She staggered.

  Regaining her footing, she blushed, her stare incredulous.

  “It was quite wonderful to meet with you, Ingrid,” I said. “I hope to see you again very soon.” I opened the cell gate and disappeared.

  Chapter 29

  Jadeon

  I FLEW INTO THE dungeons. “Ingrid! Are you all right? Let me see your . . . You look fine. You’re okay.”

  I was horrified Orpheus had been able to get into the castle undetected, and I cursed myself for letting my guard down. After sensing him I had almost tripped over myself trying to get to Ingrid.

  “Jadeon, who the hell was that?” Ingrid asked.

  “What are you doing down here?” I lifted her into my arms. She was badly shaken. We made our way up the stone stairway, through the foyer, quickly ascending the sweeping staircase. When we reached my bedroom I placed her down upon my old bed, covering her with a blanket.

  “He said he knew me, but I don’t recall . . .”

  “He’s an old acquaintance.”

  I tried to grasp what Orpheus wanted with Ingrid. The knot in my stomach distracted me. I pulled Ingrid toward me and hugged her, attempting to put thoughts of Orpheus out of my mind and hoping she would too.

  Alex appeared at the door and stared at me wide-eyed.

  “He’s gone,” I said to him.

  “What did he want?” Alex asked.

  I looked at Ingrid and tried to answer that question.

  “What did he say?” Alex asked.

  Ingrid sighed and pushed off the blanket. “It didn’t make any sense.”

  “He’s gone now,” I said.

  “He moved so fast, I mean he came out of nowhere,” Ingrid said.

  “It’s dark down there,” I said. “Things can appear . . . different.”

  “I thought it was you or Alex,” Ingrid said, “so I followed you down. But it was—”

  “When I said make yourself at home I wasn’t referring to the dungeons, Ingrid.” I sighed.

  “How embarrassing. Who the hell is he?” she asked.

  “Orpheus,” Alex said.

  I glared at him—a warning not to reveal anything else. “He is an acquaintance of ours. He’s a little . . . unruly.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s a little crazy,” Alex said.

  “Does he have a criminal record?” Ingrid asked.

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ingrid snapped.

  “It means no. A drink. Alex, bring wine. No, something stronger,” I said.

  Ingrid’s face flushed. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I reassured her. “Come on, we’ll go to the drawing room. I will make it up to you. I promise.”

  “I’m fine, I’ll bounce back.” Ingrid sighed.

  I guided her out of the room. “Come on, let’s go and get ourselves a stiff drink,” I said.

  “Perhaps some tea?” Alex offered, following.

  I studied Alex, concerned that he too was shaken. He closed his thoughts to me before I could examine them.

  I turned my attention back on to Ingrid. “I do hope this hasn’t ruined your visit.”

  “Goodness, no,” Ingrid said. “Before all this I was thoroughly enjoying myself. You have a lovely home. This place is huge. So many exquisite antiques. I adore antiques.”

  “Perhaps that’s why we get on so well,” I jested.

  Ingrid did well to bluff her decorum. But I wasn’t fooled. I was determined to extinguish Orpheus’s dark spark.

  We settled within the anteroom. I uncorked a bottle of Chateau Leoville-Loire 1972, pouring Ingrid a large glass, and watched her sip from the dark red vintage. Both Alex and I appeared to sip at ours and attempted to recall the taste.

  Alex had purchased takeout. We both prodded our Chinese food as Ingrid, with her healthy appetite, devoured hers. As the evening progressed Ingrid relaxed, lulled by Alex’s beautiful piano playing which he performed with his usual mastery. Alex even persuaded me to play several duets with him much to Ingrid’s delight.

  Soon the aged wine took its effect and she was lost in the semblance of the room, warmed by both the fine wine and the roaring fireplace. She sat on the luxurious leather couch, crystal glass in hand, absorbed in the music. Conversation flowed as we naturally wooed her.

  As the midnight hour approached Alex made his excuses to retire to bed.

  “Alex, you and I, we need to talk,” I said.

