The authorities had scoured the entirety of the Castleman estate, finding little that would help further the investigation. Heston was found, badly wounded but alive, bound up in the pantry. It seemed as if the killer simply came up to the door, rang the bell, and forced his way through Heston.
It was also confirmed that this was the work of Wicked John, something that both Jasper and Hilliard had feared. They had both known it would have been his work, everything pointed to it, they just didn’t understand why he would strike someone close to them. They both felt an eerie chill now having been so close to the maniac that was terrorising London.
Jasper had sent word to both Cordelia and Selma. Selma had the friends over to comfort her beau, as was expected. Cordelia got the message after rehearsals and came as quickly as she could. It was nearly half eleven by the time she made it to Selma’s apartment.
“How dreadful! To think that we are so close to this madman,” Cordelia shuddered at the thought. She had tried to stay abreast of the news, but was almost ill every time she read about the crazed lunatic.
“I just can’t imagine why he would target Castleman,” Jasper uttered despondently. He had not been quite right since the moment he first found Castleman in such a state.
“There, there my love,” Selma cooed, comfortingly, “it will all be better soon. It’s a terrible loss, this, but things will get better. Trust me.”
She stroked his hair and squeezed his hand reassuringly. Jasper seemed to not respond at all to her attempts at comfort, but his eyes did brighten ever so slightly.
“In the meantime,” Cordelia interrupted, “we must all be on guard. If this killer has struck so close, who’s to say he won’t strike closer?”
Everyone was quiet. The thought was there, in the back of their minds, but no one had dared to vocalise it. The truth was, there seemed to be no understanding of the machinations of the mind of Wicked John.
The grandfather clock in the den ticked away the seconds, each tick an explosion on the nerves of the fragile four. Addison Gayheart looked down on the assembled, his gaze, once soft, now seemed stern and menacing. It was strange how one’s emotions could affect the perception, thought Hilliard.
“Did you find out anything from the journal, Purefoy,” Jasper queried.
Hilliard had forgotten all about the purloined journal. He produced it from his pocket, then fished out the note he had taken from the book borrowed from the late Castleman. He checked the note and flipped to the corresponding page.
“Seithr, a binding ritual. Used to tell or influence the future. Each Futhark rune corresponds with an attribute that one wished to bind for the forthcoming year. Ascribed below are the runes and their approximate attributions.
“The first three runes were the pertho, for sexuality, the ansuz, for Odin, or God I assume, and the tiwaz, for authority. That much I knew. The rune that was-”
Hilliard flinched, recalling the scene at Castleman’s estate, and shot a glance at Jasper, who seemed to be little affected.
“The rune that we found at Castleman’s-”
He trailed off as he ran his finger along the paper, searching for the correct symbol.
“Ah, it was an othila, meaning inheritance of property.”
Hilliard rubbed his chin.
“That makes sense. Castleman had inherited his grounds through his father’s passing. But where does the killer go from here? This means nothing if we can’t figure out a pattern. Does he just keep killing until he uses all these runes?”
Hilliard threw the book down in frustration. He had thought the answer would be hidden away in the pages of the journal. He had instead found only more questions. The shock of the day had taken its toll on him, and he began to shake. His eyes welled with tears.
Cordelia wrapped herself around Hilliard. She pressed herself up close, trying her best to comfort him. She shushed and cooed, as she might a frightened child. Hilliard steadied himself and regained his composure.
“I could use a drink,” he stated flatly. Selma nodded and rose, leaving the den to fetch the spirits. The remaining three were silent, listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock, each tick of the second set everyone on edge.
Selma returned with bottles of gin and port and glasses. There was no ceremony as the drinks were poured, no toasting as they were imbibed, there was simply silence and the ticking of the clock.
Jasper hit the bottle harder than the others. Still reeling from the horrific discovery he had made earlier that day, he hoped that he could wash away the sight in a deluge of alcohol. Selma watched in distress as Jasper, who already had a predilection for the drink, threw back glass after glass of the fortified wine.
“Jasper,” Selma whispered, placing a hand on his arm, “maybe you should slow down?”
