The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  Suddenly, inexplicably, the butler had a powerful feeling that something was wrong.

  The click of heels broke his train of thought.

  “Mr. Phister.” Cordelia Heller’s voice was a shard of ice. “What, might I ask, do you think you’re doing in my parlor?”

  Grant gave the woman unblinking eye contact. “Belinda doesn’t care for this painting. Mr. Manning asked me to remove it and I thought you would enjoy it.”

  She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “I see.”

  “Speaking of our new governess,” Grant added, “have you seen her? I just now realized-”

  Heller scoffed. “I’m not her keeper, Mr. Phister. It’s no concern of mine where she might be.” She turned and stalked out of the black and white room, her heels echoing behind her.

  Grant sensed the woman knew more than she was telling; he just didn’t know what. He decided he’d better go look for Belinda himself. Something told him he’d be wise to start in the east wing.

  BOOK 5: NIGHT MOVES

  Trapped

  No one is coming! Belinda pounded on the door with bruised hands. They can’t even hear me! She wasn’t sure how long she’d been locked in the east wing; it might have been hours. It felt like days. All she knew was that there was no interior slot for the key.

  Someone had removed the chair from the doorway, trapping her. Why? Who? Mrs. Heller? One of the kids? Was it just an accident? She doubted it.

  She had pushed the old switch by the door over and over, but it wouldn’t cooperate; the lights stayed dead, making the darkness complete and confining. It had occurred to her that she might find a room with a window so she could call for help, but she was afraid of running into the nuns again if she went looking.

  What if they follow me here? Her skin prickled into gooseflesh.

  But they hadn’t entered the cabbage-rose corridor yet and, so far, she’d heard nothing to indicate they were nearby. But in the darkness, it was impossible to be sure.

  She leaned into the entry door, resting her face against the cool carved wood. “Please,” she whispered. “Someone let me out.”

  No one came. Hot tears escaped as she sank to the floor.

  Belinda …

  She turned her head, looked up, saw nothing. Then soft cool fingers caressed her cheek.

  Belinda …

  She saw the little girl in the sparkling red dress peering at her as clearly as if the lights were on, but everything else was in darkness. She felt the fingers again and wasn’t afraid. “Who are you?” Belinda whispered.

  Just then, there was a noise from deep inside the corridor and the little girl’s eyes widened in alarm.

  Hide! They’re coming. Hide!

  Belinda felt a small hand on hers, tugging. She could see the tiny fingers pressing her own. Instantly, she rose. The child pulled her down the hall, into the depths of darkness.

  “No,” whispered Belinda. “Wait.”

  They’re coming! Follow me now! The girl turned again. Belinda followed.

  They headed down the corridor. To the left, one of the doors swung open and the child entered. Come!

  The room was black as pitch. Over here.

  “Where are you?”

  Shh!

  Belinda followed the sound and as the door clicked closed behind her, she bumped into something large and cold. She put her hand out and felt a smooth surface. A desk.

  Down here.

  Belinda felt her way around the desk and climbed under it. There was no sign of the child. The only noise she heard now was her own labored breathing.

  Then the door creaked open. The air turned so frigid that Belinda feared the vapor of her own breath would give her away.

  Despite the darkness, Belinda could see the hems of the nuns’ black habits. They moved together as if connected by invisible bonds.

  Belinda stifled a scream when she made out the thick trail of blood left by the central nun. Its coppery smell wafted around her. Her stomach churned.

  As the three sisters moved through the room, Belinda barely breathed.

  Please go away, please go away.

  The nuns drifted from one end of the room to the other, searching and whispering, “Eat, eat, eat…”

  In her mind’s eye, Belinda could see the nun pushing the over-ripe fruit toward her. She trembled, her skin aching from the cold. Despite the chill, a drop of sweat ran down her back.

  The nuns’ synchronized words filled the darkness like the sounds of night insects. “Eat, eat, eat…”

  She imagined mandibles where their faces should be. Suppressing a shudder, she squeezed her eyes shut as they neared the desk again.

