Ravenswood (Ravenswood Series Book 1)

by Christine Zolendz

  “Are you cold, dear? I could have someone light a fire for you.”

  I bolted upright, terrified, whirling my head around the room. The door to my room was wide open, and a small flicker of orangey light filtered in as if a small candle had been lit in the hallway. Yellow and gold danced translucently over the dark walls.

  “You should have dry clothes too.” The voice, raspy and harsh, came from the darkest spot in the room.

  There in the corner sat the silhouette of a large woman. Her shadow moved quickly, and two claps were heard, then instantly a soft yellow light filled the room.

  She wore a tall top hat, black with purple trim. It was tattered and ripped, scuffed from wear. Bright yellow and orange flowers took up the right half of it. Her hair was plaited in one long, dark braid, speckled with strands of gray and white. Her face was half-painted with flowery skeletal-like features and purple lips, and the other half was smooth skin, thin with age but almost identical to my dead grandmother’s. The material of her dress was velvety black and made noise as she settled back in the wooden rocking chair she occupied. She looked like something out of a nightmarish fairytale. She was a fictional character straight out of the gothic fantasy section of Spirits and Words. A bookshelf I spent my young adult life devouring. A place where Gram would complain I lingered too long stocking books, swearing the genre wasn’t as entertaining as, say, historical nonfiction or self-help.

  “I’ve reached Wonderland,” I mumbled to myself, straightening my back and sliding up to lean on the headboard of the bed.

  The woman gave no hint that she heard; she only folded her lace gloved hands and rocked back and forth. Curiously, she smelled of cinnamon and sugared apples.

  “Who are you?” I asked cautiously.

  She inhaled long and deep. “Rose Delacriox. But the real question, dear, is who are you?”

  She stood slowly, leaning heavily on the arm of the chair for support. She was much taller than I thought she’d be, towering over the rocker with the skirts of her fancy gown billowing out around her.

  “I’m Rainey Halerow. Delia…” I cleared my throat. “I mean Adelaide Delacriox’s granddaughter.”

  “You couldn’t be.”

  “Yet, here I sit,” I said automatically.

  She limped softly over to the edge of the bed and sat. The mattresses dipped with her weight, and I quickly steadied myself. “Look,” I began, “I came here for answers. That’s all. My grandmother told me she had no family.” I leaned forward and pulled my legs under me. “She was killed. Did you know?”

  Her eyes held no emotion, her lips not a tremble. She cleared her throat and said, “Yes, I heard. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “My loss? She was your sister.” How could she not care? How could she not even show the slightest bit of feeling for the loss of a life? “Listen, I just came here to—”

  “You are an impossibility. You shouldn’t exist.” She spoke softly, almost to herself, then pushed her hands heavily down on the mattress and leaned in closer. “Yet, you look just like her.”

  “Her who?” I asked.

  Meaty fingers gently tugged on one of my hands, turning it over, palm up. She gently slid her hands over mine and looked down upon my palm as if reading a book.

  “A child never born—”

  I yanked my hand back instantly. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Reading your lines, dear.”

  “I don’t believe in any of that stuff,” I said, slipping both my hands under the covers. “Ms. Delacriox, I really just want to find out anything I can about my grandmother. Why she lied to me all these years. Maybe get a little closer to who might have killed her.”

  “You walked through the Hollow, Rainey. For a small price, you could probably ask her yourself. Besides, dead isn’t such a bad place to be.”

  “Right.” I laughed, but the look on her face was darkly grave, like she didn’t mean it as a thoughtless joke. Her gaze shot past me and lingered to my right, widening strangely. It sent a chill zipping up my spine, and I shivered suddenly, unable to stop myself.

  “Madden?” she called, still staring vacantly at the space beside me. “Madden, dear? Please start a fire for Ms. Halerow. There’s a sudden chill in the air.”

