Accursed by Amber Benson Page A

perhaps Tamara might find herself a suitable husband. Perhaps the house would be filled once again with the orderliness, the hope, and the confidence that it had once had. Despite the truth of their lives, their status as Protectors, and the evil that lingered in the very air around them, he held out this hope.
    Despite his practicality, he still dreamed.
    Nearly quiet as a ghost himself, William made his way up to the top of the house, to the corridor that led to the room where his father was imprisoned. Where his father was the prison, for the demon Oblis.
    The mist had continued to burn away outside, and as he passed open doors he could see sunshine splashing into the rooms on that upper level. Yet the end of the hall remained in shadow, and at first glance Queen Bodicea seemed solid as any woman, fully fleshed. Her Majesty stood with her back to him, her spectral hand propped upon the door of the former nursery as though she was listening to something within.
    For a moment, William allowed his gaze to linger upon the breathtaking curve of her backside and the languorously heavy weight of her breast as she leaned forward. This latter he caught only in side view, yet it was enough to bring a rush of blood to his cheeks.
    He averted his gaze, never comfortable with her nudity. There was nothing brazen about it. Rather, it was an expression of her defiance to the dark forces arrayed against them all, a bold statement of her confidence. And it was also somehow a facet of her mourning. William had never had the audacity to inquire further.
    “Bodicea?” William ventured, almost in a whisper.
    The phantom queen glanced over her shoulder, wild hair tumbling in front of her face. Her eyes were alight with intelligence and curiosity. She extended one ghostly hand and beckoned him with a long finger. William balanced the plate in his hand and went to join her at the door.
    Bodicea made room for him. Though he would have been able to pass right through her insubstantial form, neither of them would have been comfortable sharing space.
    As he neared the door he heard a pair of voices engaged in energetic conversation, or some semblance of dialogue at least. Both of the voices were familiar.
    One belonged to the demon, Oblis, and the other to William’s father. But where Oblis most often spoke in Henry Swift’s voice, rather than his own horrid tones, there was a difference. For when Oblis spoke, and the voice of Henry Swift answered . . .
    “Father,” William whispered.
    “. . . them alone, I beg you,” Henry pleaded, his voice muffled by the door.
    “I’ll do with them as I please,” the demon replied.
    In his mind’s eye, William could picture the two of them speaking with the same lips, facial expression changing with each shift of persona. He glanced at Bodicea, arching an eyebrow curiously, but she only nodded toward the door, indicating that he should continue to listen.
    “I can see it in your mind. Do you think I am asleep, when you suffocate me here inside? I witness every bit of your filth. I suffer the torture of knowing how you conduct your depravity with my voice, using my hands.”
    A terrible sadness gripped William’s heart. His father had rarely spoken with such strength of conviction, yet it offered no comfort. If this was real, and not merely Oblis toying with him, then he knew he ought to rejoice at the idea that his father still lived.
    Yet to know what he was experiencing, every moment of this damnation . . . William could scarcely breathe.
    “Of what importance is that to me?” Oblis mocked. “ There is nothing you can do. You always were a very small man. That’s why there was so much room in here for me.”
    “What are you hiding?” Henry demanded. “You listen to the voices in the ether. I know, because I hear them, too, though I cannot understand the languages they speak. Yet I have seen the way you flinch at their words, the way they trouble you.”
    “Of course you cannot understand,