  They stopped moving. The whispers went silent.

  Afraid to open her eyes, Belinda tensed. She held her breath.

  After a few seconds, she heard the whispery movement of their habits again. The sisters glided toward the door. After several long moments, she heard it creak open. “Eat, eat, eat…” The voices trailed away as the door shut behind them.

  Darkness and silence took the room. Then, from somewhere nearby, she heard the little girl’s voice.

  Find Uncle Thomas…

  * * *

  Grant Phister hurried to the third floor landing and across the shadowed hall to the closed door. He didn’t know why he was so sure Belinda was in the east wing, but somehow, he was certain of it. Belinda didn’t seem the type to go wandering, but then he knew Cordelia had a penchant for sending employees on fool’s errands into the east wing; she found it amusing. The east wing hadn’t been used by the family for anything but storage since Edward Manning had died and his son, Parnell, moved his own young family into the just-refinished west wing, where the Mannings kept residence to this day. Indeed, the east wing hadn’t been used since around the time of the Civil War.

  The English manor had been rebuilt here, on the central California coast, in the 1800s. The east wing was a warren; not that the west wing wasn’t, but the latter was well lit and used logically: everything had a place and was in it. Unused rooms were kept locked, as were unnecessary doors that opened into other rooms. Even a number of minor corridors were locked off.

  But the east wing was another matter. Almost nothing was locked, hallways intersected at odd places and rooms opened into other rooms without the need of exterior connections. It was a maze worthy of Winchester House and more than a few people, including family, had gone missing for hours behind the heavy carved door.

  He tried it and found it locked, which meant Belinda wasn’t inside; it could only be locked from the outside … Unless someone locked her in. Extracting the oversized key from his chain, he unlocked the door.

  It creaked open and he peered into the thick darkness. He heard nothing. “Belinda?’

  No answer.

  “Belinda?” He stepped in and pushed the switch. Dusty sconces bloomed with dim dirty light. After disengaging a hidden interior lock, he pulled the door shut behind him; if Cordelia came along and saw it open, she just might lock it for the pure joy of it. No sense leaving her any clues.

  He saw the cabbage-rose wallpaper and wondered who had chosen it; Edward Manning had remarried after losing his first wife, Alice, in a tragic accident. It was likely his new wife, Rebecca Dane, had chosen it. If it hadn’t been so old and faded it might have been beautiful.

  “Belinda?” he called. “Where are you?”

  He moved to the first door and opened it. “Belinda?” He took his penlight from his pocket and peered inside; only the halls had been wired for electricity. He saw shrouded furniture and shadows, little else. Shutting the door, he moved on.

  The next two rooms yielded nothing and Grant was starting to wonder about his hunch when he came to the fourth door. He put his hand on the latch. It was frigid, ice-cold, and he drew back in surprise. “Bloody hell,” he muttered as he made himself reach out to depress the latch.

  Swallowing hard, he pushed the door open. “Belinda!” he shouted as icy air slithered aroun
d him, enveloping him like cold slime. He thought he caught a glimpse of something black and white.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he cried.

  It was gone in an instant, if it had ever been there at all.

  Around him, more shrouded furniture: before him a heavy mahogany desk sat uncovered, its sheet swept to the floor. It gleamed under his small, bright light.

  “Belinda?”

  He heard something and moved to look under the desk. “Belinda?”

  He bent and pointed his light. Belinda, eyes wide with terror, stared back at him. Tears had left tracks in the dust on her face.

  Darjeeling with Honey

  “Darjeeling with honey,” Grant said, pressing a white china cup into Belinda’s hands. “It will make you feel better. Drink up.”