  Alex stared off.

  “Later then?” I pushed for a response from him.

  Alex nodded then left the room.

  Conceding to Ingrid’s request we headed out on another tour. On arriving within the armory I reached up and took down one of my old fencing sabers, easing it from its casing, and proceeded to provide Ingrid with a demonstration. I swung the fine epee this way and that as if masterfully dueling with an invisible opponent, moving forward with assured expertise, impressing Ingrid with my obvious skill.

  Next we made our way toward the library. I took my time carefully selecting then removing from the tall shelves, one book and then another, using the stairs when needed to reach some of my most cherished. The leather-bound books were the oldest and most valuable within the collection, and most of them Ingrid noted were first additions and out of print. We fervently viewed the many pages, admiring the bindings and fine font, agreeing that books were no longer produced in such a unique fashion.

  “I have a great collection of originals,” I said. “Do you like Shakespeare?”

  On seeing Ingrid’s expression, I pretended I was joking.

  Ingrid was drawn to me, her attraction as clear as mine was to her. She studied me, fascinated. Years of pretending to be human were paying off. This was a dangerous game I played and I questioned my motives for allowing her to get so close and see so much. However, my desire to be both accepted and feel affection was undeniable.

  She reminisced about her encounter with the stranger in the dungeons. Orpheus’s recondite effect upon her was no different from how it influenced anyone. His seductive ability had deeply affected her. Orpheus would draw his victims in, seducing them and then push them away, leaving them wanting. In order to protect Ingrid, I knew what I had to do—inflict such an indelible impression upon her that thoughts of me would push out all traces of Orpheus.

  Taking her firmly by the hand, I led Ingrid down the stone stairway to the lower chambers of the castle and into the darkest room. It had been many things—once a torture chamber and more recently a bedroom for Alex. Now it was just a clandestine four-walled chamber. Despite its darkness and chilly temperature, I hoped Ingrid would feel safe with me and nudged her inside. I lingered at the open doorway, pausing for a moment, reconsidering.

  Take Ingrid home and then forget her.

  I followed her in. “This room was used by my ancestors to subjugate witches and the like,” I explained. “The accused were brought here to be tortured, part of a soul-cleansing ceremony. They were then taken to another place, one far from here, to be offered up in sacrifice.”

  Ingrid’s eyes adjusted to what little light was in the room. “Where were they taken?”

  “Stonehenge.”

  “They must have been terrified,” she said.

  “They were.”

  Ingrid explored. She noted the heavy wooden door, the only exit from the dark chamber, admiring its design. Carried by her imagination Ingrid observed me lighting the candles upon the altar and within the sconces. Flickering flames threw shadows. The arcane light danced on the central table.

  “Look at this.” She rubbed dust from the wall.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “An inscription, see. Haven’t you seen it before?” she asked.

  “No, I’ve never noticed it. What does it say?” I wondered if Alex had written it as I did not recall seeing it.

  Ingrid read the faded letters. “The truth will out.”

  “The truth will come out?” I repeated.

  “It’s a Northern expression, it means that . . . well I suppose it speaks for itself,” she said.

  I rubbed my fingers over the painted stone. “It’s signed.”

  Ingrid and I studied the scribe.

  “Fabian Snowstrom!” I read.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I know of him. But I . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.” It was not so much the fact that Fabian Snowstrom had written on the wall. It was the fact that the signature was dated last May. “Alex must have written it,” I reasoned.

  Ingrid peered down at the worn table positioned in the center of the room. The ancient ominous markings and deep scratches upon it indicated its age, its once-sinister use made obvious by the original chain shackles still hanging down from it. The room’s eerie presence was intensified and heightened by the peeling paint on its walls and the low dark beams. I forced out thoughts of Snowstrom and focused once again on Ingrid. I stared at her, watching, waiting.

  Ingrid strolled around the chamber, aware that something was looming. She ran her hands over the objects and furniture. When she was ready, I locked the door. I approached and kissed her passionately, embracing her firm, wanting nothing more than for this moment to last. Her taste was sweet, her softness soothing.

