Bittersweet Obsession

  Bittersweet

  Obsession

  TESS OLIVER

  Bittersweet Obsession

  Copyright © 2012 by Tess Oliver

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Tess Oliver

  Chapter 1

  The bitter wind whipped his face as Angel gazed down and briefly wondered how quickly death would come if he threw himself off the edge of the steep cliff to the rocky coast below. A cloud filled sky gave the water below a black, almost sinister, quality. The tide was still withdrawn far enough that the jagged rock formations jutted through the endless crush of waves. The bone breaking fall might bring a moment of agony but surely death would come briskly. And that was all he wanted. Death would bring relief from the constant pain in his side where the French soldier’s bayonet had punctured a hole so cleanly the physician swore he could see right through it. Death meant relief from the haunting visions of dying soldiers’ horrified expressions as they waited for the freeing comfort of heaven. And death meant relief from having to live under the roof of a madman, a madman who’d taken it upon himself to play God.

  “Angel.” The voice tore into his suicidal musings and he pulled himself from the brink and turned around slowly.

  His father glowered down at him from his massive horse. White puffs of steam rose from the animal’s nostrils and black coat. “Hell’s blood, Son, I must have called your name ten times before you heard me.” The long white moustache that framed his thin lips vibrated as he spoke. He glanced almost nervously over the side of the cliff and looked back at Angel as if he’d read his son’s dark thoughts. With a tilt of his head he motioned to Angel’s horse, Titus. The animal had found the one small patch of weedy grass not obliterated by the blanket of snow and now stood lazily munching it. “Get on your horse and come with me to town. It will be good for you to get away. I’m expecting a post from Baron Rowntree.”

  Reluctantly, Angel left the precarious yet oddly comforting precipice he stood on. “Ah yes, the Right Honourable the Lord Rowntree, a man so vain he has convinced himself that he must live forever because the world cannot stand on its own without him.” Angel knew his statement would anger his father, but that was his reasoning behind it. Enraging the old man helped alleviate the torture flaming inside him.

  “Without Baron Rowntree’s generous donations to my work, we would all be out in this snow foraging for roots like your horse.”

  Angel had no reply. Father’s obsession with his experiments had helped squander much of the family fortune and brought the family near to ruin. And now his father, Dr. Colin Van Ostrand, the once renowned and highly respected scientist, had to prey on rich men who hunted for the one thing money and power could not afford them— immortality. And he’d found his victim in Baron Rowntree, a man with more money than he knew what to do with and a profound cowardice when it came to his own demise— a greedy, slovenly man who refused to accept that he could not buy eternal life.

  Angel pulled himself into his saddle. His leather gloves provided pitiful protection from the intense cold as he grabbed the reins and pushed his Hessians against his horse’s sides. In spring, the lush and varied landscape of alders, purple willows, and bluebells provided diversion for a rider, but deep in the throes of winter, with the exception of the crystal pink icicles that hung from the bare branches of the trees, all color had been wiped away. Every bit of foliage was shrouded by snow, a monotonous lack of color so blindingly white it nearly hurt the eyes.

  Angel kept his chin dropped low behind the collar of his top coat hoping to escape the stinging wind. His father trotted ahead, but both horses needed plenty of prodding to move their hooves through the newly fallen snow. They rode past Greystock Manor, Angel’s home since birth. The once magnificent estate had been built by his great-grandfather, Arthur Van Ostrand, a wealthy immigrant and land owner who’d married a well-to-do English girl. It was a place filled with fond childhood memories. After his mother died of an infection when Angel was twelve, the life of the house seemed to die with her. An unshakeable melancholy had pervaded the cavernous hallways and rooms ever since. The stately manor’s deterioration had accelerated while Angel had been away in Spain helping to deal the final blows to Napoleon’s army. Father had allowed the once grandly appointed manor to fall into disrepair.

  Just last spring, the vines of ivy that traversed the façade of the manor had still gleamed waxy green in the sunlight, but now they had all but frozen into spindly stems of brown. It was as if the winter had grown unnaturally cold with the sole purpose of destroying Greystock’s last signs of life.

  Angel’s gaze was drawn to the few candles that flickered in the window of the parlor. “Who keeps an eye on your creature while we’re in town?” Angel asked.

  Father’s shoulders went rigid at the question, and he twisted back in the saddle to scowl at his son. “Why must you continuously vex me so, Angel? His name is Zander and he is not a creature— he is a man.”

  “Perhaps he was a man in a previous existence, although the question of what manner of man continues to elude us. All we know of the poor wretch is that he died prematurely and that three different women came to weep at his gravesite at three different times, seemingly unaware that the other pretty mourners existed. Impressive I admit. I myself have never courted more than two women simultaneously.”

