The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  “What do you think, Odin?” Bran spoke to the raven perched atop a globe next to his desk. Hearing his name, the bird flew to its master’s shoulder. “He needs limes.”

  Lanval laughed. “I never should have purchased you from a naval physician.”

  “He needs limes,” the bird insisted.

  “Let’s go see about that diagnosis, shall we?” The doctor stood and left his rooms, the bird riding his shoulder as he made his way to Parnell’s chamber by the glow of the wall sconces. Little light entered the windows; the day was dark and foggy.

  Johanna dozed in the Chesterfield and did not stir. The boy slept fitfully, propped up on a mound of pillows to ease his lungs. Lanval lifted the covers to listen to his breathing. It was, perhaps, worse than two hours ago, and he feared he might lose the young master. Sending a silent prayer to the Celtic gods of old - his ancestor’s gods - he began to cover the boy, but one of the cushions slipped and Parnell slid sideways. Carefully, the doctor began rearranging the pillows, pulling them together behind the boy. He pushed his hand beneath the bottom one and felt something there, something small and rough. Clutching it, he drew it forth.

  It was a burlap pouch sewn together with three broad stitches. He held it to his nose and sniffed, and dropped it in disgust. “Witchcraft,” he whispered.

  “What?” Johanna said, her voice thick with sleep. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, Johanna.” Like Edward, Johanna was a good Christian and Lanval was unsure how she would react to spell-casting; causing a witch hunt would not help Parnell. “Nothing. I was checking on the boy. He has a bit more color.”

  Parnell opened his eyes. “Odin.” It was the first word he’d spoken in days.

  “He needs limes,” answered the raven.

  Parnell smiled.

  Spell Casting

  Just inside the Ravencrest stables, Carmilla Harlow hid her ceremonial dagger in the sweet hay. Then she dropped her dark cloak, removed her dress, and let the lantern light shine down on her naked flesh.

  The stableboy, Jacques Ferrant, who’d been on his rounds bringing the horses fresh buckets of water, froze and stared at her, just as she’d intended.

  He was everything she needed for her purposes: young, strong, and virile. And it didn’t hurt a bit that he was as handsome as he was, with his tanned skin and glossy blond hair that often covered his blue eyes. Those eyes were hungry now as he watched her fold her cloak and dress, and set them aside.

  She turned toward him, giving him a full view. “It is your turn now.” The words escaped her in white frosty plumes as she ran a hand up her abdomen, trailed it across her breasts, paying special attention to her nipples. It was cold, but that worked in her favor. This kind of chill drew bodies together. She enjoyed the shock and arousal on the young man’s face as he removed his breeches.

  She appraised him. He was no Thomas Manning, but he was attractive.

  In one of the stalls, a horse whinnied.

  Carmilla smoothed some of the hay and lay back on it. “Come,” she said, opening her legs to him.

  The man sat beside her and with a trembling hand stroked her thigh. “You are beautiful, mademoiselle.”

  “I have wanted you for a long time, Jacques.”

  He gazed at her. “I did not know. You gave no indication.” The smell of whiskey on his breath was powerful.

  “I am a lady,” she said, almost laughing aloud at the audacity of the statement.

  “Yes,” said Jacques. “A beautiful lady, mademoiselle.”

  She grew impatient and reached down and took his manhood in her hand. It was thick, rigid, and ready. “Do it,” she said. “Now.”

  He scrambled on top of her, moving this way and that as the smell of whiskey washed over her, then in one clumsy thrust, he entered.

  She gasped in delight at his size.

  As he grunted and pumped, Carmilla reached into the hay, found the handle of her athame, and waited.

  “Oh, Jacques,” she whispered. “Oui, oui.”

  He groaned. The young Frenchman was taking a long time but she was surprised by her own uncharacteristic patience. How could she be angry, after all, when she knew the outcome of her deeds? Edward Manning was impossible to enchant, not without much stronger magic than even the stableboy could provide. She’d stood a better chance with Thomas, but even he had resisted her advances; stronger spells would be needed to secure his affections as well. To become the mistress of Ravencrest, she must first dispose of the heir, and that had proven more difficult than she had expected.

