"You're the one who broke into this room before." She must have realized how futile her words were. "I'm calling for help."

She spun around and headed back to the bedroom door. Peter couldn't let her escape.

Panic gave him added strength. With haste, he grabbed the picture frame from Madison's bedside table. Even in this borrowed form, the fear of seeing his plans destroyed was enough to make him grab Miss Lindsey's shoulders and hit her head with the angle of the frame. Blood splattered.

Peter threw the censor's willowy body onto the threadbare carpet. He covered her attempt of a cry with his hand.

"Quiet, woman."

Her head was shaking, in a desperate effort to shout for help. Her nails scratched at his skin.

Peter had no choice.

His hands slid from her mouth to the sides of her cheeks and down her neck. They circled it and applied forceful pressure. More and more pressure.

While Peter strangled Miss Lindsey, Sarah's scent-a tender blend of bergamot-drifted into his nostrils. The last time he had enjoyed her scent had been when he had killed her.

The woman beneath him stopped moving. She was dead.

Taking the shattered picture frame with him, he left. The censor lay splayed across the center of the room. Her neck was forced against her shoulders at a distorted angle.

The coppery taste of blood spread throughout his mouth. Peter had failed in today's plan. But soon, he would execute his still-pressing need for justice.

Chapter 45.

JACKSON MCCAIN was the last person Rupert expected to see waiting for him on his doorstep back in Oxford.

The journey from London had taken ages with road construction along the way. The delay had given Rupert too much time to chew over Archie Black's revelation.

Stepping out of his Morgan, he gave a brief nod toward McCain, but the American held Rupert's gaze all the way from his car to the porch of his house.

"What can I do for you?" Rupert asked, fearing something had gone awry in his cla.s.s work. Again.

"We need to talk. About Madison." The American's voice had an unusual, guttural quality to it.

Rupert tensed his muscles to withstand some impending attack. The guy hadn't come around for afternoon tea and scones. But no way would Rupert let this self-righteous, pompous a.r.s.e lecture him about his relationship.

On the other hand, the professor was Madison's friend. p.i.s.sing him off could mean upsetting her.

"Please come in."

They made their way inside, then onward into the living room. Jackson sat on the Chippendale sofa, a spider lamp haloing the top of his head. Nervous about what was to come, Rupert slipped his hands into his pockets. Continuing to stand, he leaned a little way toward the gla.s.s coffee table marking the divide with the American.

"Do you want anything to drink?" Rupert asked.

"Leave Madison alone." McCain's terse words filled the room.

Delaying his response, Rupert grabbed a chair and straddled it. "How is she any of your business?" He had adopted his father's technique of answering all approaches with a counterattack.

"With your track record with girls, you're not what ... who Madison needs." McCain raised his chin, as if inviting Rupert to punch him.

"And I take it you are what she needs." Rupert's suggestion dripped with sarcasm.

McCain shook his head. His hands formed into a peacemaking gesture and he replied, "Madison is my student, and whatever my feelings toward her, I won't act upon them. But there are some things about her you don't know. She has issues to resolve before getting involved with anybody."

Like being suicidal, or having a stalker on her tail.

"I'm aware of what's going on in Madison's life. Therefore your warning isn't necessary." Rupert stood to signal the end of the conversation.

So did Jackson. But the American had clenched his fists, his knuckles white, ready to strike.

Instead of lashing out physically, McCain a.s.saulted Rupert with words.

"Madison has a gift, abilities she inherited from her mother's family. Call it psychic visions, voodoo, ghost-whispering, whatever ..." McCain made a full sweep with his arm. "She can talk to dead people, see them, feel them. And it's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with her sanity."

An empty laugh erupted from Rupert's mouth.

"That is absurd. Madison is the first one to dismiss her grandmother's mumbo jumbo." Rupert started biting the inside of his cheek. Actually, Madison never said that exactly.

McCain seemed to revel in his confusion. He crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction. "That's the reason she's so obsessed with your ancestor, Robert Dallembert."

"Oh yes, that painting. The Wounded Cavalier."

The professor's eyebrows furrowed and betrayed his surprise.

Take that, McCain.

"Yes." The American warded Rupert off with a hand and dismissed his questioning. "The last thing she needs is a smarta.s.s player who can't offer her support."

"What makes you think I can't?"

"Come on, Vance. You think she's a whacko. It's written all over your face."

"You're wrong." Haunted houses, knocking on tables by spirit guides, tarot cards telling the future. All that wasn't his thing.

McCain turned his back and headed for the exit, his body now relaxed. When he reached the threshold between the living room and the hallway, he swiveled and held his index finger aloft. "Madison doesn't trust you entirely. She knows you'll leave at the first chance. So do her a favor and b.u.g.g.e.r off."

After these words of warning, the professor left.

Rupert buried his face in his hands and let out a ma.s.sive sigh. Then looking up and staring at the door, he rummaged through his hair.

