Chapter 32
Rhys wasn’t sure he’d ever been so nervous in his life as he watched Vivienne situate herself at the foot of Aelwyd’s grave, her blond hair pulled back from her face, standing there in her polka dots, clutching her candle.
She was so beautiful, so brave, and even though he knew he should probably be a little worried for himself, it was the idea of anything happening to her that had his stomach in knots, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
I should have told her before, he thought, but it was too late now. She was already murmuring under her breath, kneeling down at the foot of Aelwyd’s grave. Rhys wasn’t sure exactly what went into this ritual, but he knew it was more than summoning a ghost. Ghosts were entirely separate beings, made of energy that couldn’t get free.
A spirit, still trapped in its grave, was a much harder beast to summon.
Piper McBride had learned that the hard way, and now, watching Vivienne, Rhys had to fight the urge to rush forward and pull her out of here. To hell with the town, to hell with him, just don’t let Vivienne risk her own life to save either, he thought.
But she wanted to do this. Believed she could do this.
And he had to believe in her.
Gwyn and Elaine knelt down as well, and when Elaine pulled a small silver knife from her belt, Rhys gritted his teeth. It was a blood curse, and Vivi was Aelwyd’s blood relative, so it shouldn’t surprise him that blood was involved, but he still winced as that blade flashed over the meaty part of Vivienne’s palm, a quick, tiny cut, but a cut nonetheless.
Vivienne didn’t flinch, though, pressing her palm against the earth, lowering her head.
Gwyn and Elaine were whispering along with Vivienne, the flames of their candles flickering in the night wind, and Rhys felt cold race up his spine as the ground trembled slightly underfoot.
He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he felt it happen. There was nothing dramatic like there had been with Piper, no sudden form leaping up from the grave.
But when Vivienne turned her head and looked at him, he knew it was not her behind those eyes.
“Penhallow,” she said, and it was her voice, but another one underneath it, Welsh accent lilting, and it was in Welsh that Rhys answered.
“That’s me.”
Vivienne’s lips tilted upward at the corners. “You look like him. Like Gryffud.”
Touching the bridge of his nose, Rhys frowned. “Dammit all.”
“Are you as feckless as he was? As cruel?” she went on, rising to her feet. It was the strangest thing, seeing Vivienne’s body, a body he knew as well as his own now, but without her familiar gestures, her posture completely different. And she was watching him so coldly. He’d never seen that look on Vivienne’s face before, not even when she hated him.
“Feckless, possibly,” he answered now. “Cruel? I certainly hope not.”
Moving toward him, Vivienne spread her arms wide as behind her, Gwyn and Elaine watched, ashen.
“Gryffud wanted his magic to build this town,” she said. “Wanted it to be his legacy. His own private kingdom.”
“That does sound like the men in my family.”
“But there wasn’t enough. He was not enough,” Vivienne went on, so close now that he caught a whiff of ozone and earth, nothing like Vivienne’s own sugary sweet scent. “And so he asked for my help.”
The eyes fixed somewhere over Rhys’s shoulder, and he somehow knew she was seeing the caves, the ley lines. “I meant to blend my magic with his, but he took all of it.”
Her gaze fastened on him. “All of me. He drained me dry to build his town, and then erased my name from it. Built shrines in his own image. No thanks for my sacrifice, not even acknowledgment. It was as if I never was.”
Rhys could hear the hurt underneath all of that, and even though he knew it wasn’t Vivienne speaking to him, the words still lodged somewhere in his chest like a stone. “If it’s any consolation,” he said, “Gryffud did die of smallpox which I hear is pretty awful, so—”
“There can be no consolation!” Her voice rose, the wind whipping higher, Vivienne’s hair blowing back from her face as overhead, the trees swayed and groaned.
“My descendant called on me to curse you, and so I did. And you in turn have cursed this town. My revenge would be complete, watching you both turn to ash.”
She tilted her head, watching him, and Rhys braced himself for . . . he wasn’t sure what, exactly. A smiting? That seemed likely.
But then, she said, “Except that this woman, this sister of my blood, asks me to spare both. To lift this curse from you and the town.”
Rhys took a slow, deep breath. “She does.”
“And why should I?”
Rhys thought for some reason, some completely unimpeachable argument to save both his life and Graves Glen, but all he could say was, “I love her.”
Those eyes didn’t blink. “You love her,” Vivienne/Aelwyd repeated, and Rhys nodded.
“I love her, and I hurt her, and I deserved to be cursed. But Graves Glen is her home. Her family’s home. I can’t let it be destroyed because of me.”
The moonlight spilled down into the graveyard, and for the first time, Rhys noticed a sort of shimmering veil around Vivienne, could see her heart pounding in her throat. Was she still in there, his Vivienne? Could she hear him?
“And if I were to spare the town but take you, what then?”
Gaze dark, the witch pressed even closer, and Rhys made himself stand his ground. “Then take me,” he said. “It’s a fair price for what was done to you.”
“Rhys,” he heard Gwyn cry, but Elaine stilled her with a hand on her wrist, and Rhys gave her a wobbly grin.
“Ah, finally, I’m not ‘dickbag’ anymore.”
Aelwyd was still studying him through Vivienne’s eyes, and Rhys was very, very aware that his life was hanging in the balance.
And then she backed away from him, some of the wind dying down, that smell like lightning striking the earth fading.
“You must love her, then,” she said.
“I do,” he answered. “Madly.”
She gave a sigh, Vivienne’s chest rising and falling, and then she closed her eyes. “I can see her heart,” Aelwyd said. “Feel it inside her chest. She loves you, too, and would not see you harmed, and as she is of my blood, I’ve decided to grant her request.”
Rhys tried not to actually fall to the ground with relief, but it was a struggle. “Thank you,” he breathed, and he saw Gwyn and Elaine clutch hands.
“Thank you,” Rhys repeated. “And I promise, I’ll set this right about that bastard Gryffud. No more statue, definitely no Founder’s Day. I might even see if I can get my brother Wells to change his middle name.”
Aelwyd frowned, and for a second, Rhys wondered if mentioning the family connection had been a bad idea, but it wasn’t that. She wasn’t even looking at him, but back up toward the grave, her hands opening and closing at her sides.
“It’s . . . the curse. I cannot lift it.”
“Beg pardon?”
She went to her knees, head tilting back to look up at the sky. “I’m not strong enough.” And her voice was sounding weaker, fainter, Vivienne’s voice stronger.
Her eyes found his again, and this time, it felt more like Vivienne was looking back at him. “I’m sorry, Rhys Penhallow,” Aelwyd said. “It’s too late.”
And then there was a sound like the crack of thunder and Vivienne slumped to the ground.