The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (35 page)

“I don’t have to do that, Cordelia. I know you’ve been snooping. I also believe you’ve been up to your old tricks. You are a gifted mimic, I’ll give you that.”

Cordelia’s smile dripped poison. “And you are an antediluvian prude.”

Grant chuckled. “Tell me why you did it.”

“Did what?” More fluttering of lashes. She licked her lips.
 

“Oh, please, Cordelia, cut the nonsense. You know that doesn’t work on me.”

“Perhaps I could arrange a roll in the hay for you with Seth Rawlins.” She licked her lips again. “Our stableboy is quite a tasty morsel, don’t you agree?”

“Contrary to what you seem to believe, sex is not the answer to everyth-”

Cordelia’s laughter filled the room; harsh cackles ricocheted off the walls. “Of course it is, Phister. Without sex, we wouldn’t be here. Without sex, men would have nothing to think about. When you’re lying in bed with Riley and you innocently spoon him, I’ll wager you end up driving your point home more often than not.”

Grant ignored the jibes. “Cordelia, you lured Rhonda Moorland out here against her daughter’s wishes. I’ve little doubt you also lured her former roommate. Tell me why. And what happened to Randi Tucker?”

“I don’t know anything about the roommate - I’ve never even laid eyes on her. I have no idea what the governess’ mother was doing here, but I must say, it was quite educational.”

Grant folded his arms. “Very well. We’ll continue this later.”

“Giving up so easily, Phister?”

“The dinner hour is upon us. I prefer not to lose my appetite.”

Belinda is Tired

What a day it had been! First the swim with Eric, then the picnic with him and the children. It had all seemed like a dream - at least until Momma had shown up and humiliated her.
But I survived just fine!

Belinda reminded herself of that ever since Eric had held her in his arms and told her she had a new family now.
He even kissed me!
Of course, it was on the forehead, but she imagined she could still feel his lips against her skin.
 

After dinner, Eric had dismissed the kids, telling them they could watch an Avengers movie. Then he had taken Belinda down to the Gallery of Ancestors. There, they strolled and chatted in privacy. He hadn’t brought up her mother, but she knew he was trying to show her it didn’t matter, that she shouldn’t be embarrassed - and it worked. She’d forgotten about the incident as they strolled the refrigerated corridor while Eric told her stories about his ancestors. They’d paused a long while in front of Thomas Manning’s portrait, and the resemblance between Eric and Thomas seemed even more startling, but she said nothing. They wound up the tour with a couple of ghost stories. Eric told the tales of the Bride of Ravencrest and the White Violet in a light, bemused tone, and when she’d asked if he believed Ravencrest was really haunted, he’d looked at her a long moment and finally shrugged. “One never knows.”

Now she was back in her room. She’d had a soak in her tub, the whirlpool jets on high to rub the knots out of her muscles. It had been heavenly. This was her first long soak - because of the incident on her first night, she’d been afraid to do more than take a quick shower, but it had been weeks and nothing else strange had happened in her bathroom. For that, she was grateful.

Exhausted from the sun, the wine, and Momma, Belinda yawned as she opened the drapes and windows to let the cool night breeze enter the room. Below and beyond the window, the clutch of Greek gods stood silent sentinel. All was right with the world. She climbed into bed. The cell lay on the nightstand, and she didn’t touch it; undoubtedly Momma had left more nasty messages. Belinda sighed and shut off the light, too tired to read or even notice the scuttling sounds beyond the vent.
 

In the Garden

In her darkest nightgown, Cordelia stood in the gardens among the statues. She stared up at the huge marble figures of Demeter, Zeus, their daughter Persephone, Bacchus and Dionysus. The night was black, the moon bright; it was a perfect evening to have some fun with the gods and goddesses that punctuated the gardens. Glancing up at Belinda Moorland’s bedroom window, she saw no signs of life. Only a few lights burned throughout the manor as Cordelia placed her grimoire on a flat stone. Bending down, she retrieved her athame from a sheath she wore around her ankle, and sighed. She wasn’t looking forward to what she had to do, but a spell of this proportion required a little something extra.

