Behind the Veil Page 10

  “I recently bought an old hotel north of Los Angeles,” he said. “It promised to be quite the retreat, but the building needed much work. I took Finola with me one day when she was driving Abby to distraction. Finola went exploring and I left her to it. She wasn’t to go far but I found her crying in the cellar. I was looking at the piping to see what repairs we needed when I saw her. She was alone. There was no one else there. I made damn sure of that.”

  “No workers or tradespeople?” Letitia said.

  “None.” Mr. Driscoll’s arm slashed through the air. “I would never allow any harm to happen to her. The men who were working on the repairs have worked for me for years. They knew her. I did not see it in one of them to have caused it.”

  “What about before then?” Letitia said. “Could whatever have happened to her have occurred at another time?”

  “There was nothing before then, and I’ve told the doctors that,” he snapped, and Letitia drew back at his vehemence. “She was laughing, spinning around the ballroom and pretending to dance when I wouldn’t play with her.”

  Letitia bit her lip but pressed on. “What did she describe happening?”

  “She said a figure in the dark threw her to the floor,” he said, his once-bright eyes darkening to terrible vengeance. “It ripped her dress…but there were no marks, no sign of violence, but she was screaming as though it had all happened in a matter of minutes. She’d gone down to the cellar to explore, even though it was empty. A crew had already cleared it of garbage because I wanted to use the space. Anything of value I had taken to my house cellars. I was inspecting the plumbing in the kitchen when I heard screaming. There was no one in the cellar but her, and only one way in or out. She was alone.”

  “What about the house, this old hotel.” Letitia scrambled to find a source and to arm herself against an unknown foe.

  “It’s not been in use in years.” Mr. Driscoll rubbed his eyes. “Mr. Calbright apparently inherited it from his father and did nothing with it. His son wants to sell the family’s useless assets so he can focus on his shipping company. The hotel is in a bad way but given the price they sold it for, I thought it a bargain. It’s well built and a good investment if you’re willing to do the work yourself. Or, in my case, Mr. Quinn, before he died. He was trying to finish another job so he could begin work on the hotel.”

  Mr. Driscoll’s voice faded, and his gaze focused out the window.

  He had more than one reason for his guilt. It wasn’t just Finola he felt responsible for, Letitia guessed, it was the father Finola knew—his sister’s husband.

  Letitia drew her arms around her, tucking the blanket in tight to her waist, wondering what could have happened. The miles passed, the lights of the city fewer and farther between, until the car climbed up the hill toward a house that overlooked the city.

  Built as a castle with a modern flair, the house was made of stone with plaster white walls, the roofing all black tiles. Towers dotted the edges, sharp jagged teeth, and within the wolf’s mouth were lights, warm and inviting.

  Letitia reached her senses out, but the house held no true fear, and she bit down on her ability. In preparation, she imagined herself surrounded in a pleasant light from which nothing but what she chose could penetrate.

  It wasn’t an ability she actively used, but it was always there in the background, humming away, filtering enough out so that she wasn’t surprised but still knew of people’s attitudes around her. Her innate ability to do this had saved her life and the life of several other women once. It was only instinctual until Old Mother Borrows had shown her otherwise. It was a shield against things not of this world.

  By the time they pulled up at the doors of the mansion, Letitia was in control.

  If there was a malevolent force in the house, it could not reach her without her permission.

  Mr. Driscoll offered his hand, helping her out of the car.

  His palm was warm against her leather-clad one, his disposition kind in his relief to have her at the house. The sun was an orange sliver on the skyline and fast fading to nothing, even in the few seconds she took to admire the view down over the gardens, bare as they were with the winter breeze. Still, she hesitated, staring at the perfect landscaping that was so like the old houses of England.

  Mr. Driscoll strode to the door, a footman already opening it as his master approached. She knew now not to wonder at how he’d thought he could buy her off. He was accustomed to wealth and the American manner of assuming everything was simply a matter of price. For all of his appearance of kindness, his earlier behavior was clearer to Letitia—money solved most problems.

