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  What he saw nearly made him slump against the wall in shock. The books on the tables were still glowing, only much more noticeably now. A thin greenish mist rose from the pages as they flipped back and forth, propelled neither by rats nor an unseen breeze. The tendrils of the mist resembled fingers, gradually stretching across the room until they hovered only inches from his body. And coming from the mist—or maybe it was from the space between those fluttering pages—came the most hideous, evil hissing sounds Clive had ever heard.

  Ours, they seemed to be saying.

  The house seemed eerily quiet when Blaylock returned. A quick search failed to turn up Reginald in the foyer or kitchen, as he would have expected.

  This was unacceptable as far as Blaylock was concerned. He was cold and tired and wanted a warming cup of tea. “Reginald!” he bellowed. “Show yourself!”

  No one did. Belatedly it occurred to him that Clive didn’t seem to hear him, either. But then, he was probably ensconced back in the library, continuing with his studies. Could Reginald have gone there, too?

  A sudden, queasy feeling hit Blaylock right in the center of his stomach. The library—Reginald—Clive… how could he have been so stupid? Reginald had no intention of obeying his instructions or honoring his wishes where Clive and the library were concerned. No wonder his attempt to substitute Eric had been so halfhearted. Reginald had no intention of straying from the original plan.

  He started toward the library at a dead run, shouting both their names. He only hoped he could reach those cursed doors in time.

  Clive found himself paralyzed with terror, or possibly some other force he could neither understand nor fight, as the green mist slowly drifted toward him. Though Reginald hadn’t managed to close the panel door on him, the crack had shrunk considerably. Any moment, he knew, it would close him in with whatever foul demons the pages of those infernal books had coughed up.

  Ours, the voices seemed to hiss again. They spoke in tones rather than actual words, but Clive was sure he understood their intentions.

  So young.

  So vital.

  Blaylock has done well this time.

  Finally, the longest and thinnest of those spindly green tendrils stretched out and hovered in front of his face. He felt its heat and smelled its foul, sulphurous odor. He managed to scream once, loud and long, as it closed in on him.

  Then the panel shifted behind him, his feet went out from under him, and he felt himself falling backward. He was vaguely conscious of a scuffle taking place around him, but he was too dazed and nauseated to be sure.

  Blaylock’s voice reached his ears. He and Reginald were shouting at each other, arguing vehemently. He tried to open his eyes and thought he saw a blur of motion that looked like two men locked together, wrestling each other in the confined space of the library as an eerie green mist swelled around them and the strange, foul odor grew stronger. It seemed to emanate from the books on the tables. It filled his senses, not at all pleasantly, and made him dizzy all over again. He felt himself falling into a deep, dark oblivion.

  A moment later, Clive was sure he heard screaming—a high-pitched, heart-stopping, agonized screaming.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter 6

  “Foolish,” Blaylock murmured to the limp figure in his arms, alternately patting Clive’s face vigorously and kissing his motionless lips. Both were seated on the library floor in front of the secret panel, now closed and safely sealed again. The last echoes of Reginald’s screams had died away many minutes before. “Foolish, foolish, foolish! Why did you go with him, Clive? Why?”

  “Lied… lied to me,” Clive seemed to mumble, or at least that was what Blaylock thought he was saying. The words sent a shiver of dread through him.

  “I didn’t want to,” he protested, continuing to shake Clive’s shoulders. One of them was hideously bruised beneath his torn shirtsleeve. It made Blaylock want to kill Reginald all over again. Luckily, there was no need.

  At last, Clive’s soft pale eyelashes fluttered, and his lids slowly opened. He gaped in bewilderment, and it seemed to take him a moment to focus on Blaylock.

  “Am I… am I dead?” he asked, tensing up in Blaylock’s arms. “Are we both in hell?”

  “An interesting description, and not entirely inaccurate,” Blaylock said, but he couldn’t stop a huge smile from overtaking his face as he pulled Clive close to his chest and squeezed him in gratitude. “But no. As it happens, we are both still fully, gloriously alive.”

  When Blaylock finally loosened his grip, fearful he might unintentionally smother the person he had just rescued, Clive sat up and rubbed his forehead.

  “You got me out of there,” he said, looking over at the now-innocuous panel. “You saved me, Elwyn. Reginald tried to…” Trailing off he shook his head. “No, that can’t be right. It had to be a dream. The whole thing is just so weird.”

  “It was no dream. And yes, I pulled you free. With not a moment to spare, by the looks of things.”

  “What about Reginald?”

  Blaylock scowled. “It’s too late for him. I’m afraid Reginald now has what he always aspired to—he is a part of Blaylock Abbey—now, then, and forever. How I will manage without a manservant I cannot quite imagine. But I could not permit him to follow through with what he had planned for you, my love.”

  “I… I just don’t understand what happened. Why did Reginald try to lock me in there? I mean, I assume he was trying to kill me… but what was in that secret room?”

  Blaylock sighed. “You remember I told you about the monks that disappeared when King Henry’s men arrived to kill them?” When Clive nodded, he continued. “They weren’t the sort of monks everyone assumed. The violence of the Reformation didn’t concern them except that it might have prevented them from continuing their research into magic and alchemy. You speculated that they escaped the abbey through a secret panel that day the soldiers came. Well, they didn’t. They never left the abbey—at least, their spirits didn’t. Knowing what was coming, they had designed enchanted books to hold their essences.”

  “You mean… they turned themselves into ghosts or something?”

