The Ghosts of Cragera Bay
Read The Ghosts of Cragera Bay Online
Authors: Dawn Brown
Ocean views, rolling acres and a legacy of ritualistic murder
American Declan Meyers suddenly owns a crumbling Welsh estate with a deadly history. It’s a bequest from the father he never knew—the man his mother ran from for years. But while Stonecliff could be the answer to Declan’s money problems, he’ll never be able to sell it with a parapsychologist poking around, fuelling ghostly rumors.
Dr. Carly Evans is determined to investigate the paranormal energy that radiates from Stonecliff like a fever. Even Declan can’t deny having seen…things. Glowing red eyes. Charred corpses. The evil cannot be ignored.
The uneasy truce between ghost hunter and heir flares into an irresistible attraction. Declan and Carly’s night of passion leaves them totally vulnerable. Not just to each other, but to dark forces obsessed with an ancient rite of bloodshed.
The Ghosts of Cragera Bay
Dawn Brown
Table of Contents
For Dave
Prologue
Rain fell in sheets like a veil from the night sky as Declan pulled into the parking lot behind the three-story building where he lived. A dull throb curved across his forehead from one temple to the other, squeezing his head like it was caught in a vise.
Shit, it had been a long day. He’d spent the bulk of it tracking down a woman’s daughter whom she’d given up for adoption nearly forty years ago, only to discover the girl had died in a car wreck at fifteen. He dreaded the conversation waiting for him tomorrow morning.
Of course, the cherry on his shit-sundae of a day had to be going to his stepfather’s to deal with his younger brother’s latest escapade. This time Josh had totaled his car, which he’d been driving without insurance. No surprise, since he couldn’t hold down a job to save his life. At least no one had been hurt.
Allen, Declan’s stepfather—Josh’s father—had looked worn-out, as if he’d aged ten years in just a few months. Ever since Declan’s mother had died four months ago. Allen was still grieving. Hell, they all were. None of them needed Josh’s crap. He was nearly twenty-two years old. Too old to be pulling this kind of shit.
With Josh living under his roof, Allen was exhausted and worried sick about what he’d get into next. Declan had thought about having his brother come live with him to give Allen a break, but Josh had already fucked up Declan’s life, and he was still scrambling to put the pieces back together. Besides, he wasn’t home enough to make sure Josh didn’t get into more trouble. Allen, at least, was retired.
But Declan still had to clean up this latest mess—even if he didn’t have a clue where to start. A part of him wondered if he shouldn’t this time, if he should just leave his brother to deal with the consequences on his own. And he might have. After Josh nearly destroyed the private investigation business Declan had worked so hard to build, he hadn’t been feeling terribly sympathetic toward his brother. But he had Allen and his younger sister Katie to think about. They couldn’t handle losing their son and brother so soon after losing their wife and mother.
“Tomorrow,” Declan muttered. He’d deal with it all tomorrow. For now, he was dead on his feet and half-starved. A cold beer, leftover pizza and mindless hours flaked out in front of the TV sounded perfect.
He pushed open his car door, grabbed his computer bag from the backseat then dashed across the parking lot and along the side of the building to the front door. The overhang protected him from the downpour, but in the short distance between his car and the building, rain had soaked the front of his jeans and his hair.
He shoved back the dripping tresses—he needed a haircut badly—and dug through the front flap of his computer bag for his key card to the security door.
His fingers closed around thin plastic just as a strange prickle crawled over his skin. He tensed and turned to peer out into the darkness. He couldn’t see anything past the pouring rain, but an invisible weight pressed between his shoulders as if he were being watched.
Stupid. He was tired from a long day—and those dreams that had him up through the night sure as hell hadn’t helped. Black water. Fire. Glowing red eyes. He shivered.
Beer. Pizza. Bed.
He turned back to the door as a tall man with white hair and a pale face materialized from the shadows like a ghost. Declan’s heart lodged in his throat. He jerked backward nearly stumbling over his own feet.
“What the hell?
“Declan Meyers?” the man asked. He had an English accent and Declan recognized his voice immediately. “I’m Hugh Warlow.”
“I know who you are,” Declan snapped. His face burned. He must have looked like a complete asshole nearly falling over himself like that. He was keyed up, overtired and he sure as hell hadn’t expected this man to turn up at his door. “There are laws against stalking, you know?”
“If you think I enjoy traipsing halfway around the world to wait for you in a bloody downpour—” the man slapped at his long, black coat as if trying to wipe away the wet “—you’re mistaken.”
Declan cocked a brow. “Not enjoying the Seattle weather?”
Warlow scowled, his light blue gaze narrowing. “Had you not been so stubborn, I wouldn’t have had to make this trip at all.”
“You
didn’t
need to make this trip. Showing up out of nowhere isn’t going to change my mind.”
When they come for you, don’t go. They’ll devour you.
A chill danced along his spine.
“Your father needs to see you,” Hugh Warlow told him.
“I saw my father twenty minutes ago.”
“That man is
not
your father.” Ice dripped from the man’s tone. A faint smile pulled at his lips, but didn’t touch his chilly blue eyes.