  She only wished it were true.

  Walking up the stone steps, she entered the hall through the wide wooden double doors.

  Inside, the castle motif was apparent only in the white walls and exposed wooden beams of the ceiling, which were better suited to a European castle than the modern-day city of Los Angeles. Modern electricity powered the low lights in alcoves that highlighted the beams.

  “Glad to have you back, sir,” an elderly butler said, who was using a walking stick. “Mrs. Quinn is in the study, and the nurse is sitting with Miss Finola.”

  “Thank you, Hargraves,” Mr. Driscoll said, taking his coat and hanging it himself before accepting Letitia’s. “This is the Ms. Hawking I spoke of before. She’s come to help Finola.”

  Letitia wasn’t sure she could but said nothing as she smiled at Hargraves. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Oh, ma’am,” he said, tears filling his eyes, “I’m so glad you could come. You’ve got to help our poor little girl. She suffers so much all in the house hear her.”

  There was a desperation that clung to the butler as he dropped his professional manner in sorrow. She let a sliver of him in and was touched with a chill from autumn wind passing through bare trees. It was a stronger reaction than Letitia expected. She feared the situation may be worse than Mr. Driscoll told her but wasn’t sure how possible under the awful circumstances. That he was gritting his teeth and avoiding her glance did not ease her.

  “Ms. Hawking?” Mrs. Quinn was standing in the corridor, staring in amazement before scurrying toward them. “Alasdair, you got her to come.”

  She rushed to embrace Letitia, who shrank away until she found herself against Mr. Driscoll. A steady hand on her shoulder eased her anxiety and he was quick to let go. Mrs. Quinn hesitated, a blush growing on her cheeks, and she stopped a few feet shy of Letitia.

  Letitia tried to slow her elevated pulse. Mr. Driscoll held one hand not far behind her back, as though he were a safe haven for her retreat. When their gaze met there was only concern until Letitia dipped her head once and his arm fell away.

  “Ms. Hawking has agreed to look at Finola,” Mr. Driscoll clarified to the room. “She isn’t sure what she can do to help, but we may have to take Finola to Scotland.”

  Mrs. Quinn opened her mouth, shaking her head, but Mr. Driscoll was already holding up his hand.

  “Please,” he said, “let’s at least give this a try. We have to do what’s best for Finola, and maybe Letitia is right, as she has been about many other things.”

  He directed the last words to Mrs. Quinn, who bit her lip before nodding.

  “Well,” she said after a moment, clearing her throat, “if you’d please come this way.”

  Letitia followed them, allowing the house itself through her shields.

  A prickle on her skin made her glance over her shoulder, and though nothing was there, she shivered. There were no shadows on her hosts, but she was cautious all the same.

  While no malevolent presence existed, something in the air kept Letitia on guard, eyes darting to shadows and gloved hands on the banister longing to seek out what unsettled her so.

  There was something in the house that didn’t belong there.

  She braced herself and followed
Mrs. Quinn up the stairs.

  Chapter 9

  Finola lay in a room better suited to a princess.

  A four-poster bed draped in gauze shrouded the figure within. A pale pink duvet covered the slight frame, illuminated by a rose glass lampshade held aloft by a fairy cast in bronze.

  Pretty as it was, Letitia focused on the girl in the bed.

  Finola’s breathing was labored, her eyes twitching beneath her lids and forehead clammy, with threads of auburn hair sticking to her skin.

  Letitia studied her for several moments.

  There was no darkness attached to the girl, though the room’s low light gave too many shadows for Letitia’s liking. Ever wary of self-protection, she took hesitant footsteps closer.

  When she stood at the foot of the bed and was sure there were no dark specters here, she took Finola’s measure.

  Finola was drugged, but from the girl’s eyes flickering in uneasy sleep, it wasn’t working. Even with the morphine, Letitia could tell what the others could not—Finola would still have the nightmares.

  A nurse sat beside the bed, and Letitia looked to her, letting a sliver of the nurse’s personality in.

