The Raven Master

by Diana Whitney

  Edna felt her way through the dark corridor to her grandson’s room. She was surprised to find the door locked because she’d told Jules to expect her.

  With trembling fingers, she extracted the secret key from her robe pocket, still shaken to the core by the evil scene she’d witnessed. Jules had put his hands on Janine—had actually touched that sweet, God-fearing woman as though she’d been one of his slutty harlots. Edna shuddered in revulsion. Jules must be punished, of course. It was God’s will. Afterward, Edna would hold his dear head to her bosom, stroke his soft hair and explain in great detail that sinful lust could only be drained into the unpurified flesh of whores.

  Having reached that decision, Edna relaxed slightly and managed to manipulate the key until the lock clicked. But the door still wouldn’t open, and she was stunned to realize that Jules had propped a chair under the knob. To keep her out?

  No. That was unthinkable.

  She stumbled back a step, numbed by shock, then realized that the poor, confused boy was simply trying to escape Satan’s wrath. That was it, of course. Her pathetic grandson had come to his senses, realized that he’d been demonically possessed and was desperately trying to block the devil from entering his room.

  Tears stung Edna’s eyes at the futility of such a pitiful barricade against the monstrous power of evil. Only prayer could turn back Satan. Prayer and purification of the immortal soul. Closing her eyes, she savored the memory of her beloved daughter’s serene face. Marie Louise. How Edna had cherished that beautiful girl. Satan had nearly stolen her but Edna had prevented that final sacrilege. A mother’s love is powerful, as powerful as the Almighty Himself.

  Edna’s lips moved in an inaudible whisper. “I shall save your son, my dearest one. He is flesh of your flesh and the devil shall not have him.”

  Slipping the key back into her pocket, Edna returned to her own room and knelt piously before the makeshift altar. In the morning, God would exact His punishment on her fallen grandson using Edna as His holy tool. She folded her hands, bowed her head and prayed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As Janine crossed the ravine bridge, she gazed at the sky and marveled at its clarity after having been washed clean by last night’s storm. Thousands of stars glittered like sequins on an obsidian gown and the air smelled freshly scrubbed. It was an invigorating end to the tense and stressful day.

  As the weathered planks squeaked under her feet, she recalled that Edna’s prediction had been correct. Jules had appeared at breakfast with no apparent memory of what had transpired during the night. In fact, he’d been rather somber, but considering the young man’s recent moodiness that wasn’t particularly unusual.

  Janine had initially been concerned about a discolored puffiness on his left cheek but Edna had explained the minor injury by insisting that her grandson had bumped into a wall while in his somnambulistic state. Although that didn’t quite ring true, Janine knew little about sleep disorders and had been reluctant to dispute the theory.

  Later, however, Edna had pulled Janine aside with a request that had been startling, to say the least. To prevent future sleepwalking episodes, the woman had actually suggested installing a chain lock on the outside of Jules’s bedroom door. Janine had adamantly refused, citing safety reasons.

  The older woman had been untenably disappointed and, Janine thought, a bit frightened. The entire incident had left a peculiar taste but she’d eventually convinced herself that, however misguided, poor Edna probably had everyone’s best interests at heart.

  Still she couldn’t help fretting. After all, Edna knew her grandson better than anyone. If she was worried about what Jules might do…

  Janine ignored the disquieting thought and decided that Jules wasn’t the only one who watched too much television. As for her own reading material, she silently swore off spine-tingling thrillers until she managed to get a leash on her nerves and her imagination.

  Hoisting the grocery bag, she crossed the rear yard and headed toward the kitchen door, pausing to gaze up at Quinn’s bedroom window. The room was dark but the outline of a man was dimly illuminated in the moonlight. It was Quinn, of course, with the raven perched on his shoulder.

  As always, the sight of him made Janine’s heart beat a little faster. She stopped in the shadow of a towering birch and watched in abject fascination. He shifted slightly, resting his hand against the window frame. A glint caught her eye. She realized that he was holding something metallic.

  Janine shivered, cold to the bone.

  Suddenly his silhouette turned sharply, as if he’d been startled by a sound. He leaned over, and when he straightened, the metallic glint was gone. Then he moved away from the window and turned on a lamp.

  A moment later, Janine saw two silhouettes in Quinn’s window. One belonged to a woman.

  She blinked, stunned. The outline of the backlit female was unfamiliar, having sleek, tightly wrapped hair and wearing loose, flowing garments. Apparently Quinn had made at least one friend during his lengthy absences from the boardinghouse. That was natural, of course, although she had to admit that the idea of Quinn pursuing romantic interests had never entered her mind.

