The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (29 page)

***

Belinda entered her bedroom and saw her cell phone sitting on the nightstand where she’d left it all day without missing it a bit. There were new several texts from Momma, and a few more from Randi reminding her she’d be showing up at Ravencrest at eight. She’d completely forgotten that and looked at the clock; it was nearly eleven. Randi hadn’t come. Obviously, it was an idle threat.

Belinda set her phone back down and sighed. She wondered if it might be time to get a new number. To be honest, she’d didn’t like carrying a cell phone now that her days of job hunting were over and she might be fine without one. Briefly, she fantasized about being phoneless, but then she thought of having to go through Mrs. Heller every time she needed to make a call.
No thanks. I’ll keep it.
There were too many instances in which having a phone was necessary: Car emergencies, doctor appointments … She thought of Dr. Akin and a heavy sadness settled behind her ribs. She wondered if anyone had heard anything from him yet.
Grown men don’t just disappear like that, do they?
 

***

Walter Hardwicke had left Randi Tucker’s body in the trunk of the Town Car; it was only hours until he could dispose of it and he’d put a tarp under her so she wouldn’t leak in the trunk. She was a fat cow and his back hurt at the thought of muscling her out and into a wheelbarrow to bury her in the gardens with the others. She’d need a plus-size gravesite: The boy would be a breeze in comparison. After a hot shower to get the stink off himself, he ate some of the lousy mac and cheese he’d found in the car, then set his alarm for four a.m. and crawled into bed in his apartment over the garage. The cow had fallen for the flat tire story as easily as the high school boy had and she wanted to show off by changing his tire for him. He acted grateful, and when she bent into the open trunk to get the jack and the spare, he knocked her out with a tire iron. Her nasty little Beetle was still parked where his tire had allegedly blown, but he knew it would be gone before dawn. The chop shop never failed him.

Dreaming at Ravencrest

Eric Manning lay awake, staring at the ceiling. It was warm, despite the fact that he’d opened the windows. The moon shot silver light onto the blue carpet of his bedroom and the night breeze carried the sweet scents of jasmine and other night-blooming flowers from the gardens below. He rolled onto his other side, unable to quiet his mind. He was thinking of Belinda Moorland. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the image of her in her bathing suit. He felt a bit rude, like a peeping Tom.
 

Beneath the chlorine odor of the pool, the young woman had smelled of something soft and sweet, almost like the scent of the night jasmine outside. And her eyes - so wide, so innocent. Pangs of guilt shot through him. He thought of Isobel, as he did almost every night at this time. She had his heart. She would always have his heart. The memory of her laughter relaxed him and he began to drift toward sleep. But his dreams were not of Isobel. His dreams were of Belinda Moorland, and they were very sweet indeed.

***

Grant Phister and Riley Doring slept peacefully in their big four-poster bed in the carriage house. Grant’s dreams were at first a frenzy of images - Amelia Manning, the Bride of Ravencrest; the mad actress, Violet LeBlanc; Thomas, Edward and Alice Manning, and the children, Prudence and Parnell. There were many others but finally the flashing images settled on Bran Lanval. He and the eighteenth century physician were discussing something serious, though try as he might, Grant couldn’t grasp the meaning of the conversation. Riley Doring snored lightly beside him.

***

In Mrs. Heller’s dream, she stood in the hall before the entrance to the east wing. Among the leafy carvings on the door she saw the runes - the magickal wards she’d etched into the wood. Hidden amongst the leaves, the runes slowly began running, like water, draining away into nothingness. Then someone on the other side tried the knob, turning it back and forth slowly, oh so slowly. A child’s voice came through the keyhole:
I see you. I see you, Carmilla. Let me out!
 

Cordelia Heller awoke in a cold sweat.

***

The Harlequin slept in fits by the vent in Belinda’s room. He had come back after exploring the kitchen and was now full of raw eggs and crackers. Earlier, he had watched her undress and get into bed. He was mired in his ever-growing love for her, even though he couldn’t always remember her name. What he never forgot was that she was not the one who had done this to him. Heller had.
Heller Heller Heller.
And Heller hated Belinda; he didn’t know how he knew that, but he had no doubt Belinda must be protected.