  Parnell was surely the last child Alice and Edward would have. Carmilla knew Alice could not bear another loss after the devastating disappearance of her babe last February. Losing Parnell would undoubtedly throw her into an even deeper melancholy - one that would weaken her enough for Carmilla’s spells to easily oust the mistress of Ravencrest from her sleeping body, so Carmilla herself could enter and become, to the outside world, Lady Alice Manning, wife of Baronet Edward Manning. The added benefit was that Parnell, Edward’s rightful heir, would be out of the picture, further securing her new position as mistress of the manor. After two hundred years, the Mannings - and Ravencrest - would finally be hers to command.

  The trouble was that no matter what Carmilla tried, Parnell would not die. He was ill, yes, and although his condition was not improving, it wasn’t worsening enough, and Carmilla was beginning to suspect the involvement of another spellcaster. Lanval. If that were the case, she needed to do something more extreme. Which is what had brought her to the stables this night.

  The man on top of her began to increase the speed of his thrusts. His breath became quick and furious, his movements more determined. The scents - hay, horses, dung, whiskey, and male sweat - mingled to become something not at all unpleasant. Her own pleasure grew.

  Carmilla’s grip tightened on the blade’s handle as her ecstasy hitched again. It was almost time.

  He grunted. “I’m going to-”

  “Do it.” Carmilla’s free hand clutched his firm posterior and she dug her nails into his flesh.

  This pushed him over the edge. His body seized, and as if in the throes of a fit, his handsome face contorted into an unattractive mask of something that looked altogether painful. He grunted as a droplet of sweat rolled off a lock of his blond hair and onto Carmilla’s cheek. She cried out as her own excitement peaked.

  A new wet warmth blossomed inside her. This was her cue. As the man spent, she drew her athame across his muscled throat. The flesh parted without effort, as if it were a loaf of bread, hot from the oven.

  His grunts became gurgles. His eyes showed shock and rolled back in his head. Warm blood spurted from the crimson arc that smiled beneath his gasping mouth.

  Carmilla dug the nails of her free hand deeper into his backside, relishing the warm wet life that now bathed her as a final climax took over. She lifted her hips, bucking into the dying man, taking him deeper and deeper.

  Jacques Ferrant collapsed atop her. The weight of him, although crushing, satisfied. It felt so complete. So final.

  Her ecstasy drained away as his warm blood pooled in the hay beneath her, its metallic scent joining the other perfumes of the stable. She savored this a short moment, then used all the strength in her arms to push him off. She stood, took a deep breath, and looked up at the lantern-lit rafters before she spoke. “I give to Thee now the life he lives.” She ran her hands over the cooling blood that covered her, letting it move through her fingers. “And as well, the life he would produce.” Reaching down, she gathered the warm slick seed that now escaped her body. “Life for life.” She sucked the blend of fluids off her fingers. It wasn’t as sweet as the blood of a babe, but it warmed her despite the frozen air.

  No bolts of lightning flashed and no voices answered. Nothing happened at all save a cool gentle breeze that swept across her blood-covered body, letting her know her the sacrifice had been accepted.

  Smiling, she walked to one of the water bu
ckets and washed the boy’s blood, seed, and sweat off of her, then used a pitchfork to bury the soiled hay and the man himself. Finding a single silver coin in his pocket, she took it. Satisfied, she dressed, eager to return to Ravencrest where she could watch Parnell Manning. She would enjoy his inevitable decline.

  Parnell Hangs On

  Dec 20, 1788

  Still, Parnell suffered. Odin supervised from atop the globe as Bran Lanval sat in his study, pouring over medical and herbal texts. The boy had improved the moment he had removed the witch’s hex bag from beneath his pillows, but he had not gotten well. His breathing was easier, yet he remained weak and had to be forced to drink his broth and tea.

