The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  They stood just outside the kitchen doorway where the entire restaurant could be seen. There were a total of three customers, all of whom had already been served. Belinda blinked at Billy. “But no one’s even here,” she said.

  “We could get hit with a lunch rush.”

  “It’s only nine. I’ll be back before noon.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “I’ll owe you one.”

  Billy’s gaze traveled down, loitering around Belinda’s breasts like a bee approaching a pair of fragrant roses.

  She stepped to the side.

  Billy closed the thin distance between them, near enough now that she could feel the heat of his body.

  “I’m sure I’ll think of a way you can repay me,” he said in a low voice.

  Belinda took a look around. “Okay,” she said, her voice cracking. Not in this lifetime.

  “We’ll talk about it when you get back.”

  She stepped away from her manager. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be as fast as I can, I promise.”

  The Way to Ravencrest

  The address was thirty miles northwest of Bakerton. Devilswood was an exclusive area nestled in rolling green countryside punctuated with stands of redwoods. Belinda had been certain no bus would get her there easily, so she’d called for a cab; it arrived five minutes later.

  “Where to?” asked the driver.

  She looked down at herself. The ill-fitting tan and aqua uniform wouldn’t do. “Two places, if you don’t mind,” she said and gave her home address.

  * * *

  “Good choice,” said the driver as Belinda slid into the back seat for the second time.

  At her apartment - after much deliberation - she’d chosen a creamy silk blouse to wear with her nicest navy suit. The skirt brushed her knees, setting her calves off with the help of her best pair of Colonial buckle shoes with the two-inch heels. She rolled her dark hair into a bun and tucked it into a clip. She had used a plummy shade of lipstick and dusted her lids with a light charcoal-grey shadow to bring out the emerald of her eyes. “Thanks,” she said, unsure that she appreciated the cab driver’s input.

  “Where now?” He watched her from the rear-view mirror.

  “Oh,” she said, fumbling with her phone to find the address. “It’s in Devilswood.” She scrolled through her notes. “It’s a place called Raven … something.”

  “Ravencrest?”

  “Yes! That’s it. You know it?” She put her phone down.

  In the mirror, the man’s eyes became critical. “Yeah, I know it.”

  “I … I have an interview there,” she said, feeling a sudden need to explain herself.

  The driver twisted around in his seat and looked her up and down. “Well,” he said, “then it’s a good thing you stopped to change.” He turned and put the taxicab in drive.

  Unsure what he meant by the comment, and not at all certain she wanted to know, Belinda stared out the window and watched as the countryside gradually replaced the city.

  The driver continued to watch her in the mirror, averting his gaze each time he was caught, and she thought he knew something he wasn’t telling her. Something about Ravencrest. But that’s silly. She folded her hands in her lap, sat still, and focused on the tall trees and green fields outside.

  At last, they passed a sign that read, “Welcome to Devilswood, A Better Place to Live, Population 21,053.”

  They continued driving, passing an upscale shopping district and neat neighborhoods full of large Victorians and a smattering of newer houses. This is where the other half lives, she thought. They turned off the main highway, leaving the town behind as they followed a narrow road that climbed through a forest of redwoods and emerged among green rolling hills. They continued on for several miles. Belinda was about to ask the driver where they were going when he slowed and turned onto a winding road marked “Private.”

  “It’s haunted, you know,” the cab driver said.

  Belinda wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. “Pardon me?”

  “Ravencrest. It’s haunted.” He stared at the road. A momentary silence lay heavy between them.

  “Are you serious?”

  The driver cleared his throat. “Suicide, murder, devil worship, the works. The history of that house goes way back.” He glanced at her in the mirror, “And none of it’s pretty.”

  Belinda felt her jaw working, as if some part of her knew she should respond, but another part wouldn’t allow it.

  The elevation rose and the narrow road continued to twist and turn like a black ribbon.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she managed.

  He nodded in an absent way and stared ahead. “Orgies, too,” he said. “The kind with blood ceremonies and what have you.”

