Torn, she decided the only thing she could do was keep her silence.
Avoiding the issue had at least one important benefit. By throwing herself into her research, she made real progress in formulating a ritual to purge the curse.
In the end, Isobel had decided to combine aspects of several spells and rituals found in the books. There wasn’t actually much of a choice. No one account matched exactly what she had seen or was living with. Which was why the possibility she might be dealing with two distinct realities occurred to her.
The books included a number of references to possession. While each was different, they all shared some similarities. The subject rarely remembered what they did when under the influence and often their bodies would either be very cold or very hot.
Their actions varied widely, but as far as she could tell once that action had been carried out—be it murder, theft, or sex—then the cursed person would recover themselves…for a time.
Eventually, the cursed would degenerate in some way and usually grow weak or mad. Then they would die, if they hadn’t been killed already. The process could take months or even years.
Some of the stories attributed the possession to a specific spirit or demon, giving it a name. She didn’t disagree with the practice. What she’d experienced made her believe there was an intelligence behind what was happening. She had seen it herself, felt it watching her. But it wasn’t a real demon.
After reading everything on hand, she knew that if it was a genuine demon, the death and destruction it caused would have been far greater. But there was no better name for what she had seen, so a demon it remained in her mind...or rather two demons.
Her belief that Matteo had been cursed intentionally was now cemented as a certainty. Something truly terrible had been called and then cast inside him.
Flashes of that night at Sir Clarence’s estate skittered through her mind. The demon hadn’t been able to kill her so it had been prepared to hurt her in any way it could. However, she now believed that demon was gone, burned up in the black shadow in that god-forsaken cottage. Her actions had probably destroyed it.
It had been sheer blind luck. But in her ignorance she’d left Matteo open and exposed. The damage to his aura had been severe and without its protection, something else had found him an easy host. This other entity had different needs and desires, but it had the potential for equal destruction. Or it might if its attention finally moved away from her.
Incubus.
The name echoed in her mind. She’d used it before, but now really believed that was what she was dealing with. Even if it had been accidental, she had been the one to let it in. Its singular focus on her may have had a lot to do with that.
And if the accounts she’d been studying were accurate, the fact that Matteo was starting to remember what he did when under the demon’s control wasn’t a hopeful sign as she’d initially thought.
It was a warning that she was running out of time.
Chapter 24
Late that afternoon, Isobel finally went back into the conservatory. She had given Nino instructions to care for the plants for the last few days because she hadn’t been able to face going back inside. Every time she had tried it felt as if she was about to burst into flames of embarrassment. He had followed her instructions without question, but his carefully controlled expression spoke volumes.
However, it was past time she got a hold of herself. She needed to check on the plants and other stores, to see if all of the ingredients the ritual required were at hand. In reality, she knew getting the recipe right was the least of her concerns. The real work of the ritual rested almost entirely on her shoulders. But the mixture of herbs was one aspect she could control now, so that’s what she was going to do.
Isobel spent at least an hour on her inventory. To her relief, she appeared to have most of the basic ingredients she needed. The one issue was the last component, yarrow, for purification. But the seeds she’d acquired from the apothecary had sprouted, so she busied herself with transferring the small seedlings to bigger pots.
Footsteps signaled the approach of her husband. She looked up eagerly, despite her trepidation over having yet another uncomfortable conversation about how sorry he was.
Except it wasn’t him. It was Ottavio, and he was closing the doors leading back into the house.
Perfect. This was just what she needed. But perhaps something was wrong.
“Is everything all right?” she called out in her heavily accented Italian. “Does his lordship need me?”
Ottavio waited until he was just a few feet away then shook his head. “It sleeps,” he said, his voice coarse unlike the other Italians she was surrounded with.