanked the entry.
Erik reined the stallion to a halt several yards from the front door. Evil radiated from the fortress like smoke from a funeral pyre. It seemed to reach out to him, beckoning him with skeletal fingers.
The stallion shook his head and backed up.
“Easy, boy,” Erik murmured. He stroked the horse’s neck as he studied the fortress. No lights burned from within. The lower windows stared back at him, watching him like dark, empty eyes.
Fighting off a sense of impending doom, Erik urged Raven toward the fortress, but the horse refused to obey. Lowering his head, the stallion pawed the ground and then backed up another step.
It was then Erik saw it, a crypt made of glistening white marble. A single bronze cherub knelt beside the door, its arms folded in prayer. He didn’t have to see the name etched above the tomb to know it was Dominique’s final resting place.
He stared at the crypt for a long while, guilt rising up within him. A lifetime of regrets lay behind that cold stone edifice. He had never truly loved her. He should never have married her.
With a sigh, Erik slid from the stallion’s back. Tethering Raven to a wind-blown birch, he walked across the rocky ground toward the entrance of the fortress.
Kristine was inside, and no one, not Charmion, not the devil himself, would keep him out.
Chapter Seventeen
Kristine stood at the window, staring out into the rain-swept night. Why hadn’t she listened to Lady Trevayne? Why hadn’t she stayed home where she belonged? Why hadn’t she told someone where she was going when she’d left Hawksbridge?
Blinking back the tears that were ever close to the surface these days, she looked toward the west, toward home, and knew she would never see Hawksbridge, or Erik, again.
Overcome by despair and loneliness, she wrapped her arms around her stomach and rocked back and forth, a low, keening wail rising in her throat.
Lightning ripped through the dark clouds like daggers. Thunder rumbled through the night like the sound of distant drums. A lusty wind pummeled the grass and the trees, moaning like a soul in torment.
Dropping to her knees, Kristine added her own cries to those of the wind and the rain.
Chapter Eighteen
Charmion sat back in her chair, one hand idly stroking the fur of the large black cat sleeping in her lap. He was here. She needed no crystal ball to tell her who approached the castle entrance, no magic of any kind. His hatred flew ahead of him like the wings of the storm, strong and black; a loathing that would have been as virulent as her own had it not been tempered by fear—fear for his young wife and unborn child.
Excitement stirred within her as she contemplated seeing him again. The transformation should be almost complete.
He was at the door now. She lifted one hand, breaking the wards that guarded the front portal so he could enter. She didn’t rise, didn’t go to welcome him. He would find his way to her soon enough.
And then he was there, striding across the black stone floor, his dark eyes alight with barely suppressed fury. “Where is she?”
Charmion lifted one brow and made a small tsking sound. “I see you have forgotten your manners, Lord Trevayne. Apparently you are even more of a beast than you appear.”
A growl rumbled in his throat. “Where is Kristine? What have you done with her?”
“I have done nothing to the girl. She is quite well.”
“She is here, then?”
Charmion allowed a slow smile to curve her lips. There was no warmth in the expression. “She came here several days ago, demanding that I release you from the curse I had placed upon you.” She sighed dramatically. “Alas, I told her it was quite impossible. There was only one person who could release you.”
Charmion’s black eyes burned with fury. “I told her it was most unfortunate that the only one who possessed the ability to end the curse had died at your hand.”
“I did not kill Dominique,” Erik retorted.
“You planted your seed within her frail body, and it killed her.”
“Every woman knows the risks of childbirth. It was a risk Dominique was willing to take.”
Anger flowed from Charmion. The cat in her lap awoke with a hiss, its yellow eyes narrowed.
“I warned you!” Charmion said, her voice echoing off the walls. “I told you she was not strong enough to bear a child!”
“The choice to have a child was not mine alone!” Erik said harshly. “I did not take her to bed by force.” He took a step forward, his right hand clenched. “She came to me willingly, lovingly. I told her of your fears, and she laughed them aside. She said you had always coddled her, but she was not afraid.”
The big black cat leaped to the floor as Charmion surged to her feet.
Eyes blazing, body shaking with fury, the witch extended her arm. Erik’s clothes disappeared at a wave of her hand.
She stared at him intently, at the long black fur that covered his left side from his shoulder to his feet. She smiled with satisfaction as she saw his transformed left hand, his feet, which were now paws. His left ear was that of a wolf.
Soon, she thought, soon the transformation would be complete.
Erik called on every ounce of courage he possessed as he stood naked and ashamed before her. But he would not cower. He would not try to hide what he was becoming. She had concocted the hideous curse. Let her look her fill.
“Are you satisfied, Charmion?” he asked quietly. “Does what I am becoming give you pleasure? Does it ease the pain of Dominique’s loss?”