  “He is still a man— a man reborn,” Father said with such passion he nearly slipped sideways from his horse.

  “Yes, a man who has no more emotion than the rock we just rode past, and a man who thinks the stone statues in the garden are talking to him. Not a man but a cadaver whose heart only beats because of the jolts of electricity you sent through it.” Angel knew his father’s anger intensified with each word, but he could not stop himself. The man’s macabre experiments had grown too irksome to tolerate. When the choking frost of winter melted, Angel had decided he would leave Greystock. He didn’t know where he would go but he would travel far away from Dr. Van Ostrand’s revolting lifestyle.

  “Silence, Angel! I now regret asking you along.” He pulled the collar up high over his ears and hunkered down over his horse’s neck to avoid the biting wind shooting across a solidified pond.

  Angel squinted into the brisk air. The white landscape was interrupted by a black circle of ravens. Each bird took its turn at disemboweling a rabbit that must have stopped to take a drink from a large hole in the i
ce. The shriek of a hawk circling above scattered the ravens in every direction then the large bird dropped down gently next to the carcass to have its share.

  By the time the village was in their sights, the frigid temperature had taken its toll on both riders and horses. A young boy wearing a tattered coat and patched trousers stood in the shelter of the tobacco shop’s awning. His fingertips poked out from fingerless gloves as he held up his wares, a small bag of walnuts. Angel paid the boy three pence to stand with the horses while he wandered into the local tavern and Father went to pay postage for his letters.

  The sour odor of cheap ale seeped from every crack of the walls in the Elk’s Horn Inn. The owner, Marty, a man whose leathery countenance made him look far older than his forty years, had lit a paltry two candles in the windowless room. Angel made his way to the counter through the maze of wavering shadows on the littered floor.

  “Your usual?” Marty wiped his hand on his apron and reached behind the counter for a glass and a bottle of gin.

  Angel poured himself a drink. As he lifted his arm someone pressed against him. He didn’t need to look away from his glass. Ruby’s distinctly fragranced face powder mixed with the pungent smell of the spirits. “To my favorite redhead,” Angel said and toasted his glass with the air. He threw back the gin, placed his glass on the counter, and faced Ruby.

  “Angel Van Ostrand,” Ruby sighed “as breathtaking with uniform as without.” She grabbed his hand and traced his palm with her calloused fingertips. “No man can send my heart a flutterin’ like you, Angel.” She placed his hand over the ample breast which nearly spilled from the top of her dress. He could feel her nipple harden beneath his palm. Her blue eyes crinkled with a grin. “See what I mean?”

  She let out a small cry of pleasure as he leaned forward and ran his mouth along the round curve of her breast and pinched her nipple. Then he returned his attention to his gin.

  Ruby leaned closer and ran her fingers up his thigh. “I’ve got some spare time,” she said in a whisper. “How about we take a little stroll to the back?”

  “Not today, Love. I won’t be here long.” Angel swallowed two more glasses of gin, kissed a disappointed Ruby on the cheek, and tossed his coins on the counter.

  Father met him outside waving a letter with the seal already broken. “Baron Rowntree is coming next month.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper as Angel came closer. “He wants to meet Zander, but I must have another specimen ready before he arrives. I fear Zander will not be enough.”

  Angel grinned and shook his head. “On the ride here, your temper soured when I called him a creature—”

  Father grabbed his arm. “Lower your voice, Angel.” He looked pointedly at a man standing nearby adjusting the harness on his wagon horse.

  Angel made no attempt to change the tone of his voice. “Yet you call him a specimen. It seems you are not as impressed with your experimental outcome as you would have led me to believe.”

  The stranger climbed onto the box of his wagon but had great difficulty prodding his horse forward on the icy road. The horse took several cautious steps then stopped directly next to Angel and his father. Instantly Angel breathed in a smell he was all too familiar with, the acrid odor of clotted blood. The driver cursed at the horse and snapped the reins but the horse wouldn’t move.

  Angel glanced fleetingly into the back of the wagon. Something, or someone, was wrapped tightly in a wool blanket. Blood dripped onto the splintered floor boards of the wagon. The driver turned back his scarred face and looked anxiously into the wagon bed then noticed Angel looking at him.

  Angel looked into the wagon. “I say, mate, your cargo seems to be bleeding.”

  “Aye, shot myself a deer outside the village. Taking the carcass home to carve.” The man looked more than satisfied with his ludicrous explanation.

  Angel stepped closer to the wagon and peered down at the wrapped body. That was when he saw it— a small pink toe poked out from the end of the wool cover. “Interesting species of deer you found out there— toes instead of hooves.”

  The man’s face twisted in agitation. He turned back to his horse and snapped his whip so sharply the horse shot across the ice nearly spilling the driver and his grisly haul.