“He is, actually. The man you’re talking about gave up his parental rights.” The first nine years of his life, he and his mother had lived like fugitives: new cities, new names. Then he turned ten and everything changed. His father gave up any claim he might have had on Declan, and they finally settled in one place. “My mother had something on him, didn’t she?”
Warlow’s smile broadened, making him appear smug. “Your father isn’t well. He needs to see you before he dies. Even as we speak, it could be too late.”
“I know, you said so when you called.” The phone calls had started a few weeks after his mother’s funeral, and Declan would be lying if he said a part of him hadn’t been curious. His father had always been something of an enigma to him, a boogeyman he’d been too terrified to discuss with his mother or anyone else—as if just speaking about the man might summon him like a demon and send them on the run again. Whatever the man wanted now, however, he could go to hell. Declan was thirty-two, a legal adult for quite some time. His father could have contacted him anytime over the past twenty-two years, but hadn’t. That he’d waited until Declan’s mother had died was likely no coincidence. What had she known that had kept him away?
He didn’t care. He had enough on his plate with the family that mattered to him and no interest in inviting more drama into his life. He’d politely declined the invitation to go to Wales, then ignored the phone calls altogether. Still, he’d never have guessed the man would turn up at his door.
They’ll devour you
.
“Your father needs you.” Warlow slipped his hand into his pocket and stepped closer.
Declan’s heart rate kicked up a notch. Apprehension wound around him like an invisible snake. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’m not going to Wales.”
“Then what bloody good are you?” the man growled, smile vanishing, his features turning menacing. He took another step closer and started to draw his hand from his pocket.
He has something. A gun. A knife.
Declan backed away into the door.
Fast footfalls splashing on the pavement drew the attention of both men. A woman jogged toward them, gripping an umbrella with one hand, her security card in the other. She smiled brightly, moving under the overhang with them and closing her umbrella.
“It’s terrible out here, isn’t she?” she said cheerily. She had short black hair and a pretty smile. Declan had seen her before. She lived on the second floor.
“Are you going in?” she asked him. Maybe she’d noticed he was still holding his own card, or maybe because he was blocking the door.
“Yeah,” he said, and glanced at Warlow. The fierce menace had left his face. He’d backed away so the woman could get by, a benign smile lifting his mouth.
What the hell had just happened? He didn’t know and he didn’t plan to wait around to find out. He grabbed up his computer bag, swiped his card and held the door for the woman, then followed her in pulling the door closed behind him.
When he looked back, Warlow had gone.
Chapter One
Wind swept cold off the sea and icy spray stung Carly’s face and hands like tiny needles. Despite the brilliant October sun glittering off deep blue waves, the dark water looked fathomless, empty. She drew her jacket tighter around her middle and stifled the shiver creeping up her back, focusing her attention on the man standing at the end of the rock jetty.
She smirked. Bathed in late afternoon sun, his shoulders hunched against the wet wind and his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, he could have stepped off the pages of some Victorian romance novel. The tortured hero, brooding and lost, returning to his cursed past.
He must have known something of the terrible legacy he’d stumbled into by now—if he didn’t before coming to Cragera Bay. Maybe he’d seen the shadows, heard the voices, smelled the dead. Maybe that’s why he’d changed his mind and agreed to speak to her.
She pushed back hair that had come loose from her ponytail and whipped wildly in the relentless wind, then started down the jetty. Waves slapped at the sides of the pier, spray soaking the hem of her trousers. Her heeled boots on the uneven stone turned her gait clumsy. Twice she nearly went over on her ankle and toppled forward.
Maybe the man hadn’t changed his mind at all. Maybe his plan was to let her fall over the side and be washed out to sea.
He couldn’t have guessed she’d wear such inappropriate footwear, but when she’d chosen her clothes this morning, she hadn’t considered traipsing across a deserted beach or over a stone jetty. She’d dressed to appear professional, capable and serious. Someone Declan Meyers could trust.
“Mr. Meyers,” she called over the surf splashing against the rocks. He stiffened and glanced over his shoulder. Dark eyes narrowed and glinted like black glass. Again the image of the brooding hero—Heathcliff and Mr. Rochester rolled into one. Windswept black hair framed the sharp angles and smooth planes of his face. High, carved cheekbones, pointed chin and lips pressed into a flat line.
“I’m Dr. Carly Evans. We spoke on the phone,” she said, coming to stand beside him.
She held out her hand, which he glanced at briefly before meeting her gaze—keeping his own hands jammed in his coat pockets. “Let’s go in.”
He shifted around her and started down the jetty, leaving Carly gaping at his back.
Bloody prat.
She drew in a deep breath, swallowed down a few choice epitaphs and followed the man. He wasn’t going to give her what she wanted. Certainty trickled over her like a soft spring rain.
The hell he wasn’t. She hadn’t come all this way for nothing, hadn’t come this close to seeing The Devil’s Eye only to be turned away now.
Meyers reached the end of the jetty, descended the short set of stone steps and would have continued across the beach without bothering to look back.