Above her, Ottavio stopped moving. He gave one sharp jerk, a whole-body convulsion before looking down at her in disbelief, his expression growing waxy and wooden.
They stayed frozen in that violent tableau for what felt like an eternity, but it must have only been a second before an inhuman roar filled the air. The heavy body of her assaulter was removed and swung up in the air like a rag doll.
Isobel scrambled back, eyes wide in horrified disbelief. Her hand stung as it landed on something sharp, but she barely registered the pain.
The thing holding Ottavio by the neck wasn’t Matteo or the shade hiding behind him, peeking at her lustfully. This was the demon, unfiltered and in control.
The blackness of its aura covered her husband from head to toe, darker than midnight. Its eyes were holes cut into another world, a place that she would have nightmares about for years to come. And it was howling, its face contorted into a rabid mask, one so thin it couldn’t hide what it truly was.
The heavy thud of Ottavio’s body hitting the floor made her flinch. The demon fell on him, still screaming with that awful rending sound. It grabbed the larger man’s head, lifted it, and slammed it back into the ground over and over.
Her screams joined the demon’s as it pounded the dead servant’s head into pulp. There was blood everywhere and bits of skull and brain smeared all around them like a halo. Isobel shut her eyes, screaming and sobbing, trying to block out the noise by putting her hands over her ears.
Everything went quiet abruptly. Isobel opened her eyes to see Matteo in a fighting stance standing in front of her protectively.
Behind him near the door of the conservatory was Nino. He was holding a hunting rifle on the demon. His face was grey and he was shaking, but the gun he held was steady enough.
“Don’t, my lord,” she whispered.
The demon cocked his ear in her direction but didn’t turn to face her.
“This is your fault!” Nino shouted in English, catching her full attention. He wasn’t talking to her, however. “This is what happens when you treat your woman like a whore, taking her with no regard to the eyes watching. You make other men covet her. And because you treat her like a whore, others think they can too.”
The demon growled something unintelligible. It almost sounded like wife.
When he made a move toward Nino, she cried out to him to wait. “Matteo, please help me,” she said, holding out a hand to him.
To her surprise, it was covered in blood. She’d cut it open on a broken pottery shard from the pot Ottavio had made her drop.
It glanced her way, but when it saw the blood its face changed, softening. It rushed forward, grabbing her hand. When the blood made contact with his skin he rocked back, letting go. There was something like mist in her eyes for a moment, obscuring her view of his face but when she blinked it was gone. And then Matteo was there, looking down at her and himself in dismay.
“Isabella, are you all right?” he asked hoarsely, reaching down for her.
Isobel scooted away from him. It was instinctive. His face fell, and she looked away.
“Signora. I believe that cut will require a needle and thread. I can sew you up.”
It was Nino. He had come up behind them when the demon departed, but he still held the hunting piece protectively in front of him. He did, however, keep the barrel pointed down.
She glanced at the cut. It wasn’t flowing freely anymore, but cleaning would surely open it again. Pushing herself up with her other hand, she stood and nodded at Nino, studiously avoiding looking at Matteo or the carnage behind him.
Once she had regained her feet, she swayed slightly. Both Matteo and Nino rushed to help her, but she waved them away. She didn’t want anyone to touch her right now.
“I’m all right,” she said in a low voice.
Nino extended his arm, gesturing to the door. She followed him out, leaving Matteo alone to clean up the mess.
Chapter 25
Isobel’s eye twitched as the needle passed through the flesh of her palm. She had washed it out herself, then poured strong spirits over the cut.
It had hurt like hell. The cut was quite deep. After Nino finished sewing it closed, she would bind her hand with a poultice of her grandmother’s design. But first she needed to get through the stitching.
They were in the library, sitting at the table nearest the sideboard where they kept the spirits.
“It might help if you drank some of that brandy, instead of just using it as an antiseptic,” Nino murmured.
Her lip twitched involuntarily. It actually sounded like a great idea. Pouring with her free hand, she raised the glass, but her hand was shaking so badly she spilled most of it on her bodice.
She looked down at the torn morning dress. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to burn this anyway.”
Nino paused to hand her a towel. Isobel looked at it, confused.
“For your lip. It’s bleeding again too.”
“Oh,” she said softly, taking the cloth and holding it to her mouth.
Nino ducked his head. “Signora, I want to apologize. About Ottavio. I should have done something.”