Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(91)
Author: Kristen Ashley

On the second floor were bedrooms, many of them having their own sitting rooms, dressing rooms and bathrooms. The second floor also held the morning room, and the leather gallery filled with portraits of Beaumarises past. Lastly, the second floor also held a beautiful, cosy sewing room which was situated in a turret.

Fenella told Abby the third floor held the now unused servants quarters, nursery and school room. She explained as well that the rooms below the ground floor were also mostly no longer utilised but had been, in olden times, for the running the house, including the kitchens, housekeeper’s and butler’s offices and quarters, a coal room, laundry rooms, things like that.

Fenella said on the first floor they’d missed the conservatory and library. As these were Fenella’s favourite places, they were to be their final destination.

They had made it to the long, handsome, wood-panelled gallery, filled with portraits of ancestors (and, Abby noted with some surprise and a vague sense of alarm, that all the women were blonde and all the men looked quite a bit like Cash).

Except, of course, Alistair’s portrait, which was the largest of any and the most pompous. Something about it, its size and the prominence of place, turned Abby’s stomach.

“I know,” Honor whispered beside her, obviously reading her thoughts, “makes you sick, doesn’t it?”

Abby didn’t speak but she nodded.

Then Honor turned dancing eyes to Abby. “I wonder what Cash will do with that when he moves in?” she asked, motioning to the portrait with her head.

“I hope he burns it,” Abby murmured and Honor took her arm in both hands, leaned into her and gave her arm a squeeze.

Then she muttered, “I’ll bring the marshmallows,” and Abby couldn’t help it, it was such a divinely evil comment, she laughed.

“This is my favourite,” Fenella called and Honor and Abby moved toward Fenella who was standing off the main gallery in a big bay window where there were two, smaller portraits.

Abby walked up to Fenella’s side and saw she was gazing at a man who looked, shockingly, just like Cash.

It wasn’t an old portrait. By his clothes you could see that it was recent, not from this decade or the last, but not hundreds of years ago either. And it wasn’t like any of the other formal poses of the other pictures.

This man was a man on the move, a man with energy, a man with a healthy appetite for life. So healthy, he seized it by its throat and consumed it.

How the artist captured it, Abby had no idea. He was striding across a field, Penmort resting grandly atop its tor in the distance. He had two dogs at his heels, beautiful German Shepherds. He was in outdoor clothing, tweed blazer with patches at the arms, boots over his trousers, mud up the heels and ankles. He had broad shoulders, an athletic build and you could tell he had a wide, strong gait, made easy for him by having long legs. He held a shotgun, cocked open and lying over his forearm, the gun butt tucked into his side.

The picture was in profile, but the man was looking over his shoulder as if someone had called him, or, perhaps, he was calling his dogs. Therefore, the artist had been able to capture him full-face.

And he was heart-stoppingly handsome.

On closer inspection, he didn’t look just like Cash. There were subtle differences. His forehead was broader, for one. He wore his hair shorter, for another. The planes and angles of his face were harder and sharper, but no less attractive.

But the similarity was uncanny.

“Who is that?” Abby asked.

“Anthony Beaumaris,” Fenella answered and Abby’s body jerked at the realisation she was gazing upon Cash’s father.

“My God,” she breathed and she felt her chest constrict at the knowledge that this man, this compelling, dynamic, striking man had had his life cut short.

Something made her lift her hand as if to touch the portrait, as if touching it would mean she’d touch him, but when her finger was just centimetres away, the scream began.

And it was just as Honor described it. It was low, it was eerie and it was sinister.

Abby’s blood ran cold.

Her hand dropped and she turned wide eyes to Fenella and breathed, “What is that?” even though she knew what it was.

Exactly what it was.

“Go,” Fenella whispered in a barely-there voice.

Abby blinked at her. “Pardon?”

But Fenella was looking over Abby’s shoulder, her face pale, her eyes frightened and she shrieked, “Go now!”

Abby whirled then froze when she saw Vivianna in the gallery, floating, the tattered edges of her dress whipping around her viciously as if they were in a frenzy, as if they could do harm. Her mouth was opened emitting a scream that filled the very air. Her face was bloodthirsty.

Her eyes were on Abby.

“Go!” Fenella screamed and Abby went.

She hadn’t been stupid. This time she wore jeans and flats with rubber soles, good for gripping and easy to run in.

And Abby ran. She ran for dear life.

She skirted Vivianna and made it out the door, to the hall and was flying down the stairs, her breath coming in terrified pants, when Vivianna formed in front of her.

Right in front of her.

And Abby, to her shock, ran into her like she was a solid, physical thing.

And to her further stunned surprise, a burst of purple sparks shot out between them, coming from the place where the amulet rested against Abby’s chest.

Both Abby and Vivianna flew backward. Abby, landing painfully on her hands, Vivianna, arms wheeling and out-of-control, descended away from Abby going nearly all the way down the flight of stairs.

Vivianna halted her descent. She bent her head and looked at what appeared to be a burn mark on her dress where Abby’s amulet had hit her.

Her head shot up, her eyes narrowed on Abby, she opened her mouth and let out another blood-chilling scream.

Then she shot forward, straight toward Abby but Abby scrambled back up the steps, crawling on all fours like a crab.

Even though Abby moved, and fast, Vivianna was nearly on top of her when the spirit was jerked back at the waist, her scream abruptly halting.

“That’s it, she-bitch, The McPherson has come to play!” Angus bellowed from a dozen steps away. His hand held a strange whip, the end of it was curled around Vivianna’s waist, he was reeling her in and Vivianna was struggling against the bounds.

“Go lassie, I got her,” Angus called.

“Abby! This way!” Fenella shouted from the top of the stairs and Abby turned, crawling up the stairs on all fours again, stumbling in a terrified frenzy so she was sometimes using her knees and sometimes her feet.