  She is perfect.

  Taking my time, I undressed her. Her pale naked body appeared so vulnerable and it made me want her more. Ingrid was shaking.

  I hugged her again, kissing her until she softened into me. Her female scent arose and fired my senses. I undressed. Taking her hand I guided her to the central table and lifted her onto it, laying her down upon it. I caressed her nakedness, exploring her body with a gentle touch until her soft skin blushed.

  Her gasps echoed . . .

  I took her, crushing against her, responding to her every desire. She surrendered to my whispers as our bodies intertwined and immortal flesh embraced mortal skin.

  * * * *

  As I lay next to Ingrid, both of us spooned in my four-poster bed, I knew this was the last time I would ever see her. This relationship, whatever it was or whatever it had become, could not continue. Though fate had brought us together and I had relished the brief time I had spent with her, I had to let her go.

  Anyone close to me would become a target for Orpheus and I was not prepared to let another woman be his victim. The last hour of darkness faded. I caressed Ingrid, kissing her tenderly, attempting to rebalance my previous domination of her.

  Ingrid roused. “What time is it?”

  “Go back to sleep. It’s early.” I kissed her shoulder.

  Ingrid sighed and snuggled into me. “I’m so glad I got that postcard,” she said. “I never did find out who sent it, but it led me to you, so—”

  “What postcard?”

  “The postcard of St. Catherine of Alexandria. Someone sent it to me anonymously.”

  “When?” My heart raced.

  “The day I met you at the gallery. All it had was my name and a time on it.” She yawned.

  “It was probably sent by the gallery. They do that sometimes to tweak your interest,” I lied.

  I lulled Ingrid back to sleep and eased myself away from her side, careful not to awaken her. Once again I returned to the lower chambers with a knot in my stomach. Orpheus would be coming back for her. I had to get to him first.

  Chapter 30

  Orpheus

  RAYS OF MORNING LIGHT gradually moved across Jadeon’s bedroom and fell upon Ingrid’s face. She recalled her time with him. He had revealed to her secret pleasures that still left her breathless. She snuggled under the covers, smelling his masculine scent on the bed linen. Reaching over for him, her heart sank when she realized Jadeon was no longer lying beside her.

  She sat up and looked for him. She could not deny that it was . . . such a nocturnal life. Surely art could be discussed, bought, and sold during the day. Indeed the daylight would be more natural and appropriate for such things, but he was not here. A sound alien to this place distracted her. She recognized the loud beeping noise. Her pager was going off. She jumped out of bed and rummaged through her handbag. Ingrid peered at the number on her pager. Work had contacted her. Glancing around the room, she soon noticed the antique phone on a side table next to the bed and wondered if it actually worked.

  “Hello sir, this is Jansen.” She greeted her boss Detective Chief Inspector Vanderbilt.

  “Jansen, I apologize for bothering you on your weekend off but we have a situation. We have a double homicide. Initially I assigned Bradford to the case but his health has taken a turn. I need you back in the office.”

  “I’m on my way. I’m in Cornwall, but I’ll leave now and should be with you in four hours or so.”

  “I’ll send a car,” he said.

  “Sounds perfect. The victims?”

  “So far, two single females. It appears they didn’t know each other from what we can tell, but we’re still following up leads. It’s nasty, Ingrid. Their bodies were discovered one night apart. One at Avebury, the other at Stonehenge, both tied to the stones.”

  “The Stonehenge?” Ingrid asked.

  “There’s only one Stonehenge, Ingrid.”

  Ingrid thought it uncanny she had just been speaking to Jadeon about rituals performed at the site.

  “You still there?” Vanderbilt said.

  * * * *

  The police car sped along, blue light flashing. With little or no Sunday traffic at such an hour it easily reached the dizzying speed of over 110 mph on the clear motorway. Ingrid focused upon the first murder case, perusing the file intently.