Jasper took no notice of Selma, he simply stared ahead, his eyes fixed on the bottle of port. He made no effort to remove her hand from his arm, but he also made no sign that he was interested in halting his consumption. Selma relented, understanding that there was going to be no stopping Jasper from drinking, and removed her hand. Jasper then poured himself another drink and swallowed it in one gulp.
Cordelia hung on to Hilliard’s arm, clutching desperately to him for comfort. Hilliard, who was still vexed at the unhelpfulness of the journal, softened at her caress. He reciprocated her embrace, and the two sat together, drawing strength from each other.
She stroked his arm tenderly before she took his hand. Their fingers entwined, she could feel the strength in his hand. Hilliard drew Cordelia close and placed a hand on her thigh and absentmindedly pet her leg. His mind was racing, trying to put the pieces in place, despite the lack of context. However, he found that his mind kept faltering, often becoming distracted by the comely young woman nestled beside him.
He was acutely aware of the sheer inappropriateness of the arousal, especially in the midst of such a day as today. Still, his mind continually drifted back to Cordelia and her closeness. He could smell her hair as it cascaded down her shoulders, some splashing onto his own. He felt her flesh pressed against his, and the thrill of a wild and passionate new courtship, something he had never before experienced, pulsed wildly through his body. His body ached for her, and he was almost disgusted with himself, but the power of his lust was greater than his dignity by far.
He squeezed and rubbed her thigh sensuously. He could feel her tense at the sudden, sexual change in his physicality. He tensed as well, ready for her to passively cease his advance. To his pleasure and surprise, she did not draw attention to it. He moved his hand further up her thigh, her body tightened once again, and her breath quickened. She squeezed his hand tightly, a sign of encouragement. It drove Hilliard nearly mad.
They four continued to drink in silence. Jasper drank nearly the entire bottle of port himself, and by night’s end, was in a worse state. Selma seemed to commiserate with her man. She saw to him, helping him up from the couch as he murmured and moaned.
“There, there,” she cooed, “just be still, love. I shall take you to bed. Sleep is what you need, my sweet.”
Selma, with Jasper in tow, began for the door. She paused and turned back to the remaining pair.
“There is a guest room up the stairs and to the left. It should be a sight more comfortable than the sofa.”
Selma gave the two a wink. She then hefted Jasper back onto her shoulder and dragged him out of the room and around the corner. Hilliard and Cordelia were left alone, the clock still ticking. This time, the ticking was like a throbbing, an amorous pulsing of lustful passion. Every stroke of the clock was another thunderbolt of temptation.
Hilliard’s heart was beating out of his chest. He still had his hand on Cordelia’s thigh. His whole body trembled in anticipation. Cordelia was breathing fast, her chest heaving with every life-giving inhalation, her bosom rising and falling in rhythm.
“I guess a bed would be more comfortable,” Hilliard suggested, his throat dry and his voice meek.
Cordelia nodded, biting her lip ever so slightly.
“The sofa was a little uncomfortable.”
There was a brief moment as neither one moved, not sure how far the other was willing to go. Hilliard rose first, extending his hand out for Cordelia, who took it and stood with him. She then pressed herself against Hilliard, who licked his lips in both excitement and anxiety.
“I’m not sure this is quite the reaction I would have expected of myself at such a time,” Hilliard stammered, eyeing Cordelia’s luscious lips with desire.
“Fear can make people act irrationally,” Cordelia whispered, moving her face so close to Hilliard’s that their lips nearly touched. “Perhaps tonight, we should be irrational?”
Hilliard could stand it no longer. Logic and rationality be damned. He pressed his lips to hers, drawing her into a passionate kiss, so heavy, so powerful it nearly knocked Cordelia over. At length, he pulled away from her.
“Cordelia, I must confess that I am not versed in-”
She put a finger to his lips, her eyes soft and loving. She took his hand and led him seductively up the stairs and to the guest room. She shut the door behind them. She turned to Hilliard, her eyes burning with a desire so bright that Hilliard could feel the heat from across the room.
Sauntering to Hilliard in a seductive stride, Cordelia pushed Hilliard to the bed. That night, though all the blood that had been let in the streets of London, their fates unknown, the two young lovers fell into each other. That was the only certainty they had.