Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(19)
He again braced himself along the wall as he departed, and the firm look Marjorie shot her told Signa that she should do the same. She turned the knob to her suite and disappeared into it. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the memory of Elijah grabbing hold of her or his reaction to her eyes that Signa’s thoughts lingered on as she crossed the plush rug of the sitting room and moved into the bedroom. It was the words he’d last spoken: “an hour made only for ghosts.”
She took a seat on the edge of her four-poster bed. Her travel chest sat beside it, still sealed tight. After having her belongings shut away for so long, she wanted nothing more than to unpack the chest. But try as she might, Signa couldn’t convince herself to so much as crack it open. After tonight, she had no doubts that her time at Thorn Grove would be cut short. If there was one constant that Signa could count on, it was that no matter where she was, Death would find her. She didn’t know how or why, or whether this was all an elaborate game meant to drag out her torture while he watched and laughed and enjoyed the show.
She would find out, though. And, even if it was the last thing she ever did, she would stop him.
It was late into the witching hour when Signa roused to the sound of crying and the rustle of maple leaves blowing in through a window. She didn’t remember leaving it open, yet open it hung, carrying in the scent of rain and damp soil.
Signa pried herself from the warmth of the bed to peer out into the night. When minutes passed and the crying had not returned, she drew the window shut and made her way back to bed. Yet she noticed from the corners of her eyes as she passed her vanity that the reflection in the mirror remained still. Neck prickling, she paused to examine the mirror, hoping the image was a trick of the light. But when her reflection stared back at her, its edges fuzzy and a smile that Signa wasn’t wearing curling at her lips, she knew this was no trick.
Signa smothered a scream as she threw herself from the vanity, where a burst of white light escaped and fled through the bottom of the door. She knew at once it was the spirit from earlier, and this time there was no denying that she’d seen it.
Signa didn’t bother with a coat or her boots, wasting no time as she threw open her door and chased the light down the hall. Now that the spirit had confirmed it could be seen, Signa had no choice but to confront it. If she didn’t, who knew if the beastly thing would ever leave her alone.
Thorn Grove didn’t so much as creak from the weight of her steps as she hurried down the staircase, and the hinges were silent as she swung the front door open into the cold night. At once she threw her arms around herself, for her flimsy white nightgown did nothing to stop the pervading chill from creeping into her skin.
“Hello? Is anyone here?” Step-by-step, she forced her numb feet toward the cries that ate their way up her skin, gnawing at her bones. The louder the crying became, the more the world beneath Signa withered. The moss along a maple tree dried to a dark brown while fallen leaves wilted and scattered in a sudden wind. It was as though the very earth were warning her of what lay ahead, and that she should turn back. Yet Signa didn’t stop moving until she saw the source of the sound.
A woman with translucent skin and soft white hair that trailed behind her like the embodiment of wind itself sat beneath the bend of a tree, wearing a dress silver as the low-hanging moon. The spirit’s cries ceased as Signa approached, head snapping up to look at her. Signa’s footsteps faltered along the dead bramble as the spirit’s eyes crawled over her body, assessing. She tried not to show that fear was clawing at her, urging her to run.
The spirit glided forward without warning—without a sound—and when Signa tried to fall back, dead roots ruptured from the ground and snaked around her ankles to hold her tight. She fell flat on her back, shivering and cursing her luck as the spirit hovered over her.
The spirit was beautiful, with smooth skin and pale hair that fell in loose waves. But the longer Signa looked at her, the grayer the spirit became, with bluish-black lips and fingernails to match. Yet it was her eyes that Signa couldn’t turn away from—one blue, and one hazel. Two different colors, like hers. Like the woman from the portrait Signa had seen earlier that day.
Lillian Hawthorne.
From so close, Signa could see that the spirit’s mouth was something from a nightmare, filled with pus and bleeding sores that festered over her gums. Her tongue was a useless purple mush, as though it had burned away. Lillian tried to speak, but all she could do was moan, and the louder Signa screamed at the monster to get away from her, the louder the monster moaned back.
Lillian reached out as if to snatch at Signa, but Signa dug her fingernails into the roots and tore at them, ripping them from her ankles. Enraged, Lillian screamed as Signa scrambled to her feet.
“Stay away from me!” Signa snarled at her. The spirit flinched at the steel in Signa’s voice. But the pause was only temporary, and with a deep frown Lillian started forward again.
Signa bent to scoop up a handful of soil and tossed it at the spirit’s face. “I don’t care who you are, just leave me alone!” So as not to awaken all of Thorn Grove, she had to hiss words she wanted to yell, and she hated the spirit for that, too. “Leave me alone, or I’ll find your body and burn it until you’re nothing more than a pile of ash!”
As Lillian brushed the dirt away, her blackened lips twisted into what Signa thought must be a sneer. But the threat kept her at bay.