  From the hallway walked in Madden, his eyes immediately locking onto mine, his expression grim. He moved swiftly, holding a large tray in his hands—followed by an icy draft that crawled up my skin in gooseflesh and extinguished two of the candles next to me. There were glasses on the tray; one held a dark liquid that steamed a fine mist upon the surface, and the other was light in color and clinked with cubes of ice.

  “I had Madden bring you some refreshments. Warm mulled wine if you’re cold, and cold white if you’re warm.” She began to walk to the door as Madden placed the tray on the empty space in the bed she'd just occupied. Taking my attention off Madden, I watched her hobble painfully slow toward the door. “You know,” she said, looking back over her shoulder at me, “some believe you could find truth after drinking spiced wine or sleep dreamlessly if you drink white. But you don’t believe in any of that stuff, do you?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “Although your sister always told me anything could be fixed with a glass of wine.”

  She paused and stiffened. “I guess it’s all in the matter of your beliefs, sugar. Goodnight, Ms. Halerow. If you stay on for breakfast tomorrow, we’ll talk more, shall we? It’s quite late, and this makeup is itching me like a bad case of fleas.” She continued her long, hard trek to the hall. There was something wrong with her leg. She moved as though it pained her tremendously.

  As she struggled to walk, Madden hunched over the open fireplace and piled logs together. One strike of a match, and the room brightened with the light of the fire. “You’ll be warmer in a bit,” he offered, standing next to the flames. There was something odd in the way he stood there watching me—something almost incandescent about his skin—and fiery about his eyes. He looked as if he was carved from stone, immovable, inanimate.

  “You don’t need to drink any of the wine,” he said, no louder than a whisper.

  I looked into his eyes for a few moments. They seemed to be trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t figure out what, and he made no voice to help. I shook off the feeling and reached for the warm wine. I didn’t hold any value in superstitions. I was freezing, and I needed to shake the small tremors of cold that shifted up and down my body. Besides—I did come here for the truth—so it wouldn’t be too far-fetched for me to choose the drink that told it to you. Working in the wine and book industry, I’d learned so many things. I read dozens of books about old wives tales and stories about wines and what superstitions came with them. Drink wine if you’re plagued by headaches. The Romans thought spilling wine inadvertently was an omen of great disaster—if it fell to the ground or on a table, terrible things would happen. If you spilt wine on purpose, though, they believed it brought good luck. The breaking of a wine-filled glass was the token of a happy marriage when performed at weddings. Whatever the irrational fears were, it was all just a waste of good wine to me.

  “Uh, I—” Madden cleared his throat. “I hoped to speak with you.” His eyes darted toward the door, and his spine straightened as Rose turned to look back at him.

  The exchange of glances caught my attention. I met his eyes and found myself staring into them; the sensation of falling overwhelmed me. He felt familiar, although I knew I'd never seen him before I came to Louisiana. There was just something about him.

  “You wanted to talk to me?” My voice was hoarse, trembling with each word. “Why?”

  “Madden,” Rose Delacriox rumbled in warning.

  His amber eyes studied my face, a thousand curious expressions flashing across them.

  Maybe this was all a dream? Maybe I was still drunk as hell, passed out on the street somewhere with Savannah.

  “You need to leave,” he mouthed, making me smile at the absurdity of it all.

&n
bsp; It seemed too grand, didn’t it? This was nothing but theatrics and lies. They wanted something from a dead woman, didn’t they? Gram probably had a big estate, one I hadn’t looked into yet. I bet they all thought they could prey on the poor granddaughter, the parentless one, the only family Gram really had left.

  The glass of mulled wine warmed my hands, and the scents of nutmeg and cinnamon lifted off the rim of the cup. I sipped at the sweet red wine, and instantly my shoulders relaxed and warmth bloomed deep inside my stomach. I leaned back drowsily and called out to Rose Delacriox as the woman finally reached the door.

  “Ms. Delacriox? One last question…” I said, thick with dry sarcasm. “Why did you say I shouldn’t exist?”

