The Devil's Mistress by David Barclay (reading well .txt) 📕

“No matter what happens, no harm will come to you. This I swear.”

The woman looked to her terrified companion, then back. She seemed ready to drop the knife.

Then her former master spoke again. “Rosila, cut me free, or I swear to God I will cut your filthy eyes out and shove them up your arse!”

Her face changed. Upon it was writ the memories of a thousand terrible days and a thousand terrible deeds, all perpetrated by the one before her. She rose to her feet and walked calmly across the room.

But not to free him.

Chapter 29

Eighteen years prior, in the year of our Lord 1687, Marianne Huxley had come to Blackfriar as a blowsy young newlywed, and had toiled through the muck and the mire right alongside her husband, building not only what was to become the most profitable sawmill in the southern colonies, but the first homes of the town, right with her bare hands, not because she was poor, but because in the early days before Brendon came to power, there was no one in their employ, and industry did not wait upon the toils of men alone. Two years later, after they had met John Ashford—the mill’s most valuable investor—Marianne made a solemn vow to never again dirty herself in the mud like a commoner.

Yet here she was now, splashing through the dirt and grime along the forest path to reach her son, the last remaining member of her family, and the reason she had done it all in the first place.

“Thomas,” she called in a high, shrill voice. “Thomas, if you’re in there, answer me!”

She passed beyond the outer gate. There was a candle burning beyond the third-floor balcony. Nothing seemed to be amiss.

Then a great gust of wind blew across the field, and the lights in the upper balcony went out. She climbed the steps to the front door and rushed into the grand foyer. There was no sign of Fredrick the butler, nor Rosila, nor any of her servants. Most importantly, no sign of Thomas.

She called his name again, spinning round the room as if he might appear at one of the doors. There was a crunching sound at her feet, and she looked down to discover a cockroach smeared upon the bottom of one boot like a small, brown omen. Four or five others skittered up the staircase.

“Are you there?” she called.

An answer came in the form of a womanly scream from somewhere high above. Marianne rushed up the stairs, thinking he might be at one of his games with the cook or the serving maid. Then the scream came again, and this time, it did not sound like a woman at all.

As she reached the second-floor landing, the entrance doors opened below, and two figures rushed into the foyer. One was the boy from the trial. The other was a six-foot savage with a ring in his nose and a cutting ax in his hands.

“Madam Huxley,” Jacob called. “Madam Huxley, stop!”

But she did not stop, would not stop until her boy was safe.

“Thomas,” she called. “Thomas, I’m coming!”

She rounded the stairs to the third floor, following the open hall until she came to the door to the study. God, how she told him to stay downstairs and out of trouble! Why on earth was he so stubborn?

“Please, Madam Huxley,” Jacob yelled.

She tried to open the door and found it stuck. There was a spare key on the frame above. She retrieved it at once and turned it in the lock. She tried and tried, and still, the door did not open. Then came another howling shriek, and the key slipped from her fingers. She knelt to grab it, but a hand took her by the wrist. The giant Indian was suddenly there beside her, pulling her to her feet.

“Get your hands off me.” Her voice had lost its temperance but none of its authority. “Unhand me at once, or I shall have you hanged.” An empty threat, but she refused to be so handled in her own house, no matter the circumstance.

Then, from down the hall, came the boy. He was soaking wet and carrying a flintlock longer than he was. His wooden leg scuffed the hardwood floor with each step.

Marianne straightened herself. “You are ruining my house.”

“Madam Huxley, step away.”

“I’m trying to open the door,” she said as calmly as she could.

Then there came a long, ear-piercing howl of such terrible agony, it caused her to shrink back against the wall.

Jacob nodded to the Indian, and the man kicked the door. There was an incredible bang, but the door didn’t budge. He then took the ax and swung it forward in a whistling arc, slamming the blade into the panel above the handle. He continued swinging, chopping through the oak and some kind of barrier that lay on the other side.

“I shall see you pay for that,” Marianne said breathlessly.

And then he was through. The remains of the door fell away, and the Indian jumped into the abyss that lay beyond.

Chapter 30

Jacob stepped through the opening just in time to see Hunter fly across the room. His body smashed into a shelf and scattered a dozen tomes. As Jacob raised his flintlock, an invisible hand snatched the end and jerked it down. His arms twisted sideways, and he toppled over his bad leg, twisting his good ankle and flying onto his back. He tried to get to his knees and found himself slipping in a puddle of blood.

Thomas lay face up on the couch next to him, his eyes staring sightlessly into the ceiling above. A dozen kitchen knives lay buried in his belly. His severed manhood lay on the floor beside him, oozing fluid like a squashed slug.

Marianne stepped through the opening behind him and screamed.

“All for you,” said a voice, “though it was not I who did the deed. Those who did are