mouth to speak, but the sound lodged in his burning throat. He squeezed his eyes closed, willing the agony to ease.
“Jack?” Fear laced his dad’s voice. “I’ll have a nurse bring you something for the pain.”
Sweat soaked his skin and he forced his eyes open. He wanted to nod his thanks, but he was afraid even the slightest movement would worsen the fire engulfing his neck.
“Bloody hell,” his father muttered, pressing the call button next to his bed repeatedly. “It’ll be faster if I fetch someone.”
Slippery fear swelled inside him, and he tightened his grasp on his father’s hand. He didn’t want to be alone. Not now. Maybe not ever. What if they were waiting?
Nodding, his father slowly lowered himself back into the chair next to the bed. “I’m here, Jack. Not going anywhere.”
His father spoke in the same even tones he used for the animals that came to him injured, frightened and broken. At one time, it would have driven him mad to hear his father speak to him like one of his strays, but right then he hung on every word. Christ, was that who he was now? Injured? Frightened? Broken?
“The nurse will come in a moment.” His father dropped his gaze to their joined hands, thumb gently stroking the back of his. “The police were here earlier. Now that you’re awake, they’ll want to speak to you.”
Panic squeezed his chest and for the first time the damage blazing his throat seemed like a blessing. He tried to lift his free hand to gesture to his neck, but the IV in the crook of his arm and tangle of thin tubes connected to the machines beside him made his movements stiff and awkward.
His father lifted his gaze and frowned. “Lie still. I know you can’t speak, but maybe you could write something down while the details are still fresh, before you forget anything.”
A perverse part of him wanted to laugh. He closed his eyes instead. As if he could ever forget the things that had been done to him. Even now, the memories pressed against his skull—blood soaked and riddled with fear and pain.
“You’ve been through a lot, but you must tell them what you remember so they find whoever did this to you.” Dad’s calm voice took on a slight edge.
He opened his eyes. His father’s face was sallow, haggard. Guilt twisted low in his gut. He’d been a terrible son. Funny how clearly he saw that now.
Maybe because he was dead.
It may not have looked that way to anyone else, but the man who’d gone into those woods hadn’t come out.
When the police came, he would write down everything he could remember. He only hoped it would be enough for them to finally arrest The Witch of Stonecliff.
Chapter One
Murderer.
Die Witch.
Eleri stood transfixed, unable to tear her gaze from the slashing red strokes of paint almost glowing against the pale stone wall. Sweat slicked her skin despite the chilly spring wind slapping at her face.
She did her best to squash the dread mushrooming inside her. Most of her life she’d been called those names. She really should have been used to them by now. But since the bodies of a dozen men had been pulled from the bog on her property four weeks ago, the name-calling seemed far more sinister—especially with the looming possibility of prison.
“I’m sorry to be the one to show you this.”
The housekeeper’s voice jerked Eleri from her reverie. She’d nearly forgotten Mrs. Voyle was standing next to her. The woman’s beady eyes gleamed in her narrow face, belying her words.
Of course Iola Voyle wasn’t sorry. She was probably elated. The only thing that would please the woman more would be if the police turned up with handcuffs and dragged Eleri away right now. Or better still, if an angry mob of pitchfork toting villagers hung her from the nearest tree.
“There’s more farther down. To be expected, I suppose, given the situation,” Mrs. Voyle added, with a sidelong glance. Her thin mouth pressed in a tight line, she turned away following the old stone wall, lumbering through the overly long grass. The combination of her ankle-length skirt and rubber boots made her gait slow and awkward. Periodically, she glanced back as if she feared an attack from behind. With any luck, she’d fall flat on her face.
Eleri blew out a sigh. She had more to worry about than her housekeeper’s suspicious stares and innuendos. Following Mrs. Voyle, she trudged over the wide strip of wet grass between the estate wall and the road. The tangled blades wrapped around her mud-caked boots, threatening to trip her up. Her luck, she’d be the one to land on her face.
Wind gusted with mossy smells of rotting leaves, wet earth and the salty tang of the sea hidden by the woods. Bare branches only starting to green with spring rattled in the breeze, and frigid water droplets sprayed the back of her neck. She hunched her shoulders so her coat collar protected her bare skin.
This morning’s rain had stopped, but if the steel-colored clouds hanging low in the sky were any indication, the reprieve was temporary.
As Eleri drew closer to the wall, the words painted two feet tall in the same red slashing strokes as the others stopped her.
Killer.
Burn Witch.
Well, her vandal was consistent if not terribly original. “I’m beginning to detect a theme.”
“Whoever’s responsible had quite a busy night. Did you not hear anything unusual?” Another sidelong glance.
“Obviously not, or I’d have put a stop to it.” She bent forward and rubbed the edge of a letter with her thumb hoping the paint might smudge. Nothing. The stone had already absorbed the paint. Would turpentine take it out? Or would she have to replace the stone? And how much did it cost to replace three hundred-year-old stone? She didn’t have a clue, masonry not exactly being her forte.
She folded her arms, then lifted one hand to her mouth and nipped at her thumbnail.
Mrs. Voyle sniffed. “That’s a filthy habit.”
A little of the woman’s usual condemnation crept into her voice, and it was almost a relief—a cantankerous Mrs. Voyle was preferable to a wary one. Still, she shot the woman a hard glare and flicked her nail loudly off her front tooth before turning back to the wall.
“Repairing this mess will be dear,” Mrs. Voyle continued, her words like a probing finger in a gaping wound. “I don’t know where your father will find the money.”
Neither did she, actually. There was precious little left for the day-to-day running of the estate—and her attorney. Maybe she could convince her father to sell off another few acres of land. He’d been making a living from the proceeds of parcelling off property for years now. Convincing him to sell a little more shouldn’t be too difficult. Especially since he had so little time left.
Persuading him to sell the estate entirely was out of the question. He refused to let the house go. Though, why anyone would willingly stay on these tainted grounds escaped her.
