The Visitor (23 page)

Forty-One

S
lipping the ribbon from my neck, I traced the skeleton key with my fingertip, wanting to believe that, like hallowed ground, the metal could protect me from the ghosts and the malcontent and any evil that I'd yet to encounter. It had some power, I felt certain. There must have been a reason why Rose had worn it to her grave.

A breeze swept through the garden, deepening the scent of Nelda's roses. My senses were so heightened, I could hear the flutter of moth wings in the four-o'clocks and the satin-like whisper of the moonflowers unfurling. A songbird trilled in the magnolia tree. A train whistle sounded in the distance. Loneliness settled over me as twilight crept in from the garden.

I sat alone on the steps, clutching Rose's key until the mosquitoes drove me inside. Then I locked up, slipped out of my clothes and into my new cotton nightgown before climbing between the cool sheets.

I placed the viewer on the floor and shoved it underneath the bed. I wouldn't look at those images again tonight. Whatever Rose had trapped beneath her house could wait until morning.

Maybe nothing had been there at all, I tried to convince myself. Maybe it was best not to borrow trouble.

* * *

But trouble found me just the same.

It came with a tapping on my door, a sound so tentative that I thought for a moment I might still be dreaming. Then it grew louder, more insistent, and my eyes popped open as I bolted upright in bed. Something was out there on the porch wanting in.

My instinct was to huddle under the covers, but instead I slid out of bed and padded to the door. A lace curtain hung over the glass, and I parted the panels to peer out. The moon had gone behind a cloud and the porch lay in darkness.

I had almost managed to convince myself that I'd imagined the sound when I heard it again. Not a knock or a tap as I'd first thought, but the click of a lone cicada.

I spotted her in the shadows then. The humpback in-between. The childlike entity that was half in, half out.

Why I unlocked the door and stepped out on the porch, I couldn't say. Despite my fear, I was drawn to her.

She was dressed in a garment blackened with age, and she clutched something in one hand that I couldn't make out in the darkness. When the clouds drifted away, I could see her face in the moonlight. Her nose, her mouth, her eyes. Features that were no longer human and hadn't been for a very long time.

Her skin looked dark and leathered and yet somehow fragile, as though it might crumble to ash from the slightest touch. And I could smell her. The same odor of must and old death that I'd detected in my cellar.

We stood with gazes locked for the longest time, but when I made a slight move, she stopped me with a sound that was only a little less aggressive than the rattle. Her mouth was open and what might once have been teeth clacked together in a chilling staccato.

I heard the squeak of the same phantom wheel that had manifested in my garden. As the sound grew closer, the entity threw back her head and an earsplitting whistle vibrated from the back of her throat. She flung out her arms in supplication a split second before she was sucked backward into the darkness.

I was so utterly flabbergasted by what had transpired that I failed to sense the newcomer. He stood at the edge of the garden gazing up at me, his expression unfathomable in the moonlight.

Forty-Two

“A
melia?”

My heart fluttered as I watched Devlin move through the garden and mount the steps. He must have come straight from work because he still had on his usual attire of dress pants and crisp cotton shirt. He'd removed his coat and tie, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat so that I could see the gleam of the silver chain around his neck.

When he reached the top stair, he took my shoulders. Then his gaze scoured the porch behind me, an indefinable expression on his face as if he'd seen something he couldn't explain. A shadow? A flicker of light? If he'd caught a glimpse of Mott, he would never admit it. He would search and search until he came up with a logical explanation.

“Everything okay?” he asked, leaning in to brush my lips with his.

As distracted as I was by Mott's strange visit, my senses were still so attuned to the night that it almost seemed as if I could hear his beating heart through his clothing. The sound was deep, steady, primal. I put a hand to my chest, where my own heart still pounded. “Everything's fine. You gave me a start, though. I had no idea you were coming.”

“It was spur of the moment.” He cocked his head. “Are you sure you're all right? What are you doing out here on the porch so late?”

“It's not that late, and why are you really here?”

“Dr. Shaw called. He said you had a scare today.”

“He shouldn't have bothered you with that,” I said in annoyance. “You have enough to worry about right now, and anyway, nothing happened that I couldn't handle.”

“What did happen?” He was still holding my shoulders, still studying my face in the moonlight. “What's this about Louvenia Durant's grandson following you?”

“I've seen him around in a few unexpected places, but I don't think there's any cause for alarm.”

Devlin was silent for a moment. “You're being awfully cavalier about all this.”

“I don't mean to be cavalier. But nothing happened with Micah Durant.” I summed up my interaction with the beekeeper in as succinct a manner as I could muster, but my brevity only deepened Devlin's concern.

“This guy sounds like trouble. Did you contact the local authorities?”

“No, because he didn't
do
anything. If he'd wanted to hurt me, he had ample opportunity when we were alone in Kroll Cemetery. But he never made a move toward me. He didn't even threaten me. I think he just means to scare me off.”