  Belinda nodded and wrapped her hands around the steaming cup, trying to warm up. He had guided her to the stairs and down to the kitchen, then surprised her by taking her out of Ravencrest and across to the old carriage house, where he and Riley kept quarters. The carriage house had been converted into a snug two-story cottage, complete with massive gardens, and even in her disheveled state of body and mind, Belinda had admired the greenery and flowers as much as she did the neat little kitchen where she sat now. The floor was terracotta tile, the cabinets and shelves sparkling white. Blue dishes and cups were visible, stacked behind glass door fronts; above one counter, narrow shelves displayed row after row of labeled glass bottles filled with various teas and spices.

  Grant saw her looking. “I grow herbal teas and remedies and cooking herbs, of course, though I like to use those fresh as much as possible. He poured his own cup then sat down at the small table beside her. ““How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been down the rabbit hole.” Belinda sipped the hot tea. “And mad as a hatter.” She picked up a damp washcloth and blotted her face again, rubbing around her eyes, wiping away tears. You’re safe, you’re rescued, don’t start blubbering now! She put the cloth down, trying to control the shaking of her hands. “The lights went out. They stopped working for me, but they worked for you.” She shivered.

  “Do you have any idea how you got locked in?” Grant studied her over the rim of his cup.

  “None,” she said. “When I went in, I dragged an old chair over and placed it in the doorway so that it wouldn’t close.

  “There was no chair, inside or out,” Grant told her.

  “I saw that.” She paused. “Somebody must have moved it.”

  “It seems so. Any idea who?”

  “None. I’m sure it wasn’t Thad and really, I doubt that Cynthia would do it.”

  “They’ve been with their father all afternoon. I think we can assume they’re innocent. Thad came home looking for you; he has a picture he wants you to see. He’s the reason I realized you were missing in the first place. Belinda… Do you have any other ideas about who may have done this to you?”

  He’s waiting for me to name someone. “It’s ridiculous,” she said.

  “Believe me, nothing is ridiculous. Do you have a suspect?”

  “It was probably just a maid, you know, putting things back in place.”

  “I would expect a maid would know to put that old chair back in the corridor.”

  “Mrs. Heller,” she blurted.

  He nodded and she knew that was the name he was waiting for. “Mrs. Heller,” he repeated.

  “But it makes no sense. Why would she-”

  “I don’t put anything past her. And she sent you in there to begin with, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes. For some old textbooks.” Belinda paused. “But to lock me in? It’s such a childish prank.”

  Grant nodded and sipped his tea. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  She worked up the nerve to mention the thing she couldn’t get off of her mind. “Grant?” she said. “Can I ask you a strange question?”

  He studied her. “Of course, dearheart.”

  “Do you believe in… you know, things that can’t be explained?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m not following.”

  She sighed. “It’s just that I saw something up there in the east wing. Something I don’t understand. Several somethings.”

  Grant’s eyes became intent. “Do tell.”

  “Well, first there were …” She felt her cheeks burning and her voice trembled with uncertainty. “God, I feel so stupid saying this. It’s crazy.”

  Grant placed a hand on her shoulder. “Believe me, Belinda, I won’t think you’re crazy. This house is … well, it has a lot of … traffic.”

  Belinda felt a surge of relief and sighed. “So, you do believe in … things?”

  He nodded. “I have no doubt. Now tell me what you saw. I assure you that you’re not the first person to experience something inexplicable in this house. I’m also certain you won’t be the last.”

  Belinda swallowed. “Nuns,” she said. “Three of them.” Her throat tightened as the terror came back. “They were awful, Grant. Evil.”

  Grant blinked at her. “The Sisters.”

  “You know about them?”

  “I have never seen them myself, but it sounds like you had a little run-in with Sisters Faith, Hope, and Charity.” Grant glanced at his watch.

  “What?”

  “Around 1820, when Parnell Manning was master of Ravencrest, he took in three nuns and a few children when an orphanage in Devilswood was burned down. They lived in the east wing for some time.”

  “One of the nuns dripped blood. I could see it…” Belinda shuddered. “I could smell it.”

