The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1)

by Tamara Thorne

  “If I answered all the calls and texts you and Randi leave, I wouldn’t have any time to do my work.” Humiliation was turning into anger and Belinda welcomed it. “As I tried to explain when I went away to college - and stayed away - I can’t live with you. You tried to control every aspect of my life, tried to tell me how to dress, what books I could read and which movies I could watch. You tried to tell me how to think.” Belinda took a step toward her mother, her voice low. “You tried to drive my friends away so you could stick me with Randi.”

  “You did just fine with Randi. She kept an eye on you.”

  “She spied on me, Momma. She told you everything I did.”

  “You’re on the path of Judas, Belinda. I never-”

  “Oh, please don’t try to deny it. I heard her on the phone with you so many times. You never wanted me to grow up.”

  “I wanted to shield you from things like …” She pointed at Eric. “Things like this. Men like this. He’s soiled your tulip and he’ll never marry you.”

  Belinda took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, willing her fury to remain ice in her veins. “Mr. Manning has never molested me, Momma. But I’ll tell you who has.”

  “Who? Tell me who, and I’ll kill him.”

  “Oh, I’ll tell you, Momma, I’ll tell you happily. It was Randi. She would come into my room and fondle me while I was asleep. The last night I was there-”

  Momma reach out and slapped Belinda’s face. “Liar!” Spittle flecked her mouth. “You dirty, filthy little tramp of a liar!”

  Eric and Grant both moved to her side. Belinda gave them each a glance, silencing them before they spoke. Otherwise, she didn’t move, didn’t react, just stared at her mother. She remembered being very young, maybe five or six, when her mother had asked her if she’d stolen her box of Godiva chocolates. Belinda said no with utter honesty, but Momma had shaken her, spanked her and made her sit on her bed with a bar of soap in her mouth and watch while she dumped every drawer, tipped over her toy box, and emptied her closet looking for the missing candy. Finding nothing, she went through the trash cans looking for evidence. Nothing more was said, but Belinda was confined to her room the rest of the day and that evening, she peeked out and saw Momma sitting on the sofa watching I Love Lucy reruns, her feet in big fluffy pink slippers on the coffee table. She had the Godiva box in her lap and was eating one after another, chocolate smeared on her lips and fingers. She’d never even apologized to Belinda for not believing her. More accusations would follow, by the hundreds, and none were true. The first seed of hatred for her mother had taken root that day.

  In college, she’d gone to a therapist, feeling there was something wrong with her for hating her own mother, for not caring about her. But the therapist had assured her it was a healthy reaction.

  “Are you listening to me, Belinda?” Rhonda demanded. “Are you listening?”

  “No, I’m not listening.”

  “How dare you tell such horrible lies about Randi! She’s your best friend!”

  “She isn’t a friend, Momma. She’s a molester and your spy, nothing more.”

  “You listen to me, you … you … bitch of Lucifer! You’re a good-for-nothing little liar. You always have been, and you always will be, and-”

  Eric somehow made himself even taller and more imposing as he stepped forward. “You are no longer welcome in our home, Mrs. Moorland. We will see you out now. And if you come back or try to bother Belinda in any way, the police will be notified.”

  Belinda was sure Momma would try to punch him, but she just stared, jaw working, piggy nose sniffing. “But she’s my baby girl. You can’t separate me from my baby.”

  “If Belinda wishes to communicate with you in the future, that’s her decision. But you are banned from this house.” He was in her face now. “You brought a loaded gun into my home and very nearly killed your own daughter. Your treatment of Belinda is unconscionable. That she has managed to thrive and become the accomplished woman she is today despite your stupendous failure as a mother makes me admire and respect her even more. Madam, you are a selfish, short-sighted demon-”

  “YOU’RE THE DEMON!” She lunged at Eric, but Grant pulled her back before she made contact.

  “Surely, Mrs. Moorland, you don’t wish us to call the police?” Eric spoke in his silkiest voice.