  Belinda could think of no response. It was preposterous. He must have been playing with her and she didn’t want to encourage the game. For lack of anything else to do, she pushed buttons on her phone and looked busy.

  “Speak of the devil.” The driver’s voice broke the uneasy silence.

  She looked up and her breath caught in her throat.

  Beyond a tall, black wrought-iron gate, on acres of the greenest grass and most elaborate gardens she’d ever seen, Ravencrest stood, three stories of gray stone and mullioned windows. The road leading to the mansion was lined with tall perfectly manicured Italian cypress trees.

  “Oh, my God.” Unbidden, the words slipped from her lips.

  “Don’t let her beauty fool ya,” said the driver as he pulled the cab to a stop at the gate and rolled his window down.

  “It’s stunning.”

  “Yeah, well, evil things wear the prettiest masks.” The driver punched a button on a black intercom speaker and a mounted camera turned its lens to the cab. There was some static then a cultured voice came through the box. “Ravencrest Manor. How may we help you?”

  Even the gate was beautiful. It was at least ten feet tall and at the curved top, perched two wrought iron ravens facing one another.

  “That’s you, lady.” The driver’s voice broke her concentration.

  “Oh!” She lowered her window. “I’m Belinda Moorland,” she said, trying and failing to sound casual. “I have an interview with a Mrs.-” What was the woman’s name! Oh my God! I’ve forgotten her name! She scrambled for her cell, for the notes she’d written there.

  “Please wait for the gate to fully open before proceeding,” said the voice in the box.

  Relieved, Belinda sat back and took a deep breath and watched the ravens atop the gate slowly part to allow them entrance. The taxi rolled forward.

  The road turned to cobblestone and Belinda watched in awe as they passed the coiffed landscaping. Flawless box hedges bordered great gardens and Belinda saw beautiful white statues that punctuated the explosion of bright colors from the multitude of gardens. As they drew closer, she noted that many of the statues were representations of nude Greek gods. She felt herself blush, but didn’t look away.

  Just ahead, Ravencrest Manor loomed. It was breathtaking, but were it not for the golden rays of sunlight and the blue of the sky behind it, she imagined it might look every bit as haunted as the cab driver claimed.

  She gasped at the sight of the long, rectangular reflecting pool. It fronted the mansion, as still and smooth as a sheet of glass. In it, the reflections of the manor, the trees, the sky and the clouds, were as dimensional, colorful, and life-like as what they mirrored. A sense of unreality washed over Belinda and she raised her hand to her mouth.

  The road rounded the reflecting pool and brought them to the front of the mansion where broad steps led to a pair of immense, ornately carved doors set into the gray stone walls.

  “This is where you get off,” said the driver bringing the cab to a stop. “Good luck.”

  Belinda gathered her handbag and grasped the door handle. “You’ll wait for me?”

  “No can do,” he said. “I’ve got places to be and not a lot of time to get there.�
�

  Belinda felt the beginnings of panic. “But I won’t be long.”

  The man shrugged. “Best I can tell you to do is call for another cab when you’re done.”

  The worry turned to anger, but she managed to keep it down as she paid him. “Thanks, anyway.” She shut the door and the driver took off with a little too much speed. Only then did it occur to her that perhaps the man really believed the place was haunted. Maybe he was afraid to wait.

  She stood a moment, staring up the mansion. If it was haunted, she thought, it was probably by long-lost lovers. There was no way she could fathom anything wicked existing in such a beautiful place. It was all nonsense, she decided. Ghosts, ghouls, and sex rituals. Not likely.

  She took the steps. Brilliant stained glass sidelights edged the doors. She lifted one of the heavy black knockers and brought it down twice, then noticed the intricate carving on the lintel. It was another raven, and this one was centered in what appeared to be a knight’s shield. A family crest?

  Just as she was about to knock again, the latch depressed. Pushing down a thrill of excitement and fear, she stepped back, smoothing her hair and jacket.

  A handsome man in a well-tailored charcoal suit and cobalt blue tie peered out at her. “May I help you?” His voice was like butter, his British accent seductive.