  Swallowing a sudden lump, Janine turned away and quietly entered the kitchen. A dull ache spread through her chest. The house had no rules about nonresident guests although even Althea had been discreet enough to conduct her liaisons elsewhere.

  Feeling sick and surprisingly angry, Janine put down the grocery bag and leaned against the counter. Tomorrow she’d issue the edict that guests of tenants were not allowed upstairs. Since her other boarders were entitled to their privacy, the rule was certainly reasonable. In fact, she was extremely disappointed that Quinn had breached an unspoken courtesy with such a tawdry display of poor manners. Surely his cheap bimbo could have supplied her own bed—

  Cheap bimbo? Janine’s hand flew to her face. Good Lord, she didn’t even know this person. How could she be so pompous and judgmental?

  The answer struck with startling clarity. She was jealous. The very thought of Quinn’s strong hands caressing another woman’s body made her crazy inside. If Quinn’s lover had been within grasp, Janine would have snatched her bald-headed without a qualm.

  She sat numbly at the table. Jealous. This was a new and admittedly unpleasant sensation, one she seemed helpless to control. And that was frightening.

  Quinn barely recognized the woman who was provocatively stretched across his bed. The modest gown of white chiffon flattered her tanned complexion, and her red-gold hair, brushed to a high gloss, had been twisted at her nape into a demure, schoolmarm bun. Although her delicate gray-green irises were more appealing without the usual globby black outline, they held smoldering promise, a telling characteristic Althea apparently had been unable—or unwilling—to revamp.

  Quinn moved the raven to its perch, then folded his arms and regarded his visitor with detached disinterest. “Was there something you wanted?”

  After a luxurious stretch, she raised on one elbow, her shiny lips curved into a sensual smile. “It’s my night off. I thought you might be in the mood for a game of chess—” she paused, slowly running her pink tongue over her lips “—or something.”

  “No,” he said simply.

  Undaunted, she rolled onto her stomach, eyeing him hungrily. “I hear you’re good.” Her throaty whisper rankled him, as did her obvious double meaning. “Surely you wouldn’t begrudge a lady the opportunity of finding out for herself.”

  “I’m not in the mood for chess.”

  Althea smiled. “Neither am I.”

  And Quinn wasn’t in the mood for her pitiable seduction, either. He was exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open. Not surprising, considering that he spent several hours each night pursuing his quest. Last night he’d set his clock for 1:00 a.m. and had barely gotten an hour’s sleep when he’d been awakened by voices.

  He’d looked into the hallway and seen Edna at her grandson’s door. She’d seemed totally distraught but, after a
few moments, had gone quietly to her room. A little later, he’d heard Janine come upstairs.

  When he’d questioned Janine this morning, she’d said only that Jules had a bad night. No amount of coaxing would pry any more information from her lovely lips. The woman was nothing if not loyal to her tenants’ privacy, even when that loyalty was dangerously misplaced.

  At any rate, it had been after three in the morning before the sounds from Janine’s room had faded so that Quinn could venture out. By the time dawn broke, he’d been so damned close to success that he could actually taste the sweetness. Tonight his search would be over—the beginning of the end of the madness.

  First, however, he had to deal with another problem.

  Rubbing his neck, he leaned against the closet door and eyed Althea warily. “I’m rather tired tonight. Perhaps your usual partner will be more accommodating.”

  Her forehead puckered. “Gregore?”

  Quinn smiled. “Jules.”

  “Oh. You mean for chess.”

  “Is that the only game you and Jules play?”

  For a moment, Althea seemed too stunned to move. Then she suddenly reared into a sitting position, eyes flashing. “Do I look that desperate?” She waved her hand and swung her feet to the floor. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” Obviously embarrassed, she smoothed her hair and chewed her lip. The room was silent for a moment. She cleared her throat and added, “Jules is a child.”

  “He’s twenty-three.”

  She emitted a derisive snort. “To me, that’s a child.”

  “So Gregore Pawlovski is more your type?”

  An expression of pure misery clouded her eyes but she recovered quickly and angled a seductive glance that seemed somewhat forced. “You’re my type, big guy. How about it?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “No, thanks. I wouldn’t want any of my friends to end up barbecued.”

  Althea’s eyes darkened ominously. “You’ve got all the answers, don’t you?” She stood angrily and flounced to the door. With one hand on the knob, she glared over her shoulder. “You smug SOB. I hope you rot in hell.”