  “He’s possessed you, Belinda!” screamed Momma. Spittle flew. “He’s the devil incarnate!” She glared at Eric and intoned, “’No man shall touch the Gentiles of a woman who is not his wife.’ It’s in the Bible! And that means you, mister man!”

  “It’s Manning.”

  Cordelia Heller stepped forward and studied Rhonda Moorland with her cobra eyes. “I’ve met the devil,” she said in a clipped tone. “And he’s nicer than you.”

  Belinda’s jaw dropped and she snapped it shut.

  “Excuse me,” Mrs. Heller said. “I have work to attend to.” With that, she disappeared into the rear of the house, heels clocking briskly over the marble.

  “I will see you to your car, Mrs. Moorland,” Grant said. “Then I will watch you drive to the gates and release them when you arrive there, so don’t dawdle.” Without a pause, he took her arm and propelled her to the front entrance.

  Belinda stood watching. Her mother had embarrassed her many times in her twenty-three years, but this was the worst. All that dirty laundry aired in front of Eric, Grant, and Mrs. Heller. She wanted to die. And she was the one who opened her mouth and told the world Randi had molested her, not Momma. Why did I do that? I can never look Eric in the eye again!

  Hot tears silently washed down her cheeks. She lifted a hand to wipe them away, but Eric caught it and turned her toward him. She couldn’t meet his eye as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the tears away. Then he put his fingers under her jaw. “Look at me, won’t you?”

  Reluctantly, she let him raise her chin.

  “You have overcome such adversity, Belinda. Such trauma at the hands of that woman.”

  Fresh tears sprung into her eyes. “I haven’t been a good daughter.”

  “You cannot be a daughter of any sort to a person like that. She’s interested only in her own welfare and is incapable of love. No one could satisfy her. I’m sorry you had to live with her but your experiences have helped make you the wonderful, caring woman you are today. No wonder you’re so good with the kids.” He dabbed away more stray tears and held her prisoner in his storm-colored eyes. “You are part of this family now and I will never let anyone treat you like that again. Never.”

  Belinda lost it and cried in earnest, in relief, in joy, in horror. Eric wrapped her in his arms and put his lips to her forehead in a chaste but lingering kiss that she never wanted to end.

  ***

  Walter Hardwicke cursed Cordelia Heller. If she hadn’t been such a sex addict - oh, no, Walter, we have plenty of time, at least an hour, maybe two - the bitch in the crappy Le Car would have been taken care of properly before she ever made landfall at the house. But no. Cordelia had to have her carpet munched, over and over, a dozen or more times. The woman was greedy for orgasms and didn’t care that his tongue was numb and his jaw ached. “Nope,” he said. “Gotta have those orgasms.”

  She’d come racing back to his garage only fifteen minutes before. His quarry would be leaving Ravencrest soon, and he had to grab her while he could, had to stop her before this cow started calling the police about the fatty he did in the other night. Cordelia wouldn’t budge on that.

  So now, Walter sat on Ravencrest Drive, the narrow curving road that led three miles from the town up to the mansion’s gates. He had parked the Chevy Malibu - one of Eric’s classics - smack in the middle of the asphalt, slightly skewed so that nothing but a motorcycle could get past. He chewed on a toothpick and waited for his prey. “Hmmph,” he said, pulling the toothpick out to fish around in his mouth with his fingers. He withdrew a black pubic hair and wiped it on his pants. The carpet didn’t match the drapes. He’d tried to convince
her to get a wax, but Cordelia wouldn’t hear of it. She was old school about the pubes. She practically had an afro down there.

  A little piece-of-shit blue car appeared over the rise and he felt a spark of excitement in his mind and in his pants. He leaned into the open trunk, hefted his crowbar, and placed it on the road in the shadows of the Malibu’s rear tire then turned and began waving his right arm above his head and smiling as the Le Car approached.

  He could see the woman’s scowl as she slowed. The bitch was huge; he was surprised she was able to get in and out of her itty bitty car. Fuck. It’s Moby Dick. I’m going to end up at the chiropractor’s again.

  He smiled and waved as she slowed, weaving back and forth looking for a way around the Malibu. Not happening, bitch.