  A warm breeze regarded her, refreshing though it was weak. The nurse stared at Letitia but made no comment at Letitia’s scrutiny.

  “What’s your name?” Letitia asked, coming around the bed to offer her hand.

  “Nurse Hopkins.” Hopkins had curling brown hair and hard dark eyes. A firm hand gripped Letitia’s gloved one, and she maintained eye contact. There was a hardness within the nurse, and Letitia guessed she’d served in the war. Not on the front lines, but she was toughened by her experience.

  “What can you tell me about Finola’s condition?” Letitia asked. Mr. Driscoll came up beside her, and Letitia held up a hand to silence him. He glared but nodded permission for Hopkins to speak when the nurse hesitated.

  “She has terrible night episodes,” the nurse said, “like those of the soldiers coming back. When she’s awake she cries a lot, she…bathes often but won’t eat much.” The nurse’s glance dipped between Finola and Mrs. Quinn as though she would say more, but she pressed her lips together.

  “What else?” Letitia’s gentle tone, and the retreat of Mr. Driscoll’s looming form, let loose the nurse’s tongue.

  “I walk with her in the gardens,” she said. “She…doesn’t like people to touch her. Appears distracted and nervous, takes to fright, doesn’t like strange men—the gardeners and delivery men and such.”

  It was succinct but what Letitia needed to hear. “Thank you, could you give me a moment?”

  The nurse needed another nod from Mr. Driscoll before she took her leave.

  “Well?” Mrs. Quinn asked, standing on the far side of the bed, touching her daughter’s forehead. The girl flinched, and Mrs. Quinn drew back her hand with a disappointed frown.

  “Please don’t,” Letitia asked, and Mrs. Quinn’s glower turned to acute displeasure.

  “She’s my daughter and she’s sick.” Mrs. Quinn’s voice held a razor’s edge that hadn’t been there before.

  “She also can’t distinguish who is touching her when she’s dreaming,” Letitia said, and Mrs. Quinn covered her widening mouth, gaze darting between Letitia and Finola. She must come do this often, and what should have been the comforting gesture of a mother made the nightmares worse.

  “I need quiet,” Letitia said, turning to Mr. Driscoll. “She shouldn’t wake up. All I’m going to do is slip in and see if I can ascertain what she’s dreaming about. Perhaps get to the source of the problem. But…if it becomes too much, and I ask you to take me straight home, will you?”

  She couldn’t run like she had last time or wait until she was alone to let her fear get the better of her. In hindsight, she should have asked that they bring Finola to her, but it was too late now. Letitia could at least be sure before she started that Mr. Driscoll would do the right thing by her.

  “What do you want us to do?” He said, and Letitia took it as an acceptance he would do as she asked.

  “Please just stand by the door,” Letitia said, gazing at Finola, “and don’t distract me. I cannot insist on how important that is, and do not speak.”

  She waited until they both agreed. She received another curt nod from Mr. Driscoll, while Mrs. Quinn murmured something that sounded like acquiescence. She sat in a chair on the far side of the room and Mr. Driscoll stood defensive by the door with his arms crossed.

  Letitia cast their presence from her mind, tugging her gloves off one finger at a time as she studied Finola.

  A part of it was a delay as she waited for the last possible moment to extricate herself, but with every second that passed a fierce anger rose within her—at her own treatment, the doctors with the best of intentions doing more harm than good. In the asylum, Letitia was an adult at least, had some mettle of sense within, or Moira Borrows would never have gotten her out.

  As a young girl, Finola would have no such constitution.

  Letitia had no way to judge while Finola slept, but as she looked at the forlorn figure an old fear crawled along her throat and she swallowed against it. An asylum’s good intentions would break a girl like Finola.

  Taking a deep breath, she followed Old Mother Borrows’ mannerisms even though a fine tremble skittered over her skin. Her hands clenched, and she willed the sensation away, gritting her jaw as she prepared herself for whatever haunted the Driscoll home.