  “Belinda, trust me, as long as you stay out of the east wing, you won’t run into them again.”

  “There was more. A little girl.”

  Grant gave her a sharp look. “I have to oversee dinner. We’ll talk more later, all right?”

  “But-”

  “We will talk, I promise you we will. But not now.” He gestured her closer and leaned in and whispered. “Not here. The walls sometimes have ears. Don’t mention the child until I bring her up.”

  He moved back and spoke in a normal tone again. “Yes, we can have a long talk about ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night, and we shall. But right now, I need to get dinner ready and you need to get ready for dinner.” He smiled. “Would you like me to give you some chamomile tea? Guaranteed organic - I grew it myself. It will help you sleep.”

  “If I can’t sleep I’ll ask you for it tomorrow.” She smiled, her mind whirling. Did he think his own home was bugged? She wasn’t sure what else he could mean.

  He saw her out the door, and they paused on the walk surrounded by flowers and herbs. “It appears the more ghostly inhabitants of the house have taken an interest in you,” he said.

  “But why?” Belinda shivered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And Mrs. Heller… Why would she do that to me? Lock me in.”

  “Why does a wasp sting?” Grant replied. “We’ll talk, dearheart. I promise. When it’s safe.”

  Cordelia Fumes

  Ripping Grant Phister’s spine out of his living body was too good for that interfering bastard. When Cordelia Heller saw him leading the whimpering little governess out of the east wing, it took every ounce of self-control not to do … something … about him. But she hadn’t; Phister was her cross to bear, the latest in a long line of impudent pricks who belonged to the Order of the Mandrake. The British society dated back to the fifteenth century, at least. And Mannings were always mixed up with them, though via retainers and friends; they rarely dabbled in herbs or medicine themselves. But Phister was a chip off the odious Bran Lanval who had guarded the Mannings through most of the 18th century. Grant Phister was no physician, of course, but herbs were his passion and she never touched any of the teas he loved to offer her with his eyebrow cocked up practically to his hairline, taunting her. Have a cup of tea, Cordelia. You look like you could use it. No, she wouldn’t touch the stuff - it might be English B
reakfast or it might be something meant to banish her, or worse.

  She had considered, many times, doing away with Grant Phister, but knew it might explode in her face. As far as Eric Manning was concerned, his old childhood pal could do no wrong. While Manning was willing to abide by his uncle’s will that guaranteed her position and living quarters, he was not happy about it. Though he was not suspicious of her, he was, unlike his uncle and great-uncle, immune to her charms. She could no more seduce him than push him by magick to abandon his loyalty to the butler. He was one of those Mannings who could not be spelled. They were like people who did not become drunk, who didn’t addict to tobacco or heroin. He could not be magicked. It was an inherited but recessive trait; a few other Mannings, like Thomas and Edward, had been the same. And she also knew that if anything happened to Eric Manning’s precious Grant Phister, she would be under suspicion. She did not want to risk that, since Manning was not easily controlled. If Eric Manning were driven to investigate her activities, he might be able to break the will - and that was not an option.

  Now, she stood by the writing desk in her parlor and studied the three maids. Blond Justine Chambers licked her painted lips and kept her eyes wide open, feigning innocence. Dominique de la Cruz, a Latina bombshell with double Ds on a short but curvaceous body, dared to look annoyed. Her foot tapped as she stood, almost at attention. Almost. Dominique was a twisted little fuck. And Phoebe. Brand new Phoebe Waxwing, with her little bird bones to go with her little birdy name. Hippie parents, no doubt. She would be so easy to crush. Phoebe pushed a stray strand of light red hair behind her ear; she had yet to experience Cordelia’s disciplinary actions but now seemed like the right time.

  Phoebe’s pager went off. She glanced down and twitched.

  “What is it, Phoebe?”

  “They need me in the kitchen. I’m serving the family tonight.”

  “Well, then, you’d better take your skinny little ass to the kitchen, hadn’t you?”