Belinda sighed and turned in her slumber. Holding his head at the right angle, he could see her. Just as he began to close his eyes and give in to sleep, something happened.
 

There was something in the room with her. At first it looked like a heat fluctuation in the air, just clear waves he could barely make out. Then it turned to mist, and slowly began to take the shape of a man. It stood beside her bed, looking at her. The Harlequin stared, unable to think.

The figure - a blond man - bent and kissed Belinda’s lips, long and lingering, and she sighed in her sleep.
 

***

Belinda fell in and out of sleep. One moment she was wandering down the endless foggy corridors of Ravencrest’s east wing; the next, she was in her bed hearing soft noises coming from the vent. She slipped into unconsciousness again, and saw a man’s figure at the end of a long hall. He was tall and powerful-looking with broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and old-fashioned clothing. Wisps of fog rose up, curling around him, caressing him.

Come.
 

She found herself standing before him: It was Thomas Manning. Golden light shone from a sconce on the wall and in its glow she couldn’t see how she’d ever thought this was Eric. The basic features were the same - the square jaw, full lips and intense blue eyes under heavy brows - but Thomas’ hair was long, blond, and loose and there was a faint white scar on his cheek. Still they looked so much alike ...

She watched his mouth, mesmerized. His lips looked soft, kissable. This close, she could smell him: It was the same signature Manning fragrance Eric wore - like earth, water, and pine.
 

Genévrier de la Mer
. His voice hung in the air. He bent to kiss her and she didn’t stop him.

Her heart raced as his lips met hers. He pressed himself against her and she could feel the firmness of his muscled body beneath the velvety red waistcoat he wore. His tongue darted into her mouth and she massaged it with her own. His kiss tasted of fresh rain and moonlight. She put her arms around his neck, relishing the powerful shelf of his shoulders. With one hand she stroked his hair, her fingers gliding through it as easily as if it she were strumming strands of silk.

The pressure on her lips increased as the kiss grew in passion. She felt the heat of his mouth, smelled his warm soft breath as he pulled her closer, crushing his body against hers. She felt his manhood - like a hot stone - pressing against her abdomen. It was so real;
too
real.

Her eyes popped open and she gasped. She was in her bed, on her back, and Thomas Manning’s face was just inches from her own. “You,” she whispered.

His brows came down a little.

“You’re Thomas Manning.”

He stepped back, his disbelieving eyes never leaving her face.

“You’re really here.” Belinda sat up and pulled the quilts closer. “You’re real.”

An amused glint shone in his eyes, and through the shadows, Belinda thought she saw the corner of his mouth raise playfully. He leaned in to steal another kiss.

“Prudence needs you,” Belinda said.
 

His eyes widened. And then he was gone. He didn’t leave the room; he didn’t even disappear. He just wasn’t there anymore.

Belinda blinked hard, trying to collect herself. Her eyes roved the room in search of him.
It isn’t possible.
For a moment, fear that she was losing her mind gripped her, but it was short-lived.
No. I’m not going crazy.
She was sure of that much.
He was here. Thomas Manning was here.
She could still taste his kiss, smell his cologne. It was not a matter of her sanity, she realized. It was something much more unbelievable - and yet, she had no choice but to believe it.
 

It isn’t me. It’s this house. It’s Ravencrest.
 

BOOK 7:
 
DANSE MACABRE

In Runes

Cordelia Heller stood in the little observatory tower situated at the rear of the third floor and looked out over the grounds through a pair of binoculars. Those, a small table, and an old telescope were the only furnishings in the circular stone turret. Over the centuries, this tower and three matching ones had served as lookout stations, mainly to keep watch on the fields and livestock, but they had also been used as battlements a number of times over Ravencrest’s long history.
 

She was keeping an eye on the master of Ravencrest this foggy June morning. She had watched him cross the back pathways, walking briskly, clad in sweatpants and a T-shirt, as he always was when heading to his morning swim. Not five minutes passed before Belinda Moorland appeared among the patches of mist, walking in the same direction. The governess wore a gauzy white cover-up and Cordelia could see the outlines of a blue bikini beneath it.