She lit a candle and opened her book to the visual illusion glamour she wanted. She’d used the spell many times before and while the results could be magnificent, they never lasted more than a moment or two. Probably because she’d never offered her own blood before. Chickens, crows, and even a goat once, yes, but apparently, those offerings hadn’t impressed the gods enough to sustain the spell. She memorized the words and closed her eyes, bringing the blade to her palm with a trembling hand. Taking a deep breath, she drew it across her skin and suppressed a whimper of pain as the blade separated her flesh.
This had better work,
she thought as she recited the words:
 

“To all that stands

Or lies so still

I give thee life,

And thine own will …”

Blood dripped from the wound, and as she recited the phrase, she moved to each of the statues, allowing a few drops to pepper their stone feet. The fog thickened around her.

“To all that stands

Or lies so still

I give thee life,

And thine-”

A few red drops hit the earth, and Cordelia was startled when she felt the ground rumble.
Lovely. An earthquake, now?
She collected herself and continued chanting, then watched in astonishment as the stone of Dionysus’ feet cracked.
That’s not supposed to happen.
This was supposed to be an optical illusion, a visual glamour, not the real thing.
Maybe it’s the earthquake.
She chanted harder, faster, and used her other hand to squeeze out more blood.
 

There was a cracking sound as Persephone opened her eyes. Little chunks of stone crumbled. She gasped when the eyes moved - and stared at her. Cordelia blinked, unbelieving. Stunned, she stepped back and tripped over her grimoire and fell to the ground.

“Shit!” As her hands hit the damp lawn, the earth grumbled and trembled beneath her.
 

Persephone’s stone pomegranate cracked and Zeus turned his great head to look at her. Terrified, Cordelia grabbed her grimoire, blew out the candle, and ran back to Ravencrest, leaving behind a black hole in the white fog.
 

Dancing Dolls

“She’s at it again,” Grant said as he lowered the window shade.

“Who’s she and what is she at?” Riley asked, half asleep.

“Heller’s in the garden casting spells.”

Riley laughed. “Again? Maybe she can’t sleep.”

“Again.” Grant chuckled. “Maybe she thinks she caused the little earthquake. He slipped between the cool sheets and snuggled with Riley.
 

“How do you know she didn’t?” Riley murmured.

“I suppose she might have, but let’s hope not.”

***

In her dream, Momma and Randi held hands and danced around her, singing
Ring Around the Rosie,
in high sing-song voices. They looked like lunatic marionettes, eerie dancing dolls with pale faces, vacant stares, and fixed smiles. They wore old-fashioned velvety dresses that reminded her of the gowns in the portraits. Belinda watched in horror as blood blossomed beneath the fabric, spreading out and dripping down their exposed arms and legs. Their movements became quicker, convulsive, and their skin turned ashen and began to flake away as their voices overlapped, coming from all directions, to assault Belinda with a barrage of childlike chants. The sounds rose higher, louder, faster, closer, and Belinda crouched, squeezed her eyes shut, and covered her ears. She screamed and the ground beneath her shook.

She shot up in bed, gasping, covered in sweat.
 

The earth trembled again, just a little, and she knew it hadn’t been just her imagination.
An earthquake!
She stood and went to the window and saw nothing out of the ordinary. If it was an quake, it hadn’t been a big one.

As she was about to return to bed, she caught movement outside - a white blur. Wiping the condensation off the glass, she gasped.

The statues in the garden were moving. She couldn’t believe it - they were moving!
They’re dancing!  
She rubbed her eyes. There were five statues, two female and three male, and they were holding hands, dancing in a circle.
 

That can’t be! I’m hallucinating!
 She closed her eyes, sure this was a waking dream, no different from the nightmare dancing by Momma and Randi that she thought she’d escaped. She opened her eyes - and the statues continued to move, the full moon gleaming silver on their white bodies.

The two female statues let go of the males and embraced each other in a passionate kiss, then one of the males forced one female down and ravished her from behind. Another did the same with the other woman. Belinda could see him pounding into her. The other males assaulted the female statues’ mouths. As the bodies crashed together, cracks began to form and pieces of stone chipped away.

