“Back to the house!” Byron cried. He grabbed her hand and they ran toward the open door. Lucy hesitated, but only for a second. She did not want to return to that prison, but she did not want to be devoured by a monstrous dog either, and if they had escaped once, they could escape again. When Byron pulled her hand a second time, Lucy allowed him to lead her back to the house.
They’d covered half the distance when the door slammed shut, and Lucy felt a ripple in the air that she was certain was silent, malicious laughter. The house stretched out in either direction for hundreds of yards, but there was nowhere to hide. If they ran, it would extend their lives by a few extra seconds of terror.
Lucy struggled to think of a way out. The dog appeared physical enough, but that did not mean it was not a thing of spirit. She had heard of legends of the black dog, the barguest, that was said to be like a ghost or a demon. She had no choice but to treat it as though it were precisely that and hope for the best.
Lucy drew out another handful of her herbs. “We had better hope this works. It is all we have.” She poured what remained into Byron’s hand, and they both readied their fists, planted their legs, and sucked in their breath. Lucy had seen many wondrous and fantastic things, but she never quite believed her spells or talismans or herbs would work until she saw it happen, and never quite believed it had worked even seconds after. Before they’d seen the dog she was already beginning to doubt that she had freed them from the guard of evil spirits. As she stood there, shoulder cocked back, uncovered hair blowing in the growing wind, Lucy did not expect the herbs to defend them. She believed she was about to die, cruelly and painfully. There would be no one left to rescue Emily, and the sadness, the disappointment, and the anger at that outweighed the fear, as mighty as that was.
The dog leapt into the air to attack, and Byron shouted, “Now!” as he hurled his herbs. Lucy needed no prodding, and she tossed but an instant later, wanting the dog to be but a little closer. The herbs spread out into the air, lingering like a cloud, and the dog, mouth open wide, impossibly wide—its tongue wagging like a grotesque wave—seemed to flinch its massive head just slightly as it passed through.
Lucy braced herself for agony and oblivion, but instead there was a loud cracking sound as beast and cloud met, and the dog let out a yelp and bucked in the air, turning sideways, and now suddenly coming toward them like a massive projectile. Lucy grabbed Byron’s hand and pulled him out of the way while the dog, which must have weighed thirty stone, slammed into the door, cracking the wood. It fell to the ground with a sickening wet noise, still and lifeless and bloody.
“My God,” said Byron. “I hoped for something, but surely even you did not expect so definitive a result.”
Lucy stared at the dog, confused and uncertain, for it did not appear to be a thing of spirit at all, but flesh and blood—and a great deal of the latter. The animal’s abdomen was torn open, and blood pooled around its lifeless body. Then Lucy noticed an acrid scent, like that of a gun just fired. She turned and looked down the path where a woman stood holding a long-barreled hunting weapon. She was just now lowering it. She was perhaps two hundred feet away, but there was no mistaking her tall form, elegant shape, pale complexion, and the ethereal white hair that hung free, billowing in the wind. It was Mary Crawford.
28
LUCY HARDLY KNEW WHAT TO SAY OR WHAT TO DO. THERE WAS Mary Crawford, who had vanished, who had left her, who had perhaps taken Emily and replaced her with a monster. She had also just saved Lucy’s life. There could be no doubt about that.
Her legs felt unnatural, not her own, unsteady and heavy at once, but she forced herself to walk to Mary, who stood with a grim smile upon her face.
“We must hurry,” Mary said. “I know not when Lady Harriett will return.”
“Who are you?” said Lucy, her voice now sharp. “What are you? Was it you who took Emily?”
Mary took Lucy’s hand. “There will be time for answers, Lucy. I swear it to you, but if we do not go—now—it may be too late.”
“Mary is right,” said Byron. “We must go.”
Lucy spun in astonishment. “You are already acquainted?”
“I know not what you mean,” Mary said. “I perceive that you are alone here. I saw no pathetic excuse for a man cowering while you attempted to rescue him.”
“Mary,” Byron said in his most soothing voice, “this is no time for recriminations.”
“If you think,” Mary snapped back, “that I will not put a bullet through your knee rather than let you follow, it proves how little you understand me. I care nothing if you suffer. I care only for my friend, whom I love—an emotion you do not understand but as it pertains to yourself.”
Lucy pivoted her head between the two of them. More than ever, she felt like some child being dragged about by adults she neither knew nor understood. It seemed now that Mary too was familiar with Byron, and not happy in the acquaintance, though she had betrayed none of that when they had first met before his unconscious form at her uncle’s house. It took no great leap of the imagination to suppose what Byron had done to Mary to incur this anger, nor why she would keep such a familiarity a secret. He was the man he was, and he made little pretense of being otherwise, but he was also beautiful and charming, and more than once Lucy had known the temptation he could inspire.
“I won’t leave him,” said Lucy. “I asked him to take me here, and he aided me when I needed it. I will not turn my back upon him.”
“Damn it!” Mary spat. “I will take him off the grounds—to the inn. No more than that. Let him say but one wrong thing, and I shall give him a second bruise to match his first.”
They rode in Mary’s coach for the twenty or so minutes it took to return to the inn. No one spoke, and Lucy spent much of the time stealing glances at both Mary and Byron. The lady did nothing more than look out the window, her face hard and stony. Byron, for his part, appeared chastened, and looked to Lucy like nothing so much as a child who had been caught doing something naughty.
Lucy wanted to speak, to try to mend things between these two friends, these two people who, above all, had made her feel important and special and powerful—these people she liked, possibly loved, and whom she could not trust.
When they reached the inn, Mary opened the door herself. “Get out,” she said.
Byron did not look at her. Instead, he turned to Lucy. “You need not stay with her. I will see you back.”
“Too many times,” cut in Mary, “have I had you in my power and spared your life. You must think me softhearted, but I promise you are mistaken. Leave now if you value your flesh.”
Byron spared a glance for Lucy, and a sort of sheepish half smile, and then departed, gently closing the door behind him.
“You do not know him if you would put your trust in him,” said Mary.
“I know what he would have of me,” Lucy said, “but I do not offer it.”
“You know nothing,” Mary said. “He will take what he desires, do so without remorse or regret, and think himself mighty for indulging his appetites.”
Lucy gasped. “Is that what he did to you? Did he force himself upon you?”
“It does not matter. If he can be of use to you, then use him, but never put yourself in his power. He is weak and vile, but he is dangerous because he is beautiful and believes himself exempt from the law of men. In truth, he is a capricious madman. I shall say no more of him, so do not ask.”
Lucy did not recognize in Byron the man Mary described, but she understood there was no point in arguing. “If you will not speak of Lord Byron, then speak of my niece. Do you know where she is? Did you take her, Mary, and replace her with that creature?”