Who does she think she is, trying to seduce Eric Manning?

Cordelia felt a vein throbbing above her left eye and pulled a couple of aspirin out of the pocket of her silky black robe. She let them melt on her tongue, enjoying their acrid tang. She remembered years ago when she would chew on willow bark to relieve a headache. This tasted better. The governess disappeared from sight and Cordelia moved to another small window that allowed a view of the entrance to the pool building. “You little shit,” she said seeing Eric holding open the heavy door for her. “This was planned,” she muttered. “Don’t get your hopes up, little girl. He’s mine.”

They disappeared and Cordelia, chewing the remains of her aspirin, replaced the binoculars on the table, left the turret and walked to the front of the third floor to take the main staircase down to her own rooms. But, at the landing, she paused to stare down the hall at the heavy carved door to the east wing.
 

She needed to check the wards. After her dreams last night, she knew she also needed to reinforce them and soon, lest certain parties found their way out … or in. Swallowing, she walked toward the door, feeling a tiny thrill of fear.

***

Grant Phister, his first cup of morning coffee a mere memory, came out of the kitchen and did his usual morning walk-through of the mansion’s first floor. He gave cursory glances into each room - except those belonging to Cordelia Heller - making sure everything was as it should be. Then he did the same on the second floor, opening only those rooms not occupied by the family. Finally, he trotted up to the third floor. And stopped. Cordelia Heller stood at the far end of the long hall in front of the locked door to the east wing, her hands lightly moving over the carvings and runes. She spoke in low, hypnotic tones, too soft for Grant to hear, but he knew what she was doing: She was checking the strength of the runes.

Grant smiled to himself. She had not carved the runes, nor had he; they were much older, dating back to the early 1800s, to one of his forebears - another head butler who, like himself and their mutual predecessor, Bran Lanval, was also a Knight of the Order of the Mandrake. The runes kept the three nuns safely trapped in the east wing and that was why Grant renewed their magick regularly. Cordelia Heller wasn’t afraid of the nuns, though. What she wanted to keep trapped inside the old wing was pure innocence. She was terrified of Prudence Manning. Prudence was the reason Cordelia never dared enter the wing herself, not even long enough to let the Three Sisters out.
 

Grant wasn’t quick enough to disappear when Cordelia turned and saw him. “Good morning,” he said, all silk and satin. “I hear you’ve been having nightmares.”

She stomped toward him and glared down her nose even though he was taller. “Poppycock! Who told you I had nightmares?”

“Why, I just assumed because of that dream you had the other night.”

She tried to stare him down, but it didn’t work. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“When you woke Belinda up in the wee hours because you dreamed she was jumping out of her window.”

“That wasn’t a nightmare. That was prophecy.” She nearly smiled.

“We must agree to disagree, Cordelia.”  He nodded toward the door. “Are you worried about the runes breaking?”

“Of course not.” She paused. “Are you?”

His laugh was genuine. “Not in the least. The nuns will not be visiting the west wing under my watch.”

“Excuse me.”
 

She tried to brush past him but he caught her arm. “However, I’m not so sure the runes can hold back that poor little girl.”
 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have duties to attend to. As do you.” She jerked out of his grasp and strutted away.

Once he heard her heels clicking across the marble of the great hall below, he approached the door himself. The carvings were beautiful, full of leaves and faces, and the runes were hard to spot unless you knew what to look for. Gingerly, he began outlining them with a finger. Cordelia’s touch was obvious and electric. He covered it with his own words and energy, not knowing what she was up to. Whether she was plotting something or was simply uneasy, he had no intention of taking unnecessary risks.

Swimming with Eric

“You’re quite a swimmer,” Eric Manning told Belinda when they finished their third race the long way down the pool. Now they bobbed near Poseidon's throne. “Were you on your college swim team?”
 

Belinda caught her breath. She’d had a hard time keeping up with Eric on the last dash. “Not varsity,” she told him. “What about you?”