  “Um, Mr. Uh, Raven?” Oh, God, I can’t believe I said that! He’ll never hire me now. Unless his name really is Mr. Raven. She felt herself blushing.

  The man smiled revealing boyish dimples that flattered his green eyes and brush-cut sandy hair. “Mr. Raven is in the parlor with the dagger,” he said. “Would you be Miss Moorland?”

  “Belinda. Yes. That’s me. I mean I’m she.”

  “A little nervous?” His eyes were so kind she could’ve fallen into them.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry. Ravencrest is very intimidating, at least until you get to know her. I’m the one who should apologize. My name is Grant Phister. I’m Mr. Manning’s butler.” He smiled again and moved aside. “Won’t you come in?”

  She stepped inside and looked around, trying to keep her jaw from dropping. The entry hall alone was at least six or eight times the size of her little apartment. The floor, gleaming white marble tile accented by small black diamonds, seemed to go on forever before reaching a broad staircase leading to a long second floor landing. From behind her, the sun shone through the sidelights, casting dancing prisms across the floor and cream-colored walls. Above, a crystal chandelier hung from a ceiling that must have been two dozen feet high. It illuminated a broad arc of hall ahead of her, the light fading just as another chandelier took over, then several more after that before reaching the stairs. The only dark shadows lay at the hall’s edges, leaving a series of heavy arched doorways in blackness on either side.

  Decor was sparse and elegant, beginning with a gilded hat-and-coat stand and umbrella rack, then continuing into the room to narrow, walnut-legged, marble-topped side tables, bracketed by dark wood chairs, their backs carved into intricate spider web designs, their seats upholstered in white fabric that shone like ice. Above each table hung a portrait of some long-dead personage. They appeared to go back several centuries and she wondered who they were.

  “Those are Mr. Manning’s ancestors,” the butler said, reading her mind. Though still kind, his eyes now had a mysterious twinkle, and Belinda found herself wondering what kinds of secrets this man kept. “This way, please.”

  He led her to the last arched doorway on the left. Up close, it was even more imposing, edged in thick white-painted stone as if it were the entrance to a dungeon. “Pardon me.” Mr. Phister stepped ahead of her and an instant later, light bloomed from a glittering chandelier inside the room. It illuminated similar furniture - white upholstery over darkness. Portraits of bleak landscapes dotted the walls.

  Tall windows were draped in funereal black velvet, forbidding sunlight. She wanted to open them and, as if reading her mind once again, Grant Phister crossed the marble expanse and drew them. Brilliant daylight brought her attention to the scuffs on her shoes. With as much subtlety as possible, she rubbed the toe of one shoe against the back of her calf, then the other. That’s a little better. If the butler noticed, he was kind enough not to say so.

  “Please, Miss Moorland, do have a seat.” He gestured at a white settee and matching chairs gathered around a coffee table on a white area rug.

  “Thanks. Call me Belinda.”

  “I will, if you’ll call me Grant.”

  For the first time, Belinda felt like she could breathe. If all the staff were this nice, she would really like to work here. “Thanks, Grant.”

  He smiled. “And now, I must ask you to brace yourself, Belinda, because I have to fetch Mrs. Heller to begin your interview.”

  “Mrs. Heller?”

  “Mr. Manning’s head gargoyle. But never, ever call her that if you want to remain intact.” His eyes danced.

  “What?” She tried not to smile.

  “She’s rather touchy. She calls herself the house administrator. Refer to her that way. It’s a better epithet.” He walked toward the entry. “At least when she’s present.”

  “Grant?”

  “Yes, Belinda?”

  “Should I be afraid?”

  “No. Just cool and cautious. You need to get past her to meet Mr. Manning himself. Don’t give her anything to latch on-”

  “Mr. Phister! You may leave now.” The stern new voice could only belong to a woman named Heller or, perhaps, Satan.