  She pulled as close to the edge of the shoulderless road as she could and rolled down her window. “Get your car out of the way!” She sounded like a crow with a frog in its throat.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He put on his sexiest smile and approached her window. “I can’t move it - my front tire blew.” He held his left arm at his side and wished he’d remembered to bring a sling like Ted Bundy. Oh well, this will work.

  “Well, drive on the rims. Get this car out of the road!” Caw, caw!

  “I’m sorry to ask, but might you help me? I need to get at my jack and I can’t use my left arm. I had surgery.”

  “Surgery? On your arm?”

  “Torn rotator cuff,” he said.

  “Call Triple A!” Her forehead shined with sweat, and the front of her fluffy poodle-haircut was damp.

  “My cell ran down.”

  “I’ll call them for you,” she growled.

  “Please, I only need five minutes of your time then we’ll both be out of here, I promise!”

  The old battleaxe looked dubiously at his arm. “I can’t jack your car up, Mr. Broken Arm.”

  “I can do that, ma’am. I just need you to lift the liner so I can pull the jack out.” He gave her his best hurt puppy dog look. “I can change the tire myself.”

  “With one arm?”

  “Yes.” Another smile.

  “You better not be wrong about five minutes,” she snarled as she opened the car door and dragged one pier-post leg out, then the other.

  Walter’s back started aching before she was all the way out of the car.

  Accusations

  Grant almost knocked on Cordelia Heller’s office door, then lowered his hand to the knob and turned it instead. Dealing with Heller required being on the offense rather than the defense.

  Cordelia, dressed in a severe charcoal suit with matching heels, looked up from her desk. Her platinum hair was pulled back in a knot and her lipstick was the color of venous blood. “Why, Phister, you failed to knock. Where is your proper British decorum today?”

  “I left it at the door, Cordelia.” He approached the desk and loomed over her. She snapped her computer closed and stood up, never taking her eyes off his. She was always ready for a pissing contest.

  “What is it?”

  “It was unusually kind of you to stick up for Belinda the way you did.”

  “I have new respect for the child, Phister. Not everyone could have survived Rhonda Moorland.”

  “Quite true.” Grant eyed her. “You were behind this, Cordelia.”

  “Behind what?” She fluttered her sooty lashes.

  “You know very well what.”

  “You overestimate my psychic abilities, Phister.”

  “You’re attempting to play me, Heller.” He smiled. “Tell me, have you been in Belinda’s room again? Perhaps checked the messages on her phone?”

  “Why, Phister, are you accusing me of snooping?”

  “I don’t have to do that, Cordelia. I know you’ve been snooping. I also believe you’ve been up to your old tricks. You are a gifted mimic, I’ll give you that.”

  Cordelia’s smile dripped poison. “And you are an antediluvian prude.”

  Grant chuckled. “Tell me why you did it.”

  “Did what?” More fluttering of lashes. She licked her lips.

  “Oh, please, Cordelia, cut the nonsense. You know that doesn’t work on me.”

  “Perhaps I could arrange a roll in the hay for you with Seth Rawlins.” She licked her lips again. “Our stableboy is quite a tasty morsel, don’t you agree?”

  “Contrary to what you seem to believe, sex is not the answer to everyth-”

  Cordelia’s laughter filled the room; harsh cackles ricocheted off the walls. “Of course it is, Phister. Without sex, we wouldn’t be here. Without sex, men would have nothing to think about. When you’re lying in bed with Riley and you innocently spoon him, I’ll wager you end up driving your point home more often than not.”

  Grant ignored the jibes. “Cordelia, you lured Rhonda Moorland out here against her daughter’s wishes. I’ve little doubt you also lured her former roommate. Tell me why. And what happened to Randi Tucker?”

  “I don’t know anything about the roommate - I’ve never even laid eyes on her. I have no idea what the governess’ mother was doing here, but I must say, it was quite educational.”

  Grant folded his arms. “Very well. We’ll continue this later.”

  “Giving up so easily, Phister?”

  “The dinner hour is upon us. I prefer not to lose my appetite.”