Belinda bit off a scream, her eyes fixed on the revolting orgy in the garden. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, could only watch in disbelief. “No,” she murmured. “No, no.”

It’s only a nightmare. It’s only a nightmare. I’m still in bed. I’m still dreaming.
But she knew that wasn’t true. A new voice entered the room - Eric’s.
It’s witchcraft, Belinda. A glamour meant to frighten you.
Belinda spun and faced not Eric, but his ancestor, Thomas Manning. With his tied-back blond hair and immaculate eighteenth-century suit, he was unmistakable. He gave her a soft smile, but his eyes betrayed concern.

“You’re not real, either,” she said.
 

I need your help, Belinda. Prudence is mine. Please, return her to me. To Alice.
 

“What’s going on?” Belinda couldn’t control the trembling in her voice.
 

The Witch. Heller. She’s trying to frighten you … Because she is afraid of you.

“Afraid of me?” Belinda placed a shaking hand on the window sill. “Why?”
 

She knows you can help me.

“Help you how?”

Prudence. She is mine.
 

Belinda shook her head. “What do you mean?”

She is my daughter.

Belinda gasped. “Your daughter? No … I thought … But she belonged to Edward and Alice.”

Thomas shook his head and gave her a sad smile. Even as he vanished, the earth trembled once more.

BOOK 8:
 
SPELLBOUND

The Detective

The detective looked good in sensible pumps and a fedora that cast a Bogarty shadow across the stubble of his beard. As he sipped his tea, his pinkie tweaked up above the cup. Obviously, thought Grant, he’d seen way too much of Downton Abbey. “So, Miss Moorland, you never even knew that Randene Tucker intended to visit you?”

“She sent a text saying she might but I didn’t answer it.”

“Indeed.” Grant set his own teacup on the coffee table. “When she
did
notice the text, Ms. Moorland requested Ms. Tucker not be allowed on the grounds. But she never showed up.”

The detective crossed his legs and tugged at his skirt. Grant wondered if the plainclothesman had forgotten to shave his legs, or if the spiky hairs pushing through his pantyhose were supposed to match the stubbly beard. “I see. Ms. Heller, were you or your staff aware of Ms. Tucker’s intention to visit?”

“Not at all. We never saw her.”

Eric Manning nodded agreement when the detective looked at him.
 

“Miss Moorland, are you in the habit of ignoring phone calls and texts?”

“Yes, I am. I rarely even carry my phone with me because Randi and my mother barrage me with messages.”

The detective - Grant couldn’t remember his name - nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I noticed that.” He glanced around, eyeing Belinda, Grant, Cordelia and finally, Eric.

Eric cleared his throat. “It was so bad that I’ve ordered a new phone and number for Miss Moorland on the Ravencrest account, so her mother and former roommate cannot continually harass her.”

Grant saw surprise, then pleasure cross Belinda’s face. The girl blushed slightly and looked at Eric. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome.”

The detective - his name sounded like “Frankfurter” but that wasn’t it - cleared his throat. “But you all saw Rhonda Moorland here.”

“We did,” Eric said. “And I’ve already shown you the bullet hole in the landing’s wall. She nearly killed her own daughter.”

“So you said.” Looking uncomfortable, the detective recrossed his legs. Grant thought his girdle was probably too tight. “And you haven’t heard from either of them since Saturday and Sunday respectively?”

Belinda shook her head. “Not a word.”

“Have you attempted to call either of them?”
 

Belinda looked at her hands then directly into the detective’s eyes. “No, I haven’t.” She said it defiantly and held his gaze.
 

He nodded, set down his teacup, and rose. The man had seen the texts and heard the voicemails and radiated a lack of concern that Grant appreciated. The last thing the household needed was a nosy detective. This one -
Detective Frankenheimer?
- seemed satisfied, even bored, as he closed his notebook and slipped it into his shoulder bag.
Gucci knock-off
, thought Grant.
But then, he can’t afford the real thing on a cop’s salary
.
 

The others rose and Eric shook the detective’s hand. “You will let us know if you hear anything?”

“Yes. That goes both ways.”

“Of course.”
 

“I’ll see you out,” Grant said.