His limbs grew heavier and heavier. Numbness settled into his mind and throughout his whole body. He moved over to the wall, leaned his back against it and slid to the floor.

Madison had confided in the American. But she hadn't even given the beginning of a hint to him. Not that night at the Turf before Christmas, not when they'd found her room burgled, and not even when he had saved her at Magway right after they'd made love for the first time. She had opened up to her history professor, but not to him.

Anger replaced the gut-wrenching sensation of knowing she lacked faith in him. Didn't she consider him strong enough to help her?

The door opened wide, letting the crisp wind swirl inside the house.

Monty stepped in, still wrapped in his padded winter jacket, his hair tousled wild. "You look like s.h.i.t."

Rupert stared at his friend, but couldn't find anything to say. Then Monty threw his jacket on the Chippendale and knelt near Rupert on the antique oriental rug.

"Dude, tell me what's going on."

"It's Madison."

"I told you so. That girl isn't right for you."

Rupert resented Monty's words. He'd waited so long for Madison, for someone to open up his heart. He couldn't avoid the truth that had come.

"She hid something from me. Something important."

"It must hurt, after you opened up to her."

You bet.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Monty tilted his head, tightened his lips and contorted his jaw into a weird angle. The gesture meant he was thinking hard.

"Man, you've been going out with her for a few weeks. There's still time to back off."

"Just like that?"

Monty shook his head. "Not just like that. But you've been through a lot since ... since your mother pa.s.sed away. If that girl is hiding things from you, you'll get hurt. Break up before you start having feelings for her."

Too late for that. He had fallen for Madison on that first night, at that stupid ball, the moment he'd set eyes on her tiny frame hidden in a corner, her teeth biting her lower lip.

The doorbell cut off the stream of his memories. Monty dragged himself up on his feet again, exhaling with the effort.

Rupert had his hands now spread flat on the polished wood of the floor. The cold surface didn't shake him out of his thoughts, but Monty's voice did.

"Someone's here for you."

Rupert stared up. Madison stood a few feet away from him, her hands clasped in front of her.

Chapter 46.

THE CENTRAL HEATING was on in Rupert's house, but it wasn't enough to warm up the atmosphere. Madison could feel Monty's stare drill through her back. Rupert sat on the floor, his knees pulled close to his chest, his ankles crossed. Silent.

A very warm welcome to me.

"Thanks, Monty. Can you leave us alone? "Rupert's voice was frigid, and Madison's heart squeezed. She turned and looked at Monty with a slight smile of apology.

Shaking his head in dismay, Rupert's friend shrugged his shoulders, then shifted his chubby body over to the staircase.

While he disappeared, she edged closer to the invisible barrier she could sense around Rupert. He kept his head inclined away from her, as if pulling back.

In the face of his silence Madison crossed her arms and asked, "Have I done something wrong?"

His eyes clouded over, the stiffness of his face holding his emotions in check. "I know." He wasn't avoiding her eyes anymore. On the contrary, he now stared back at Madison, straight through her. "I know everything: the painting, the ghosts, your powers." His voice filled the last word with sarcasm. "McCain just left."

Rupert slouched, defeated, against the wall, his shoulders tucked toward his chest. Panic rose in Madison.

Her mouth turned dry, her eyes damp. She rubbed her throat, brushed her trembling lips. She had been found out.

Rupert had to understand. He had to forgive her.

She couldn't lose him, not now, not ever.

"I wanted to tell you. I swear I did. But I was scared." She heard the tremor pulsating across her vocal cords.

With a sharp movement, Rupert rose to his feet and came closer to her, one step at a time. For the first time, he scared her.

"How was I supposed to say it?" she continued. "*Dear Rupert, I've been talking to ghosts since I wore diapers.'" She lifted her chin, defying him. "I've tried all my life to fit in, to pretend this crazy thing isn't happening. I want a chance to be happy, to be with you."

In an attempt to bridge the gap between them, Madison laid her hand on his chest. Her touch made Rupert spin away. His move left her unsteady on her feet.

Searching for some support close to her, anything to hold onto, she scanned the room. The same abstract paintings hung on the walls as always, their lines like needles p.r.i.c.king her eyes.

That was when the now all too familiar smell reached her nostrils. Burning candle wax.

A room opened inside the room. A dark hollow inhabited by Sarah's fragile form.

"You must fight for your love. Do not let Peter win." Her voice had a flat echo to it.

Madison clapped her hands over her ears. She wanted to shout, but couldn't, not when Rupert stared down at her, questions written all over his face. Strengthening her focus, she looked back toward the side of the room now engulfed by the shadow. With a silent prayer, she shook her head at Sarah. I must be with him, on my own.

Sarah nodded. Her world spun around and receded.

"Oh, let me guess, just as our conversation got uncomfortable for you, you happened to see one of your dead guys. Is that the way it works?" Rupert had always been a master at sarcasm.