  Holding her naked palm over Finola’s forehead, Letitia didn’t touch the girl but opened her senses to whatever was emanating from Finola.

  There was the sparkle of a stream, fish slipping beneath the surface. Letitia almost jerked back in shock; Finola held latent abilities. Animals in any impression often denoted psychic intelligence. Old Mother Borrows found within Letitia a dark wood settling with snow and deer walking between the trees, eyes wide and watchful.

  But while Letitia marveled at seeing it in someone else, so too did her mind’s eye behold the fresh stream pouring into a fetid pool held in place by a rock dam. Fish choked in the sludge, their rotting corpses buoying to the surface. And on the walls of the dam stood a figure. The malice within its eyeless gaze reached into her soul and left her awash in the slimy sensation of the dead fish as though she’d plunged into the dam waters herself.

  Letitia drew back, eyes wide as she looked about, but there was no shadowy specter in Finola’s room. But its presence lingered in Finola’s mind.

  Wherever the spirit rested, whatever its attachment, the trails of its foul presence staining the girl’s soul was the cause of Finola’s distress. Mr. Driscoll was right—no doctors would find anything because it would leave no physical marks—only the ones on her psyche. Drugging her wouldn’t keep the vile creature at bay.

  But it was not there now. For the present, Finola’s subtle twitches were wholly bad dreams.

  Relief almost crashed into Letitia. Her hand lifted to her chest to still her beating heart, rising to protect her throat and stop the sudden desire to scream. Letitia wouldn’t allow her fear of the past to distract her. She could not have an attack now. She retreated to the nurse’s chair by the bed, breathing through her fluttering pulse, her legs shaky as she sat.

  “Ms. Hawking?” Mr. Driscoll was at the end of the bed.

  “Please,” she said, desperation making her voice soft, “come no closer.”

  When she looked up at him, she was drawn to the concern in his deep green eyes and the hand held out as though to help. The perpetual desert warmth rolled off him in waves that swept away the chill of the nightmare.

  He wasn’t touching her, but he wasn’t far enough away. She needed distance to think but also to explain what was wrong.

  “We should not discuss this in front of her,” Letitia said, fumbling for composure as she dropped her gaze.

  “Yes,” Mr. Drisco
ll said, “and you look as though you could use a brandy.”

  “I’ll stay until Hopkins comes back,” Mrs. Quinn said, coming to take Letitia’s seat. Letitia got to her feet and left the room. At the door, she gave a single glance back at the bed. The familiarity of the girl’s mind was tugging at Letitia to the point where she wanted to stay and do as Mrs. Quinn had and stroke the girl’s forehead.

  Instead, she let Mr. Driscoll escort her downstairs to a library.

  Books on law lined the shelves, thick green carpet covered the wooden floor, two leather armchairs sat before a roaring fireplace, and a desk littered with paper dominated one end of the room. Letitia could have slept on the desk, it was so large. The stacks of paperwork denoted that Mr. Driscoll was a busy man, or perhaps he had been working from home. Someone had brought the briefcase he’d left behind at Letitia’s apartment from the car, but he ignored it all.

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” he said, going to a sideboard to pour her a drink.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said, holding her hands out to the fire to try to replace the warmth she’d gleaned from Mr. Driscoll’s personality.

  His presence was beside her, too close, his hand on her elbow and sliding down to her wrist where he lifted her hand and placed the drink there.

  “If it rids you of your pale appearance, I’d be grateful,” he said, hand not leaving hers until her fingers wrapped around the crystal cut glass. He held on a few moments longer, searching her eyes, but let go to pour his own generous glass. Glancing down, she saw he’d only given her a nip, and when his back was turned, she placed it on the mantle without another thought.

  She didn’t want a drink. She wanted out of this beastly mess.

  “What is your verdict?” He sat behind the desk, and she saw his eyes drift to the glass though he said nothing.

  It was as though they were back in his office, and she hoped he didn’t try to make her sign anything again.

  “This isn’t a piece of paper or business transaction,” Letitia said, snapping at his cavalier attitude.