  “Because I remember the day you died, Ms. Halerow.”

  Before I could ask more, darkness pressed in and a heavy exhaustion pulled me under.

  Chapter 10

  Stupid, stupid mulled wine.

  I should have listened to Madden.

  Every dream I had was a memory. Every. Single. One. It was like watching a movie called The Shitty Moments of a Nobody’s Life.

  The first scene started with the day before my twenty-second birthday. The day before my grandmother’s murder.

  The Audition Committee of the New York Philharmonic posted the names for the final round of auditions. My name was the first on the list. Rainey Halerow was blasted across social media sites and that morning’s New York Times. I had my final, live audition in eight weeks, along with a requirement to play with the New York Philharmonic for a period of time as part of the final trial process.

  At first I thought it was a fluke, me, playing at Lincoln Center in the David Geffen Hall. My body shook. I would be nationally known, and people all over the world would hear me play; it was what I always dreamed of. Seeing my name splashed across social media like I was some sort of something had me dancing around the room and squealing. I wanted to share the news, scream it from the rooftops. Eric didn’t pick up his phone; he texted me like he’d never listened to my messages (I only left, like, five) and wrote I’ll try and meet you guys later. Big game on tonight. When I called Gram, she told me she was too busy with inventory. It’s only an audition, Rainey. You’ll be competing with real musicians, talented musicians. Don’t get your hopes up. It’s very busy here. I have to go, and then she promptly hung up the phone.

  She always turned cold when it came to my music.

  “You shouldn’t bring attention to yourself,” Gram scolded me.

  I was fifteen in the dream now and still believed in things, people, myself even. Gram was the only adult I ever really knew, besides teachers or doctors. She kept me sheltered, always looking behind us, watching if someone was following. On my school emergency contact card, she always wrote both my parents' names in the section of who wasn’t allowed to have access to me or pick me up from school, even though I knew they both had died long ago. She was eccentric that way.

  Or maybe just bat-shit crazy.

  I used to ask about them a lot, my parents. There was a time when all I did was ask my grandmother about them. But the stories changed every time Gram told them to me, so after a few years I learned to stop asking about the past and just look to the future. At least whatever Gram said my future should be filled with.

  We lived in a small neighborhood on the southern tip of New York City. A small island they called Broad Channel, an area about twenty blocks long and four blocks wide. It’s the only place I’d ever really seen. The Atlantic Ocean was literally my back yard, and the farthest I'd ever traveled was upper Manhattan. Gram was never one to travel, and we were always so busy with the store and books. Everything always revolved around books. If I wanted to go somewhere, she just shoved a book at me and told me to read about it.

  “Attention is no good. Stay away from it.” Gram grimaced, eyeing me seriously. “There are shitty people everywhere.”

  “But Gram! It’s my first solo. Mr. Cross thinks I’m good enough for a solo! And I’m not even a senior!”

  All I had was music, my instruments and compositions. I was socially awkward and geeky, only ever befriending Amy, Megan, and Eric in elementary school and taking a long time to feel comfortable around them.

  I really believed if my grandmother just heard me play, just for a few moments, she’d think I was worth listening to for a few more moments, and if I got her to stay and listen for an entire song, she’d see. She would see how important music was to me. Believe in me.

  “Where is this concert, then?” She sighed, her attention falling away from the paperwork spread out in front of her.

  My heart beat wildly, hopes and fears warring with each other. “It’s at the high school. Oh, will you come? Please, Gram, please come and listen.” God, I begged like a fool. I just needed her to listen for a little bit of time. Mere seconds—that’s all it would take—I would have bet my life on it.

  I left for school that morning on a cloud—I could just imagine the pride on my grandmother’s face when she heard me play. It would be my very own piece too. I composed it myself and worked on it for weeks until my fingers ached with exhaustion.

  But that night when I stepped into the bright lights of the stage and the entire building seemed to thrum with anticipation, the seat Mr. Cross reserved for her in the front row sat empty.