  “Thank you.” He glanced back at Belinda and gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  Mrs. Heller was a tall, lithe figure in an elegant black skirted-suit. An ornate silver skeleton key hung around her neck. Two gemstones glinted, owl-like, on the key head, the small twin rubies and her matching lips being the only relief from the black and whiteness of her, unless you counted the faint hint of gold in the platinum blond hair that curled just under her firm jaw. She glanced at the windows, clucked disgust, and crossed to close the drapes with a decisive snap.

  She turned to Belinda and paused, her posture as stiff and straight as a guard at Buckingham Palace. Her eyes flashed like onyx under arched brows as Belinda stood to greet her. “How do you do?” she managed. “I’m Belinda … Belinda Moorland.” She offered her hand.

  Finally, the woman stepped closer. “Mrs. Cordelia Heller. I run this household.” Belinda’s hand was encased in iron and ice. A flash of fire, like an electric shock, passed between their hands. Mrs. Heller gasped. Dropping the hand as if it were a hot coal, she pinned Belinda in her gaze. “You’re here to interview for the job of governess.”

  “Y-Yes. Yes I am.” Belinda rubbed her hand, still hot and buzzing, on her skirt.

  “Please resume sitting, Miss Moorland.” Her red lips were set in a firm line.

  “Belinda.”

  “Miss Moorland, we are very proper in this house. The master demands it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No harm done.” Mrs. Heller thumbed through pages on a clipboard that Belinda hadn’t noticed until now. Her long fingers, tipped in black lacquer, moved quickly. “Your résumé says you have a degree in elementary education.” She paused, looking up at Belinda with the cold eyes of a pit viper.

  “Yes,” said Belinda.

  “And …” She brought the clipboard closer to her face. “Theater?” She practically spat the word.

  Belinda nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Heller. That’s correct.”

  “Yet, I don’t see any actual history of working with children.”

  Belinda swallowed. “N-no,” she said. “But I do love them and have always wanted the opportunity to teach. I’m hard-working and dependable.”

  Heller’s eyes slithered over Belinda, beginning at her shoes and snaking up her body before settling on her face. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure you are.”

  Belinda felt like a stain on the carpet under that harsh gaze.

  “Mo
orland,” said Heller. “That’s an … unusual name. What is your heritage?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your heritage. What are you?”

  “I- uh, I’m a mix of things, really. Mostly English, I believe.” I can’t believe she asked me that. I can’t believe I answered!

  “Hmm. Mostly.” Mrs. Heller flipped a page on her clipboard. “Are you married?”

  “No, but I don’t see-”

  “I ask you this, Miss Moorland, because you will be residing here at Ravencrest if I choose you for the position. Your marital status is something which must be considered.”

  “I’m single.”

  Heller wrote something on the page in front of her.

  “And are you sexually active?”

  Belinda’s cheeks flushed and her jaw tightened. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Her voice quaked.

  “I beg your pardon, young lady. It certainly is my business if you intend to bring strange young men to Ravencrest.” Mrs. Heller stood, a straight-backed slash of black. “You see, Miss Moorland, as head of this household-”

  “Head of the household, Mrs. Heller?” A new voice, male and deeper than Mr. Phister’s, cut Heller short.

  Standing in the high-arched doorway was a broad-shouldered man in a well-tailored dark blue suit.

  Mrs. Heller raised a pale hand to her throat. “Mr. Manning,” she said, her voice several notes higher. “You startled me.”

  Annoyance dragged at the corners of the man’s mouth. “I’m sure I did,” he said. “I think I’ll finish conducting this interview myself if you don’t mind.” He raised his dark eyebrows and Belinda was pinned by intense, steely-blue eyes.

  “Very well.” said Mrs. Heller. “Why should I mind.” It wasn’t a question.

  Belinda heard herself swallow.

  Despite her already porcelain complexion, she noticed Mrs. Heller’s knuckles whiten around the clipboard. There was a slight tremble in the woman’s hands - not fear, she thought, but rage.

  Mr. Manning stepped into the room. “Miss Moorland, please accompany me to my office.”