  Vanderbilt had emailed the case details to the squad car’s on-board computer which he had arranged for her. The first victim, no older than twenty, had been tied to one of the stones and stripped completely naked. The girl’s arms had been artfully restrained with what appeared to be white silk.

  Such positioning reminded Ingrid of a painting by the old masters, one where females were portrayed as saints. Ingrid noted that the corpse was particularly pale. Opening the other file she recalled her conversation with Jadeon in reference to the witch’s persecution. She was sure he had stated the women had been murdered in a sacrificial ceremony. Perhaps, she pondered, someone who believed in something similar caused these murders.

  The second girl, whose photographs had been taken not twenty minutes ago, had been scanned from her boss directly from the crime scene. The victim had been strewn upon the large sandstone alter at the center of the tall pillars of Stonehenge. She, like the first girl, was bound as if in sacrifice and was similar in age and pallor.

  Ingrid considered calling Jadeon but realized she had forgotten to take his phone number and wondered how she could contact him and apologize for her rapid exit. It would have to wait.

  * * * *

  The sanitized aroma of the morgue caused Ingrid to shudder. She hated this place. Ingrid had helped herself to a cup of coffee and a bagel placed in the communal staff room. Despite its staleness—probably left over from the previous morning—it tasted good.

  Still eating her breakfast, coffee in hand, she headed toward the autopsy of the Stonehenge victim. Ingrid passed along the line of laboratories, pausing briefly at the desk directly outside the coroner’s office and recognizing Zara, the pathologist’s assistant. The young girl rested her legs up on the desk, totally engrossed in a magazine.

  “I’m not allowed to start yet,” Zara said.

  “What’s the delay?” Ingrid asked.

  “We’re waiting for you. Ellison’s in there now working on his preliminaries. Oh and FYI, there’s five rookie-student policemen who have come to view their first post mortem.”

  “Deep joy,” Ingrid said dryly. “Who sanctioned that?”

  “Your boss, Vanderbilt,” Zara said.

  Ingrid threw the remainder of her bagel in the waste bin and entered the chilly examination room, coffee in hand. A female corpse rested on the cold, stark central table. The five graduates were dressed in theatre scrubs. They viewed Ingrid wearily. Ingrid approached Dr. Ellison, the fifty-two year old short and stocky coroner.

  “What have you got for me?” Ingrid did her best to avoid the gazes of the eager students.

  “Coffee!” Ellison snapped his fingers, taking Ingrid’s drink from her. He gulped it down, handing the empty cup back to her. “Ingrid, you’ll be bringing your lunch in next.” Ellison smiled and placed his small round glasses on.

  “It’s just that the smell of the coffee beans helps to . . .”

  “Sterility has its disadvantages,” Ellison said and pulled on his exam gloves. He leaned over the corpse and moved the girl’s limbs this way and that, viewing her body carefully.

  “Fingerprints have confirmed her identity,” Ingrid began. She faced the police students and addressed them. “Purple highlights are unusual. Such a marker may help with tracking her movements.” Ingrid pulled out her writing pad.

  Ellison peered over his glasses. “So my Jane Doe is really a . . . ?”

  “Gillian Stewart,” Ingrid said. “Her fingerprints are in the system.”

  “What’s her prior?”

  “Arrested on a drug possession violation.”

  “Figures. Her prelim tox screen was positive for narcotics.”

  “T.O.D?” Ingrid asked.

  “Judging by lividity and rigor mortis, she died approximately thirty or so hours before we even found her at Stonehenge.”

  “So two nights ago?”

  “Approximately. With no primary crime scene and no witnesses, it’s an educated guess, I’m afraid.”

  Ingrid made a notation.

  “Her parents?” Ellison asked.

  “Blake’s there now,” she said.

  Ellison sighed. “Worst part of the job.”

  Ingrid shrugged.

  “Look.” Ellison pointed out to the eager crowd. “Track marks on both arms. She was into the hard stuff. Looks like she frequently mainlined. This girl moved in dangerous circles.”

  “Are those what I think they are?” Ingrid leaned in to the victim’s neck area.

 

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