  “Angel, it’s none of our business,” Father said. “Let’s go home before my feet turn blue with frostbite.”

  Angel shook his head at his father’s light dismissal of what they’d just witnessed. They returned to the horses. Angel dropped another coin in the boys trembling fingers and took the reins. He pulled himself into the saddle and stared at the back of the wagon as it rattled down the snow covered road. “It seems, Father, you are wasting your time waiting for new graves at the cemetery. Apparently the villagers are driving around with fresh corpses in the backs of their wagons.”

  His father did not reply at first. He watched the wagon disappear into the distance. “Brilliant.”

  Angel looked at his father. “What is brilliant?”

  Father’s eyes gleamed with a notion. “Let’s follow the wagon. The blood was still flowing so the corpse is indeed fresh. I might just have my new specimen.” He kicked his horse forward.

  “You’re insane.” Angel followed. What had he done? He coaxed Titus to catch up to his father’s horse. Determination hardened the old man’s face.

  “You don’t know anything about the person in the back of that wagon. What if he’s taking the poor soul home so the family can mourn? We have no idea where that driver is headed. Father, I implore you to show some restraint with your wretched experiments.”

  But his father did not hear a word. When he had his mind set on something, the man would obsess to the point of nearly falling ill with it.

  Father spoke but did not take his focus off the wagon. “You’re right, Angel. We’ll wait to see where the driver stops. If he has committed a murder, which my instincts and the man’s suspicious behavior assures me he has, then he will dump that speci— that body out in the snow somewhere. Perhaps he’ll even dig a shallow grave. Either way, it will be easy to snatch the cadaver. No one will know.”

  “I will,” Angel said too quietly to be heard over the ice crunching beneath the horses’ hooves. “I will know.” Angel knew his protests would go unheeded. Once his father had his deranged mind set on something, the worst would inevitably follow.

  Camouflaging two black horses within a pure white landscape was a feat only a magician could pull off. But the wagon driver seemed so anxious to be rid of his cargo, he didn’t seem to notice Angel and his father as they stood nearby in a copse of bare trees. The man’s horse was obviously more astute than its owner. Its ears flickered back in their direction but the driver ignored the signal.

  The horse stopped where solid ground ended and the solid pond began. A whip sliced through the air and the driver shot curses at the horse, but it did not budge. The man muttered something as he climbed down from the wagon, took a quick scan of the area, and walked to the back. The body was small enough for the rather decrepit man to lift it over the sides of the wagon. It bounced once as it struck the frozen ground.

  Angel looked at his father. “What if it is only a child? Surely you will not perform your experiments on a child.”

  Father didn’t answer but continued to gaze hungrily at the scene unfolding in front of them. The blood left a red trail on the ice as the man dragged the corpse across the frozen pond as casually as a boy might drag a sled. He headed to the large hole in the ice where the hawk had enjoyed his rabbit breakfast.

  The man’s beady black eyes peered up over his collar once more then he shoved the wrapped body into the water. The corpse bobbed along the edge of the ice for a moment then the man grew impatient and pushed it down with his foot. It sank below the surface then sprang back up.

  “What a fool,” Father mumbled. Suddenly the sound of carriage wheels and horses sounded in the distance. The man raced back to his cart, jumped up on the driver’s seat, and turned his horse back to the road
. The trail of blood he’d left faded as the red spread thin across the craggy ice surface. The body was still visible. Angel and his father stood stock still as the coach rolled past. Neither the driver nor the passengers seemed to take notice that anything was amiss, and the carriage continued on its way down the road.

  Impatience radiated from his father as they watched both the carriage and wagon drive out of sight. He jumped down from his horse. “Quickly, Angel, before the blanket is waterlogged and takes the body under.”

  Angel didn’t move from his horse. “It’s your specimen; you fish it out on your own.”

  Father’s face flattened with disappointment. It was an expression Angel had grown used to. Father turned on his heels and marched across the road to the frozen pond.

  “Take care. No doubt it is slippery,” Angel called to him before he took his first step onto the ice.

  Father cast an angry glare his way then he stepped gingerly onto the frozen surface. Some of the ravens had returned and they now stared hungrily at the object in the water. From the distance he sat, Angel could only see the top of the body. Father tiptoed across the crackling surface before dropping to his knees and then stomach as he neared the hole. He waved away the birds. The ravens squawked angrily as they realized they were once again being robbed of their spoils.

  Watching his father, the famous Dr. Van Ostrand, slither over the ice like a penguin provided Angel with a moment of amusement, an emotion he’d not felt in a long while. The tree he waited beneath sent a dusting of snow onto his shoulder and as he went to flick it off a cracking sound split the air.