  Troubled, Bran rose and unlocked the bottom drawer of a highboy, then withdrew a thick hand-bound book that an old friend - a woman some considered a great healer, and others a witch - had entrusted to him on her deathbed twenty-five years earlier. He took the book back to his desk, opened it, and squinted at the spidery handwriting through a looking glass. It was both a grimoire and a medical book. Lanval had taken the peppermint tea recipe from it; it was a mixture that also contained certain herbs that wouldn’t be familiar to most modern apothecaries, herbs and should have cured Master Parnell by now.

  But they hadn’t.

  “He needs limes.”

  “If I want your opinion, I’ll ask you for it,” Lanval told the raven.

  He had expected Parnell to heal after the removal of the fetish bag, but that hadn’t been the case; it had had an effect, to be sure, but there was more magick afoot and Lanval knew he had to figure it out without letting the child’s parents or grandmother suspect there was a witch at Ravencrest. The Mannings did not suffer witches kindly, hadn’t for two hundred years and more, since one had laid a curse upon them. In Bran’s opinion, rash behavior would endanger Parnell. No, he had to keep this problem to himself for the time being, and so far from London, he couldn’t even discuss it with his fellow knights in the Order of the Mandrake. Having seen Edward’s reaction to the murdered stableboy in the barn, he knew the baronet was already suspicious and uneasy. Bringing up witchcraft would make it far worse.

  He stood once more and took the book over to his workbench and began choosing herbs and other ingredients to put in his own medicine bag to help protect the boy. He knew Edward and Alice would react poorly if they knew what he was doing, so he worked quietly and quickly, stitching the ingredients into a small white satin pouch that would be hard to spot and easily mistaken for a lavender sachet if found.

  “Come along, Odin. You are good medicine for Parnell.” Lanval tapped his shoulder and the raven fluttered to its master.

  When they arrived in the boy’s room, he found Alice at her son’s bedside and Prudence in her lap. Parnell’s eyes were open, but still feverish as he listened to their chatter.

  “Odin!” the boy cried.

  “He needs limes,” Odin decreed as he flew to the bedpost and perched.

  “Excuse me one moment, m’Lady,” the physician said. Alice moved herself and her daughter out of the way, allowing Lanval to listen to the boy’s chest - and to slip his medicine bag under the pillows unnoticed.

  “There now,” he said to Parnell. “I’ve asked Merlin himself, King Arthur’s own magician, to cast a special spell to heal you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Lanval smiled at the child, then nodded to the mother, who looked on approvingly, then gestured to Odin to return to his shoulder. As he left the room, he prayed to the old gods that his own small magick would help. If it did not, he would have to take firmer actions.

  He hoped Thomas would soon arrive from London. He was a Manning of a different sort; one who had always been open to talk of the arcane.

  Bran Lanval’s Concerns

  December 23, 1788

  “Uncle Thomas arrives tomorrow!” Parnell told Bran Lanval when he entered the boy’s room.

  “I see.” Bran smiled.

  “Papa came and told me just a little bit ago.” Parnell began coughing and Lanval put a cloth to his mouth, then looked at the results. Since he had placed his medicine bag, the boy’s sputum was a lighter shade of green; he was improving, but still far too slowly; Bran knew more continued to go on here than met the eye. Late the night before last, when no one was in Parnell’s room, Lanval had gotten down on his old, sore knees and, with a lantern, peered beneath the bed to see if perhaps there was another hex bag. He saw nothing, but that did not satisfy him; something was still wrong. Once Thomas arrived, he would enlist his aid in lifting the mattresses properly.

  “Did you hear me?” Parnell asked when the coughing eased.

  “I did indeed, young master. And it’s wonderful news.”

  “He’s bringing a coach full of presents, too!” Coughing wracked the boy’s thin body.

  “Hush now. I have a special syrup I’ve made for you. It should help your cough. You want to be strong when your uncle arrives tomorrow, do you not?”

  The boy nodded, exhausted, and Lanval eased him back on his pillows as Lady Alice entered with hot milk, tea and porridge.

  “I’ll be back, Master Parnell,” Lanval said after giving him a spoon of syrup. “Be a good lad and eat for your mother.”

  Parnell looked doubtful.