  “In a manner of speaking. They are still alive, much changed from what they were in the sixteenth century, but no less foul in their purposes. In order to survive, you see, they must prey on the souls of the living. As master of the abbey, like my forefathers and brother before me, it is my duty to provide them with nourishment. Reginald assisted me when necessary, though he always enjoyed it in a way I did not. Still, I did what I had to do.”

  Clive’s brows scrunched together, and Blaylock knew he was remembering the scene he had interrupted the night before.

  “That man last night—he was supposed to be the one.”

  “Yes. I had decided I could not offer you to them as I had originally planned, so he was to be your substitute. I had hoped you and I could carry on together, just as we had been. I never wanted you to learn the truth, Clive—but I know now that was wrong of me. I am not accustomed to asking forgiveness… but I must attempt to do so now.”

  Clive blinked in astonishment. “You’re apologizing to me for trying to feed me to a roomful of demons? Man—that’s one I’ve never heard before. It’s got to be worth something for that reason alone.”

  Slowly, his muscles aching from his brief but strenuous fight with Reginald, Blaylock drew himself to his feet while Clive remained on the floor. The center of his chest hurt, too, though he didn’t think that particular ache had been caused by the fight. It seemed to emanate from someplace deeper—where most men claimed their hearts were, in fact. Perhaps he really did have one, after all.

  “I assume you will never want to speak to me again,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “In truth, I don’t deserve it. I only ask, in light of my position in this village, and the long and illustrious lineage of the Blaylock line, that you refrain from telling the authorities what you now know. I am willing to pay for your
silence, of course. Name your price, and I will do my best to meet it.”

  “You know what’s weird?” Clive said after thinking it over a while. Blaylock realized, belatedly, that he had been holding his breath the whole time. “Reginald made me almost the same offer, though I know now that his wasn’t sincere. Obviously, he planned to guarantee my silence in a more permanent—and cost-effective—way.”

  “Reginald’s loyalty to this house and to my family led him to do things even I didn’t approve of,” Blaylock said. “His insubordination ultimately cost him everything. In a way, though, his failure where you are concerned is understandable. He had no idea how a genuinely good man thinks—the sort of man I believe you are, Clive.”

  “Me?” Clive let out a sudden laugh with a bitter edge that startled Blaylock. “Oh, Elwyn, you really don’t know the half of it. You think I’m standing here judging you and Reginald, don’t you? The truth is, I have no right to do that. No right at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to confess something to you. In my early life… I came from a pretty poor family, Elwyn. My parents were divorced, and neither one of them had any real use for me afterward. They let me do whatever I want—earn a few quid by whatever means necessary. It took the pressure off them, you see. When I was seventeen, I came up with what I thought was a foolproof scheme. I used to hang around certain pubs, attract men who looked like they wouldn’t dare to tell anyone what had happened afterward, and then steal whatever I could from them after I got them drunk or…you know, satisfied.” He swallowed, his face turning red. “I was relentless. I took wallets, watches, cell phones, anything I thought I could sell.”

  “A tried and true method, I must admit,” Blaylock said when Clive paused, expecting some kind of response. “I have heard of such things, though fortunately I never experienced them firsthand.”

  Clive nodded and continued. “One day, I went up to a guy’s flat and let him fall asleep after…you know. I thought everything was fine, but he woke up while I was taking the cash out of his pants pocket. He was furious… and then he attacked me. I wasn’t having any of it. I… I clobbered him with a chair, knocked him down, and just kept hitting him. Afterward, I left him there. I don’t know whether he was alive or dead. And you know what—at the time, I didn’t care.”

  “Most likely he recovered. Otherwise you would have heard about it.”

  “I guess.” Clive swallowed again, harder this time. Blaylock saw his eyes glisten with tears. How very curious, he thought. “When I was accepted into university, I decided never to do that again. But this morning, when you were away, I thought I could grab something from the library and get away with it… and I almost did.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because it would have meant being away from you.” This time, he did cry. Blaylock drew him to his feet, reached out, and took the tears on his right index finger. He examined them for a while, watching the light glisten off the tiny droplets as though examining finely cut diamonds. “So I’m not so very perfect after all… you see?”

  “Yes, I do see.” Recovering himself, Blaylock shook the tears off his hand, reached out, and slid his arms around Clive’s waist. “It seems to me we suit each other very well, after all. In my opinion, it is always a mistake to strive for perfection. It only leads to disappointment, don’t you think?”

  “I… I suppose it can.”

  “I’m without a manservant now, you know. While I am in no hurry to hire another, I will require some help around the abbey. I was hoping you might be able to aid me in that regard.” He glanced up at the shelves that hid the secret panel. “I have one task you can assist me with right away. I have decided this room is in need of some renovations… a solid brick wall over there might be a good start. That way, whatever is in there will stay there, while whoever remains on this side can use this house in peace. If they can exist without nourishment, let them try. If not—well, everything must come to an end, just like good King Henry and all his court and soldiers.”

  Clive blinked in shock. “You mean… you’re going to leave them in there to die?”

  “They’re already long dead. I consider it more of a dignified fading away—long overdue, probably better than they deserve, after depriving me of my manservant. I do find that hard to forgive. For all his flaws, Reginald did make a fine cup of tea.”

  “But what about tradition? What about your duty as master of Blaylock Abbey?”

  Blaylock sighed and drew Clive closer to him. “Sometimes, my dear Clive, it’s time to exercise our freedom… to end old and wearisome traditions and start new and more pleasurable ones. Don’t you agree?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Smiling, Blaylock placed his thumb under Clive’s chin and tilted his head upward, so they were looking directly into one another’s eyes. Then he leaned forward and gave his own lips the freedom to enjoy themselves.