Page 76 of This Haunted Heart

Indeed, I was nothing like the woman Utrecht knew, because there was no thrill in the fear I felt as his hand closed around my neck. This fright was a torment that tasted of bile and ash.It twisted my stomach and brought the ghosts pouring into the room, turning the hall a biting, bitter cold.

“I’ll let you out, madman, but if you try to hurt me, I’ll hurt her,” Utrecht threatened, dragging me against him.

“Don’t. Touch. Her.” Finley barked each word, but his fight against the door ceased.

Utrecht kicked the chair out from under the knob. Finley surged out into the hall, his clothing disheveled, hair a mess across his brow, the bronze in his eyes glowing bright. He was otherwise unharmed, and I let out the air trapped in my lungs, relieved.

Utrecht shook me gently, reminding us both who was in control here. “Put the key in her hand. Don’t leave me waiting . . .”

Finley pulled out the chain attached to his waistcoat, freeing the ring of keys. Then his eyes found mine and softened, and he was my Lochlan again. He removed the key and placed it in my palm, the touch long and lingering.

“You know what to do,” Utrecht hissed in my ear.

I reached back and slipped the key into his pocket.

“That’s it,” Utrecht said, voice patronizing like I was a pet who’d finally gotten the trick right. Then he backed us against the wall. “You lead the way, madman. Try anything and you know what I’ll do.” He gave my neck a squeeze until my breath hitched and I wheezed.

Lochlan’s nostrils flared. Hands in fists, he marched ahead of us. I followed, pushed forward by Utrecht, his hand a leash around my neck. We cut through the gallery, then rounded the back stairs.

Our nearness to that ebonized door covered in locks frenzied the angry ghosts shut up inside. They pounded onthe walls and doors so hard the beat of it reverberated under my feet.

Utrecht’s hand slid away from my throat. He stepped around me, eyes locked on the strange door, mouth gone slack. I remembered seeing the ebonized door for the first time, feeling the haunting pull of it.

“It’s only natural for the living to be curious about the dead,” Lochlan said coolly.

“What’s in there?” Utrecht asked, entranced.

“The greatest treasure of all. Answers,” Lochlan said. He stood casually with his hands in his pockets, like the fight was already over. “The answer to what will happen to you when you die.”

I peered cautiously between them.

“I don’t plan to ever die.” Utrecht stalked closer to the parlor with all the arrogance of a self-made man who’d gained his fortune through the dogged pursuit of things he needed to control. Like me. And now the mystery before him.

“There’s nothing in there you want to trifle with,” Lochlan said. The pounding grew, incessant. “But they certainly want you to try, don’t they? Can you hear them?”

“I hear . . . I’m not sure . . .” Utrecht stepped closer. The knocking grew so loud I felt it behind my breastbone. I muffled the sound with my palms pressed to my ears. Then all at once the pounding stopped.

“It’s the wrath in you,” Lochland said, voice piercing in the new quiet. “They want at you and all that rage. You’re just like they are.”

Utrecht stared at nothing, not listening at all. “Unlock the doors,” he whispered, fishing the key out of his pocket and pressing it back into Lochlan’s hand. He glanced briefly at theempty vases, and I wondered what his eyes saw there. What message had Gertrude left for him with her flowers?

Lochland returned the large brass key, holding it aloft. “You’ve been warned. I won’t be responsible for your destruction. You can do that to yourself.”

“This house . . .” Utrecht said, and he sounded almost humbled as he spoke—a state I’d never heard him in before. He was not a meek man. “It’s the most unnatural thing I’ve ever come upon. I want to take it all apart and see inside it, down to its bones.”

“It’s not the house that’s unnatural,” Lochlan said, brushing a hand casually over his chest to smooth what was ruffled. “It’s the people in it, and you can’t see my bones, though I welcome you to try. They won’t hang a man who kills in self-defense. Where you’re concerned, I’m eager for the excuse.”

Utrecht swiftly took the key back from him and set to work on the locks, attacking them with vigor, wincing when he had to make use of his injured arm. The ghosts remained eerily quiet. I held my breath as the last chain came loose. Slowly, he gripped the knob and turned it. Then he peeked his head inside, and a small expectant breath rushed past my lips.

Utrecht stepped fully into the room, and the hall went wintry cold.

Lochlan pulled the door shut behind him, threw the latch, and attached the chain, and that’s when the screaming started.

The sound was so oppressive and blood-curdling, my legs were sprinting me away, down the hall past the gallery, before my mind caught up to the rest of me.Get out, get out, get out,my panicked brain shouted.

I didn’t slow down until I was shouldering my way out the front entrance, crunching broken window glass under myboots. The gelding in the drive whinnied and reared, and I slowed my pace, arms lifted.

There was my escape, my chance away from all that frightfulness.

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