  I blinked blankly into the audience for a few beats before it dawned on me: she wasn’t coming. No matter what I said or did, I was never important enough for her. She was never going to be the sweet, encouraging grandmother I needed or wanted. In the silence, someone coughed uncomfortably in the back row. I needed to push myself, go through the concert, alone—in a crowd of people, watching and waiting for me to be something even my own grandmother knew I wasn’t.

  My hands moved stiffly over the keys. Three wrong notes, and I watched my teacher wince behind the curtain. The stupid composition didn’t even make any sense now that I was on stage, in concert, listening to myself.

  What made me think I could do this? What made me want to?

  Mr. Cross rubbed the back of his neck and looked down, pity heavy in his features. He couldn’t even look at me.

  God, please let me get through this without dying of pure humiliation.

  My fingers trembled, and tears spilled from my eyes. Note after note, out of time and off-key, I played some warped carnival version of what was supposed to be my breakout solo piece. The arrangement I was just so proud of mere minutes ago. It took every ounce of strength in me to remain on that stage with what I believed was the entire world, minus my horrible grandmother, watching me crash and burn. My heart just about exploded inside me, it burned and ached, and I knew I would never forget the pain of that moment for the rest of my life.

  After my final note echoed out and the audience clapped a half-hearted round of applause, Mr. Cross handed me a bottle of water and told me he was happy I tried.

  What kind of compliment was that? What sort of encouragement and support could I muster from those unemotional words of nothingness? Glad you tried, but you sucked big time, kid, now go play in traffic; you’ll get more crowd appreciation that way.

  On the second floor, in the girl’s bathroom, for the remainder of the show, I lost my weight in tears. I couldn’t bear to listen to the other students play. I didn’t want to hear how talented they were, how extraordinary they played, when I was stuck being plain old me.

  How could this night have ended so badly?

  I waited until the concert was over and slipped out a back exit into a small parking area. I was hoping no one would be left, but a few students still roamed around, laughing and running after each other. I held my jacket tight around my collar and walked in the shadows.

  “Hey, you’re that girl,” a boy said, pushing himself off the hood of a car. “Hey, you! Hold up! You’re that girl, right?”

  I peered around the parking lot, certain he couldn’t be talking to me. I was never that girl, whatever that meant. “Me?” I asked, pointing
a finger to my chest idiotically.

  “Yeah, you,” he said, following me down the walkway of the lot. “You played the piano tonight. On stage.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, pressing my lips together and tucking my hair behind my ears. The glow of the streetlights gave me a good view of his features. He was cute and fresh-faced, and his smile was kind.

  I expected him just to wave at me and continue walking, but instead he said, “Do you want to hang out with us?” He pointed his thumb back toward the cars. “We’re just smoking and talking.”

  I nodded wordlessly, afraid the wrong things would stammer out past my lips. A boy had never asked me to stay anywhere. Maybe this night wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  We sat on the hood of a car for a while, listening to the other kids talk about people I didn’t know and things I couldn’t keep my focus on. I kept peeking up at him, amazed he wanted to sit near me. At one point he scooted over, closer to me, and the back of his hand brushed mine. In that instant, I felt a crushing wave of panic—I wanted this boy to like me—I wanted him to see me and be his sun, his moon, and all the stars in his world. I could imagine him, sitting in the front row of all my recitals, listening to me perform with a look of sheer pride and admiration across his face. That’s my talented, hot girlfriend, he’d tell all his friends. He’d hold my hand and walk me to every class and I would always find little notes from him whenever he left me, filled with lines of poetry and songs about me. He would believe in me.

  I could barely breathe from the weight of emotions crushing against my chest. I shuddered and pulled my hoodie up to my throat.

  He told me how great I played piano and how I was one of the most talented girls he'd ever met. His friends agreed I was really cool, amazing up on stage, and they all wished they were that brave.

  I kept staring at him, cheeks flaming.