Devlin's grip tightened. “And what happens when you don't scare off? You think he'll just give up? I can tell you almost certainly that he won't.”

I tried to shrug off his worry. “It may not matter anyway. I haven't agreed to the restoration. Louvenia and I haven't even discussed the details. Once she hears my price, she may decide she doesn't need my services after all.”

“When are you meeting with her?” Devlin asked.

“Tomorrow morning at eight.”

He nodded. “That seems a good time for a conversation with Durant. It won't hurt to let him know that you have a police detective watching your back. Maybe he'll think twice before escalating his behavior.”

My hand flitted to his chest. “Are you sure you have time for all that? You don't need to get back to your grandfather?”

“He's in good hands, don't worry. Tonight, I'm exactly where I need to be.” I saw the briefest of scowls before he curled an arm around my waist and drew me to him. When he bent to kiss me, I felt the cool brush of silver against my fingertips as the medallion slipped from his shirt.

So much power in this totem. So much history in this emblem.

I'd sworn not to dip back into Devlin's past, not to use my newfound abilities to intrude upon his privacy. But before I could stop the process, my mind emptied and a flood of images stormed in.

I almost expected to find myself in the same disturbing tableau as before, but instead of hovering at the edge of the woods, observing Devlin and Mariama from afar, I found myself in a strange room that smelled of leather and old books. For a moment, I thought I was in Dr. Shaw's office, that I must have slipped into a memory of Devlin's time at the Institute. But the room was more opulent and orderly and it reeked of very old money.

Devlin stood at a long window with his back to the room while an older man with gray hair sat scribbling at an ornate desk. He was tall and slender like Dr. Shaw but without the stooped shoulders. This man's posture was at once rigid and regal, and I knew he was Devlin's grandfather even though I'd never met him. I could see a resemblance in the set of his jaw and in the way he carried himself.

How I had come to be in that room was unexplainable. How I had become an invisible voyeur to events in Devlin's recent and distant past, I had no idea. All I knew was that the transformation of my gift had somehow connected us in a way that I'd never experienced until a few days ago.

Like Mariama, Jonathan Devlin seemed to sense my presence. He glanced up, peering into the space where my shadow self lurked before bowing his head once more to his work.

“Come away from the window, Jack. You don't know who could be watching.”

Devlin turned with a scowl. “I'm not Jack, Grandfather. I'm John.”

“I know who you are,” the elderly man grumbled. “Why must you always interpret everything as a personal affront? Your father never minded the nickname. It goes back for generations in our family. But then, you've never cared much for tradition, have you?”

“Maybe I just don't like the name,” Devlin said.

“Still as stubborn as the day you came to live with me, I see. And twice as infuriating.” His grandfather tossed the pen aside and swiveled his chair toward the window. “Have you given any more thought to the matter we discussed a few days ago?”

“No. And if you intend to start in on me again, save your breath. Nothing you say will convince me.”

“Even after what happened to the other one?”

Devlin turned, leaning a shoulder against the window frame as he folded his arms. “By accident or intent, Mariama drove off that bridge by her own hand. No one else was responsible.”

“How do you know that?” his grandfather demanded.

“Because I know. End of story. Now take your medicine so we can both get some rest,” Devlin said wearily.

“I won't take another pill until you hear me out. I'm eighty-five years old. I don't know how much time I have left. After I'm gone, certain obligations and expectations will fall on your shoulders.”

“I'm well aware,” Devlin muttered.

“There has been a Devlin serving in the ranks of that organization for over three hundred years. With your father gone, you're the next in line, and you know what that will entail. Everyone around you will be scrutinized, including that woman. She may fly under their radar now, but once the vetting process starts, they'll find out about her and it won't be pretty. She is anathema to everything they stand for.”

Devlin just shook his head. “This is pure fantasy, Grandfather. These people aren't real. You dreamed the whole thing up or maybe you read it in a book and now you're confused. Or maybe this is your way of trying to get me to do what you want. Whatever the case, let me make something perfectly clear. I'm not going to stop seeing Amelia Gray because her profession and background don't meet with your exalted standards.”

His grandfather's fist came down hard on the desktop. “This isn't about standards! It isn't about her profession or her people. Don't you understand that? It's about
her
.”

“Grandfather—”

“Open your eyes, Jack. Use your instincts.
You know what she is.
”

* * *

What am I?
I wondered as I spun up out of the memory.

I had asked Papa that very question and he'd had no answer. How was it that Jonathan Devlin, a man I'd never met, seemed to know something about me that my own grandfather couldn't explain?

This is pure fantasy, Grandfather. These people aren't real.

I was still swirling in a haze, lost in all those questions when I realized Devlin was peering down at me through narrowed eyes.

“What did you call me?” he asked in a strained voice.

I shook my head slightly trying to clear the fog. “What?”

