Seacliff
SEACLIFF
By Charles L. Grant
Writing as Felicia Andrews
A Rendezvous Press Production
Rendezvous Press is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright 2015 by Kathryn Ptacek
Copy-edited by: Pat Kampmeier
LICENSE NOTES
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Meet the Author
Photo by Jeff Schalles
Charles L. Grant taught English and history at the high school level before becoming a full-time writer in the ’70s. He served for many years as an officer in the Horror Writers Association and in Science Fiction Writers of America.
He was known for his “quiet horror” and for editing the award-winning Shadows anthologies. He received the British Fantasy Society’s Special Award in 1987 for life achievement; in 2000, he was the recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from HWA. Other awards include two Nebula Awards and three World Fantasy Awards for writing and editing.
Charlie died from a lengthy illness on September 15, 2006, just three days after his birthday. He lived in Newton, NJ, and was married to writer/editor Kathryn Ptacek for nearly twenty-five years.
Book List
Horror
Novels
Black Oak: Genesis
Black Oak: The Hush of Dark Wings
Black Oak: Winter Knight
Black Oak: Hunting Ground
Black Oak: When the Cold Wind Blows
Fire Mask
For Fear of the Night
In A Dark Dream
Jackals
Millennium Quartet #1: Symphony
Millennium Quartet #2: In the Mood
Millennium Quartet #3: Chariot
Millennium Quartet #4: Riders in the Sky
Night Songs
Raven
Something Stirs
Stunts
The Bloodwind
The Curse
The Grave
The Hour of the Oxrun Dead
The Last Call of Mourning
The Nestling
The Pet
The Sound Of Midnight
The Tea Party
The Universe of Horror Trilogy
The Soft Whisper of the Dead
The Dark Cry of the Moon
The Long Night of the Grave
Collections
Dialing the Wind
Nightmare Seasons
The Black Carousel
The Orchard
Science Fiction
A Quiet Night of Fear
Ascension
Legion
Ravens of the Moon
The Shadow of Alpha
As “Geoffrey Marsh”
The Fangs of the Hooded Demon
The King of Satan’s Eyes
The Patch of the Odin Soldier
The Tail of the Arabian Knight
As “Lionel Fenn”
The Quest for the White Duck Trilogy
Blood River Down
Web of Defeat
Agnes Day
668, the Neighbor of the Beast
By The Time I Get To Nashville
Mark of the Moderately Vicious Vampire
Once Upon a Time in the East
The Once and Future Thing
The Really Ugly Thing From Mar
The Reasonably Invisible Man
The Seven Spears of the W’dch’ck
Time, the Semi-Final Frontier
As “Simon Lake”
Daughter of Darkness
Death Cycle
Death Scream
He Told Me To
Shapes Berkley
Something’s Watching
The Clown
The Forever House
As “Felicia Andrews”
Moonwitch
Mountainwitch
Riverrun
Riverwitch
Seacliff
Silver Huntress
The Velvet Hart
As “Deborah Lewis”
Eve of the Hound
Kirkwood Fires
The Wind at Winter’s End
Voices Out of Time
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PROLOGUE
Wales, 1771
T
he glen was a special place, a secret place, a guardian of dreams. Hidden in the mountains not far from the western coast, the glen was an emerald set between steep rocky slopes that protected it from all but the fiercest winter storm. The trees were tall and richly crowned, the grass in the clearing low and thick, and a stream coursed through the middle to a wide pond. Wild flowers painted the banks with splashes of every color of the rainbow, and the birds singing above in the branches made this an idyllic playground for man or beast. Occasionally a stag and its family ambled in to drink, first nervously eyeing the clearing for signs of predators that frequently included man. Eagles flew in the currents above the mountain summits in the distance, their cries soft and their wings golden in the sunlight.
It was peaceful there, the air a soft green from the ceiling of broad leaves that laced together overhead, and it was private. Those who were aware of the glen seldom told others. It was much too special to share with any but the like-minded,
A large flat-topped boulder jutted over the pond on its western side. Ringed with reeds, its sides were spotted with dark green moss. Glints of mica shone on its surface; a streak of ebony gleamed in the center.
And on it sat a young woman.
Even with her legs drawn up among the folds of her long sable skirts, it was obvious she was tall and slender, and under the gentle silk ruffles of her white shirt she had a flat stomach, a narrow waist, and full breasts that turned men’s heads when they were not dazzled by her face. Her raven black hair was long and captured the afternoon sun as it fell in natural waves far below her shoulders. Her forehead was high, her eyebrows dark and thick, and her eyes obsidian. When her temper flared, they became hard; when she was at peace, they softened and glowed. Her nose gently sloped upward, her lips were full and red, and her chin was rounded and cleft.
At that moment she could easily have been taken for a portrait had not her hand risen suddenly to wipe away a tear from her cheek.
It’s not fair, she thought.
“It’s not fair!” she cried aloud, for the hundredth time since reaching the glen. Her hand clenched and struck her thigh once, then a second and third time while she stared blindly at the diamond shadows of fish swimming below the pond’s surface.
She knew she should not have been surprised by her father’s announcement at breakfast that morning; he had been hinting for weeks. Nevertheless, when it came time, she’d been too stunned to react.
“No,” David Evans said flatly. “The answer is no.”
“But, Father, I want to marry him!”
“No,” he repeated, regret now coloring his gravelly voice. “You may have known Griffin Radnor since you were both in swaddling, and he may now own a fair estate, but he’s too wild, too full of himself to be entrusted with my daughter.”
“Father,” she said, “I’ve heard stories of your own youth, and they were not exactly tales of a saint.”
“Griff Radnor is different,” he declared as he walked from the room. “You may be sixteen, but I’m still master of Seacliff, and I say no!”
She sat open-mouthed when he cast a sad smile in her direction before leaving, and shortly afterward she stormed from the house and rode headlong to the glen, bemoaning all the while her father’s hatefulness and Fate’s apparent alliance against her wishes.
It simply was not fair!
A sound, then, distracted her, and she looked angrily over her shoulder, an oath at her lips to renew the battle if her father had followed her.
But it was not David Evans.
In the clearing was a stocky white stallion, and standing beside it a man dressed in snug brown breeches and an open-throated white shirt. His long hair was the deep color of copper, his face rugged and tanned by the sun, and his shoulders and chest broad enough to prove he wasted little time sitting behind a desk piled high with ledgers.
The moment Griffin Radnor smiled, Caitlin scrambled down from her perch and raced into his waiting arms, weeping as she blurted out her story. He nodded and murmured softly as he stroked her back, then gently eased her away without breaking their embrace.
“A stubborn man David Evans is,” he said thoughtfully.
“Well, I don’t care,” she said defiantly. “I’ll take a carriage from the stables and we’ll ride, now, to Carfax. Surely, we’ll be able to find a justice willing to marry us. And then Father won’t be able to do a thing about it. Not a thing! Oh, Griff—”
He touched her lips with a silencing finger, then moved it slowly along the line of her jaw to her soft hair. She leaned closer and held her breath. She could feel the sun’s warmth on her back. It merged with the sudden fire in her lungs as he kissed her. It was a long lingering kiss that momentarily shattered her despair. She held him tightly as they sank to the grass. Her tears still flowed, but the bitterness soon changed to joy when her eyelids fluttered closed and she could feel his hands caress her like the cooling breeze that danced through her hair. She could feel the embers beneath her skin fully flame as they shed their clothes, could feel the weight and the heat and the magic of him as they joined in a centuries-long moment that temporarily banished the grief from her soul.