  “And for your uncle. You must be strong if you want me to give him permission to visit with you. Promise me you’ll eat?”

  The boy nodded. “I promise. But don’t forget to bring Odin on your next visit!”

  Christmas Eve

  December 24, 1788

  Thomas Manning arrived on horseback, ruddy-cheeked, blond hair tangled from the wind, hours ahead of the carriage bearing his luggage and gifts. The day had been clear and cold and he was glad to be at Ravencrest well before dark.

  He gave his mare, a high-spirited dappled gray named Lady Berlin, over to Long Stephen. “Take good care of her,” he said, feeding the mare the last carrot left in his greatcoat pocket.

  “I will, indeed, Sir Thomas.” Long Stephen paused. “Congratulations on the title.”

  Stephen and Thomas had been boys together and the familiarity was welcome. “What can I say, Stephen? The royals at Buckingham House decided my wares entitled me to become a Knight of Bath.” He smiled. “I guess they didn’t want to purchase fragrances from a mere commoner.”

  Long Stephen grinned, then led Lady Berlin toward the stables.

  Thomas turned to enter the house. Pershing held the door, closed it behind him, then took his coat, hat, and scarves. A trio of young maids tittered and blushed as he nodded in their direction, an act Edward would never approve of, which made it even more fun for Thomas.

  “Sir Thomas!” Bran Lanval called, approaching at a pace brisk for an old man.

  “Are you my official welcoming committee?”

  “Edward is out choosing the Yule log and Lady Johanna, as always, is overseeing the choice of evergreen for tonight’s tree-trimming.”

  No English household Thomas knew of except his own had the German tradition of the tannenbaum. He and Edward had grown up with it since their German-born mother had brought the tradition to Ravencrest and he could not imagine Christmas without a sparkling sweets-laden fir.

  “Lady Alice is with Parnell,” the doctor continued, “as is Miss Prudence.”

  “How is my nephew?”

  “He improves, but slowly. If you would come to my chambers, I would like to discuss something with you.”

  “Of course.” Thomas turned to the butler. “Pershing, would you have the kitchen send us up a hot repast - roast beef if you have it - and plenty of ale?”

  “Very good, Sir Thomas.”

  “Excellent.” Thomas and Lanval reached the broad staircase at the back of the hall and he slowed a little to accommodate the physician’s creaking knees. At the top of the stairs, they ran straight into Carmilla Harlow. Lanval spared her a bare nod and Thomas did the same. “Miss Harlow. I hope you are well.”

  “I
am quite well, thank you.”

  She gave him a brief flutter of eyelashes as she passed, and ran her eyes up and down his body. Normally, Thomas would have appreciated this wanton act from a woman of such beauty, but when Carmilla Harlow did it, it unnerved him.

  ***

  Bran Lanval pushed his plate away and drained his ale cup before looking at Thomas, who had eaten four times what Bran had consumed. Such was age; the appetites diminished, but it was not altogether a bad thing.

  Odin leaned forward on the doctor’s shoulder. “He needs limes.”

  Bran gave the raven a bread crust and made him take it to his globe to eat. “Beggar,” he said with fondness, then turned his gaze back to his companion. “What do you think?”

  “Witchcraft,” said Thomas. “I would almost wish that to be true, my guilt over my nephew’s plight weighs so heavily. I should never have allowed him to come so close. I should not have allowed Miss Harlow to distract me. I was a fool.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. It was an accident.”

  “One that should not have happened,” Thomas said bitterly.

  “Thomas,” Lanval said. “Witchcraft is afoot. Give up your guilt. It will not help Parnell.”

  He nodded. “And you have not told Edward of this?”

  “Of course not. His actions would alert the witch and we cannot allow that to happen.”

  “Do you suspect anyone?” Thomas asked. “Someone in the household?”

  Bran Lanval sighed. “It might be anyone. We have a number of new servants here. Whoever left the hex bag under his pillow has access to the house.”

  “Or tricked someone into placing it.”

  “Possibly.” Lanval studied Thomas. “There is one I would suspect though I’ve seen no outward signs beyond the chill she gives my heart.”