  Belinda is Tired

  What a day it had been! First the swim with Eric, then the picnic with him and the children. It had all seemed like a dream - at least until Momma had shown up and humiliated her. But I survived just fine!

  Belinda reminded herself of that ever since Eric had held her in his arms and told her she had a new family now. He even kissed me! Of course, it was on the forehead, but she imagined she could still feel his lips against her skin.

  After dinner, Eric had dismissed the kids, telling them they could watch an Avengers movie. Then he had taken Belinda down to the Gallery of Ancestors. There, they strolled and chatted in privacy. He hadn’t brought up her mother, but she knew he was trying to show her it didn’t matter, that she shouldn’t be embarrassed - and it worked. She’d forgotten about the incident as they strolled the refrigerated corridor while Eric told her stories about his ancestors. They’d paused a long while in front of Thomas Manning’s portrait, and the resemblance between Eric and Thomas seemed even more startling, but she said nothing. They wound up the tour with a couple of ghost stories. Eric told the tales of the Bride of Ravencrest and the White Violet in a light, bemused tone, and when she’d asked if he believed Ravencrest was really haunted, he’d looked at her a long moment and finally shrugged. “One never knows.”

  Now she was back in her room. She’d had a soak in her tub, the whirlpool jets on high to rub the knots out of her muscles. It had been heavenly. This was her first long soak - because of the incident on her first night, she’d been afraid to do more than take a quick shower, but it had been weeks and nothing else strange had happened in her bathroom. For that, she was grateful.

  Exhausted from the sun, the wine, and Momma, Belinda yawned as she opened the drapes and windows to let the cool night breeze enter the room. Below and beyond the window, the clutch of Greek gods stood silent sentinel. All was right with the world. She climbed into bed. The cell lay on the nightstand, and she didn’t touch it; undoubtedly Momma had left more nasty messages. Belinda sighed and shut off the light, too tired to read or even notice the scuttling sounds beyond the vent.

  In the Garden

  In her darkest nightgown, Cordelia stood in the gardens among the statues. She stared up at the huge marble figures of Demeter, Zeus, their daughter Persephone, Bacchus and Dionysus. The night was black, the moon bright; it was a perfect evening to have some fun with the gods and goddesses that punctuated the gardens. Glancing up at Belinda Moorland’s bedroom window, she saw no signs of life. Only a few lights burned throughout the manor as Cordelia placed her grimoire on a flat stone. Bending down, she retrieved her athame from a sheath she wore ar
ound her ankle, and sighed. She wasn’t looking forward to what she had to do, but a spell of this proportion required a little something extra.

  She lit a candle and opened her book to the visual illusion glamour she wanted. She’d used the spell many times before and while the results could be magnificent, they never lasted more than a moment or two. Probably because she’d never offered her own blood before. Chickens, crows, and even a goat once, yes, but apparently, those offerings hadn’t impressed the gods enough to sustain the spell. She memorized the words and closed her eyes, bringing the blade to her palm with a trembling hand. Taking a deep breath, she drew it across her skin and suppressed a whimper of pain as the blade separated her flesh. This had better work, she thought as she recited the words:

  “To all that stands

  Or lies so still

  I give thee life,

  And thine own will …”

  Blood dripped from the wound, and as she recited the phrase, she moved to each of the statues, allowing a few drops to pepper their stone feet. The fog thickened around her.

  “To all that stands

  Or lies so still

  I give thee life,

  And thine-”

  A few red drops hit the earth, and Cordelia was startled when she felt the ground rumble. Lovely. An earthquake, now? She collected herself and continued chanting, then watched in astonishment as the stone of Dionysus’ feet cracked. That’s not supposed to happen. This was supposed to be an optical illusion, a visual glamour, not the real thing. Maybe it’s the earthquake. She chanted harder, faster, and used her other hand to squeeze out more blood.

  There was a cracking sound as Persephone opened her eyes. Little chunks of stone crumbled. She gasped when the eyes moved - and stared at her. Cordelia blinked, unbelieving. Stunned, she stepped back and tripped over her grimoire and fell to the ground.