“Just now. You called me Jack.” His grip tightened. “No one but my grandfather has ever used that name. You've talked to him, haven't you? Did he call you? Come to see you? What did he say to you?”

His sudden agitation startled me. “Nothing. That is...I haven't spoken to him. I've never even met him.”

Devlin's expression hardened. “There's a reason for that. He isn't to be trusted. But if you haven't talked to him, why did you call me Jack just now?”

I shook my head helplessly. “I've no idea. I don't know anyone by that name. But your grandfather has been so much on your mind lately. Maybe it was some sort of telepathy.”

Something flashed in his eyes. The memory of his grandfather's warning perhaps.
You know what she is.

“I don't see how that could be possible,” he said.

“There are a lot of things in this world that can't be explained.”

“Now you sound like Rupert Shaw.”

“I can think of worse things.”

He ran a hand through his hair as he glanced out over the garden. “You know I don't put stock in that sort of thing. It's a dangerous road to go down.”

“If there's nothing to it, why is it dangerous?” I asked in a reasonable tone.

His expression darkened. “It's been my experience that it can lead to obsession and a false sense of invincibility. And it's a good way to lose touch with reality.”

He was thinking about Mariama now. I didn't like the intrusion of his dead wife so I put my hand on his arm to draw him back to me. Where our skin touched, lightning danced.

“Did you see that?” I asked in awe.

“Static electricity,” he said. “There's a storm brewing.”

That was certainly the logical explanation. The wind had picked up and I could hear a distant rumble that might have been thunder. But the weather didn't account for the sudden quiver of my nerve endings or the surge of heat through my veins. It didn't explain the intimate sounds that bombarded me—the rhythm of Devlin's heartbeat, the saw of his breath, the throb of his pulse. The infinitesimal clink of the medallion against the silver chain around his neck.

My senses were already heightened by the night and by the evolution of my gift, but now everything inside me came alive in a way I'd never felt before. It was as if I'd been accustomed to the world as a flat image, but now I could experience everything around me in 3-D. The perception was as daunting as it was exciting.

I stood on tiptoes and touched my lips to Devlin's. A white-hot shock bolted down my spine and tingled in my fingertips. I drew in a sharp breath and shuddered. “Did you feel that?”

“Yes, I felt it.”

I started to touch him again, but he caught both my wrists in his hands and held them for the longest time before slowly pressing me back against the porch.

“Do you feel this?” he drawled, sliding his hand along my inner thigh.

My head fell back against the wall as he shoved my nightgown aside, teasing me with his fingers until my blood thrummed and my whole body felt electrified. If my senses were heightened, so was my desire. I had never wanted anyone as I wanted Devlin at that moment. Urgent and trembling, I tugged him closer as I fumbled with his belt and zipper.

And then it was my fingers that teased, my hand that encircled and stroked and drew a low groan as I brought him to the very brink. He lifted me, pushing into me, and where our bodies touched, sparks exploded. I could see tiny flickers of light out in the garden where manifestations were trying to break through, but I wouldn't let them. I was stronger than the ghosts now, stronger even than the Others. I held the unbound power of death in my fingertips. Drunk with passion and a dangerous sense of omnipotence, I yanked the nightgown over my head and tossed it toward those flickering lights.

Devlin said against my ear, “There's a light on in one of the upstairs windows. This porch may not be as private as it seems.”

He backed me through the door, kissing me deeply as I helped divest him of his clothes. Then we moved as one to the bed. I lay back against the pillows and lifted my hands to the headboard, an artful surrender. Devlin stood at the foot of the bed staring down at me. Then, eyes gleaming in the moonlight, he put a knee on the bed and crawled up between my thighs, trailing the tip of his tongue over my abdomen and up to my breasts.

The medallion glistened as the chain swung with his movements. I wanted to touch it again, feel the coolness of the metal between my fingers, slide inside Devlin's mind the moment he slid into me.

Instead, I closed my eyes and lifted my hips to him. I could feel him there, pressing against me. His breath was hot against my neck and yet the hand that trailed along the inside of my arm was icy. A guttural moan sounded in my ear as a tongue darted out to lave along my jawline. My eyes flew open on a terrified gasp.

An odor came to me then, a fetid breath that was masked only slightly by the scent of witch hazel. The thing from Rose's sanctuary was there in the room with us. It had followed me through the maze and back to the guesthouse. I couldn't see it. But I could feel its presence. In bed beside me.
Touching me. Taunting me.
Wanting inside me.

My first instinct was to bolt out of the cottage and run screaming into the night, and I might have done exactly that if Devlin's expression hadn't stopped me cold. He was still kneeling over me, his gaze riveted on my hair where I could feel those frigid fingers plunging through the lose strands. There was something in Devlin's eyes beyond the glimmer of moonlight, beyond the dawning horror. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw the reflection of a shadowy form hovering at the top of the headboard before it turned to crawl up the wall.