House of Furies (House of Furies #1)

No, it was not the light tread of a pup but something heavier. Dragging. Still, I pressed on up the stairs, gazing behind and ahead, confirming that nobody followed. The third floor was silent, and I peered down into it to see what might be making those footsteps. I saw nothing but more shadow. More darkness. Good. These were the perfect conditions for a bit of light thievery.

The air grew colder as I ascended the next set of stairs. My nightdress did little to ward off the chill. Up and up, higher and colder, and colder, until I became convinced there was no way anyone at all would choose to live in such frozen conditions. And I was right—as I rounded the corner on the topmost level of the house, I found nothing.

Nothing.

It was neither attic nor corridor, but what looked like one immense ballroom. There was no furniture, and there was nothing on the walls. The windows looking out onto the grounds were covered in a dusty film, and the moonlight penetrating that grime made the room glow an unearthly blue.

The flame on my candle dipped. The wick would soon run out. I hurried deeper into the cavernous room, casting my eye about, desperate to find some clue as to what this place might have been or might still be. The dragging footsteps came again—distant, but there—and there was no telling whether they were below, above, or in front of me.

Then I noted a small lump on the floor. It sat lonely and apart, the area around it free of dust. At a distance, I thought it might be a jewelry box of some kind. The thought piqued my interest. Again that unnerving song rose in my head, and I knew it was now guiding me toward this object. I grew closer, closer, and felt suddenly ill. It was like seasickness, but it arrived abruptly enough to steal my breath away. My vision blurred and my thoughts threaded into one another, tangled. Yet I could not stop my feet.

My candle sputtered out, but I saw a little with the moonlight. It was not a lump on the floor or a jewelry box but a book—a huge black book. A simple drawing of a red eye with a cross through it glowed faintly on the cover. Certainly I could not trust my eyes, for it seemed to release an aura, thin wisps of purple rising from the cover like a dusky steam. I knelt and gently touched the cover. It was not warm to the touch but hot. Scalding.

I pulled back with a yelp, shaking out my burned hand. And I stood, ready to flee, the book’s hold over me breaking a little after the shock of the burn. But before I could turn and run, a huge hand closed over my wrist. It felt like nothing, yet it crushed down on me hard enough to make my bones creak.

A black hand, not human; too slender for that, too strong, and not quite corporeal.

I had been discovered, and by no creature of flesh and blood.





Chapter Eleven





Gasping, I reared back, trying to fling off my attacker, but that only brought me face-to-face with the thing. A thing. My mind reeled. I had no words for this, no experience to match what I now saw bearing down on me. A creature of shadow, eight feet tall at least, and I could not tell where its body ended and the swirling black mist began. Yet certainly it touched me! There was no mistaking that, or the pain shooting up my arm.

Its bulbous, round head neared me and suddenly split in the middle to reveal a too-wide set of teeth. Fangs. Every tooth was longer and sharper than the last.

“Not for yoooooou,” it growled, and it spoke with a cold scrape of a voice pulled from the lowest pits of Hell.

And it was not alone. The room, I saw now, was filled with these things.

I screamed horribly, calling out for help, twisting myself this way and that until at last the demon creature released me. If only I could wake someone and rouse help. . . . This is what you get for trying to steal. My heart leapt with each bounding step I took, pushing my way through the crowd of shadowy things that seemed only to smirk down at me as I ran. The stairs! I had to reach the stairs! When I did, I took them two and then three at a time, holding on to the banister so as not to fly and break my neck.

They were behind me. Scraping. Dragging. Pursuing.

My fingers throbbed where the book had burned them and my wrist ached where the shadow creature had crushed it, but terror drove me on. I had no idea where to go. . . . Were these things all over the house? How could they be real? How could a nightmare not only touch me but bruise?

Panicked, gulping for breath, I fled to the lower halls, to pound on doors until someone answered. But I ran too recklessly, and on the last few stairs before the second-floor landing I lost my footing, tumbling to the bottom and hitting the carpets with a thud. Sprawled out, candle lost, I tried to climb to my feet, wincing from the pain in my wrist.

I did not need to turn and look to know the creatures were advancing. I could hear and sense them coming, their heavy, scraping footsteps growing nearer. Fear picked me up, put me on my feet, and I sprinted for my open door at the end of the hall. When I was inside, I spun and slammed the door, locking it, holding my weight against it as a brace.

Not that it would matter. Those things were huge and uncannily strong. They would make short work of the door, I thought, if they even obeyed such obstructions. Perhaps they would simply walk right through and snatch me up, rip me limb from limb . . .

My face was wet with tears as I pressed it to the wood. Nothing could be the same again, not after what I had just seen. By the moonlight filtering into the room I inspected my wrist. There were no marks. When I turned my hand, however, there were two angry red burns exactly where I had touched the book.

Footsteps. They were light and soft, but that was assuredly some deception. I held my breath, shaking as a tiny knock came at the door.

“Louisa? Louisa, are you quite all right? Bartholomew and I heard a commotion.”

Poppy. I could barely make out her mouselike voice through the thick door.

“Open up, please. There’s no reason to hide.”

I slid down the door and squinted through the keyhole. It was just a girl there, waiting, in her prim, frilled nightgown.

Had it been a nightmare after all? Why else would those shadow creatures not attack the girl? Carefully, gradually, I eased open the door. The hall behind Poppy was empty. She had retrieved my candle and lit it, the dancing flame illuminating her marked face and a sympathetic smile. Her eyes traveled from my tearstained face to my burned hand.

“Were you wandering? You mustn’t wander. Mrs. Haylam should have told you it isn’t good to leave your room at night.”

There was no use lying, not after she had noticed my hand. Did she know about the odd room with the scalding-hot book? Did she sense my true intentions? “I went to the top floor. There w-was a book and these . . . I . . . saw something startling and I ran. I stumbled on the steps.”

That was all I could manage to whisper.

Poppy nodded sagely, as if this all made perfect sense and was not in any way alarming. What on earth had I gotten myself into? Summoned by my screaming, Mrs. Haylam drifted down the hall toward us, her gray hair in a long braid. It made her look more like the crone I had met at Malton.

She stopped behind Poppy, sighing as she inspected me.

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