Keeper(61)

Henry smiled cruelly and bowed in jest once more. “Compliments of the Master, my lady.”

Josephine cried out again, but managed to stagger back to her feet. “Oh, Henry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“Oh, yes, dear one,” Henry jeered, “it is.”

But then he took a step closer, his face suddenly softening. He looked once more like the man he had once been. “But, Josephine, my love, I’m still here. You just have to give him the book. He promised to restore me to you.” He placed a tender hand against Josephine’s cheek. “Please, Jo. We’ve been apart for more than a year, and my heart cannot bear our separation any longer. Do this for us, Jo. Do it for me.”

He was gazing upon Josephine with such tenderness and love that my own heart felt it would break. Josephine carefully reached up and touched the hand against her cheek. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry . . .”

Then, acting so quickly her movements were blurred, she spun around out of Henry’s grasp, her own knife back in the palm of her hand and against Henry’s throat.

She was nearly choking on her own tears, but she held the knife steady.

“Jo!” Henry cried out in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t call me that!” Josephine cried, hysterical. “You’re not my Henry. The Master killed him! I saw it! You’re some creature of black magic created to torment me! But it won’t work! I’ll kill you, I swear it, I will.”

The features of Henry’s face suddenly relaxed—any traces of the old Henry disappearing—and he laughed. There was nothing left but cold, calculating hatred. He gripped Josephine’s wrist and pushed the knife harder against his throat. Droplets of blood rolled down his neck. “Do it, then,” he growled.

Josephine’s hands were shaking. She was losing the fight.

“Hang on, Josephine!” I cried out, wishing there was more I could do to help. “Don’t let him win!”

“Give me the book,” Henry spat, gripping Josephine’s hand so hard she whimpered. “Give me the book or kill me for good. Those are your options.”

Josephine sagged as though her own body weight was pulling her down. “I can’t,” she whispered over and over. “I can’t.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant the book or Henry.

“I can’t . . . Oh, God, Henry, I can’t.”

For one brief moment, I saw again the familiar face of Henry fight its way to the surface before the mask of malice slammed back into place. Prying the knife from Josephine’s hand, he sneered down at her, his cold eyes unforgiving and expressionless. “Pity,” he whispered against her hair. “Such a pity.” And with that, he drove the knife into Josephine’s gut.

I screamed as Josephine crumpled to the ground, a blossom of crimson blood staining the fabric of her dress.

The air around me rippled, and the images in front of me grew distorted. The scene before me was fading away, and as the familiar twisting sensations claimed me, wrapping me in darkness, the last thing I heard was a cold, calculated laugh.

Then there was nothing but silence.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


This time when the darkness lifted, I was standing in an unfamiliar, empty room. Shadows danced around me, and the energy of the room pulsed like a heartbeat.

“Hello,” I called out. “Josephine?” I was shaking from what I’d just witnessed, and my face was wet with tears. Where am I? I stepped forward, but there was only emptiness in every direction

“Hello?” I tried again. Still no response. A jolt of panic shot through me.

I was seconds away from completely freaking out when a burst of light erupted in front of me. The light twisted and spun, evolving into a swirl of vivid colors that morphed into the picturesque scene of a garden. A young girl with long dark hair and wide green eyes was playing with a doll and singing to herself.

It was like I was standing in the middle of an IMAX theater, except the picture was vivid, so real I could smell the scent of lavender and honeysuckle in the air, could feel the breeze that blew the child’s long locks.

She looked familiar, but I was sure I’d never seen the little girl before. She continued to sing, her sweet little voice soft and breathy. I smiled, but when she twisted toward me, I got a glimpse of the necklace that hung around her slender neck. It was Josephine’s amulet. I sucked in a breath, the ache of Josephine’s death still resonating within me.

“It’s her,” I said, leaning forward. “Josephine’s daughter.”

Now I recognized the high cheekbones, the slightly upturned nose, the black hair, the green eyes that could’ve only come from her mother. I put a hand on my heart to stop it from beating out of my chest.

The scene abruptly shifted; the garden was the same, but the child had grown. She was a young woman now, lovely as the rosebush she stood beside and looking just like Josephine. She stood tall, gripping the front of her full skirt. Her face was pale, and in her hand was the emerald amulet. “What do you mean, Eliza?” she said, her voice quivering. “You told me my mother died in childbirth.”

Another woman stepped into view. I recognized her as the young girl who’d taken the baby at Josephine’s urgent request. “I know, but it’s time you learned the truth about who you are, Lily, about your destiny.”