  She ripped open the door and stomped into the hall just as Janine ascended the stairs. “He’s all yours,” Althea told her coldly. “You deserve each other.”

  With that, Althea brushed past the startled landlady and slammed into her own room. She fell back against the door, panting. At least the tears wouldn’t smear her mascara because she wasn’t wearing any. She blinked at the frumpy, middle-aged woman reflected in the mirror and moaned. God, she looked like a freaking nun—bland, dull, sexually vapid.

  It had been ridiculous to believe that omitting makeup would add to her appeal. All that blab about Janine’s fresh-faced, natural look being so-o-o attractive had been nothing but a big fat joke on Althea. She’d been deliberately duped, coerced into making a blithering fool out of herself. At this very moment, Quinn and Janine were probably tittering their heads off over how gullible she was, how pathetic.

  But it would be the last laugh they ever had at her expense. Sex was only one of the things at which she excelled. The other was revenge.

  Thirty minutes after Althea slammed out of the house, Janine finished stoking a lovely fire in the parlor fireplace. She carefully closed the screen, laid the poker on the hearth and rubbed her hands in front of the crackling flames, wondering if her residual chill was due to unseasonable weather or the memory of Althea’s icy stare. Even thinking about the woman’s undisguised hatred gave Janine goosebumps.

  She suppressed a shudder, then left the comforting fire to prepare a snack in the kitchen. After setting a pot of water to boil, she pulled a box of crackers from the pantry and retrieved a fat chunk of cheddar from the fridge. As she shaved thin cheese slices, tossing them onto a platter without attention to aesthetics, her mind was elsewhere.

  When she’d seen Althea emerge from Quinn’s room, she’d almost fainted from shock and relief. Shock because, without the blowsy hairdo and concealing cosmetics, Janine had barely recognized her longtime tenant, and relief because Quinn had quite obviously sent the deflated woman away. For reasons Janine chose not to explore too closely, she was immensely pleased by that.

  She was not, however, pleased by the accusation in Althea’s angry eyes or the silent inference that somehow Janine was personally responsible for whatever had transpired with Quinn. Although Janine and Althea had never been bosom buddies, their relationship had always been pleasant, almost cordial. Lately, however, Althea had become downright hostile, and Janine didn’t have a clue as to why.

  It was bizarre but so was everything else that had happened over the past few weeks. Sometimes Janine wondered if she’d fallen down Alice’s magical rabbit hole because life around the old Victorian was definitely becoming a perplexing wonderland.

  The kettle whistled. With a quiet sigh, she filled the ceramic teapot and then dropped in several tea bags to steep. She lifted the snack platter and headed toward the parlor, planning to calm her nerves with cholesterol and lose herself in a good book, since she now had most of the house to herself. Quinn hadn’t appeared since the incident with Althea so Janine assumed that he, like Jules and Edna, had retired early. As for Althea, the poor woman was probably drowning her sorrows somewhere in town, which suited Janine just fine. Unfortunately, Janine was too financially strapped to evict the foul-mouthed woman.

  As she entered the parlor, she was surprised to find Quinn staring into the crackling fire. She started to speak but was silenced by his mesmerized expression as he stared into the fireplace, unblinking, transfixed by the dancing flames. The flickering orange glow reflected from his eyes, an eerie, supernatural effect that gave her chills. The rational part of her wanted to back away, dash upstairs and lock herself in her room. The instinctive part simply couldn’t leave.

  She gently cleared her throat, alerting him. He blinked and looked up, slightly dazed. With the trance broken he was momentarily vulnerable, and his eyes revealed an inner sadness that touched her heart. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.

  He frowned, massaging his forehead. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”

  She regarded him silently. He didn’t look fine. In fact, he looked like hell, as though he hadn’t slept in a month. Now that she thought about it, Quinn frequently appeared tired. Perhaps Jules wasn’t the only somnambulist in the house.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she set the platter on the coffee table. “Do you have a headache? I have aspirin—”

  He waved away the offer with a weak smile. “Actually I’d hoped to try some of that chamomile tea you’ve been touting.”

  She clucked sympathetically. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

  “Yes, oddly enough.” He scoured his eyelids. “As tired as I am, you’d think I’d be out when my head hit the pillow.”

  She started to ask why he was so tired but thought better of it. That was, after all, prying. Instead she gestured to the platter. “Perhaps the tea will help, and as you can see, you’re in luck.”

  He smiled weakly. “So it seems.”

  “I’ll just get another cup from the kitchen. Help yourself to cheese and crackers.”

  He touched her arm as she moved toward the door. “Relax. I’ll get the cup.”

  “It’s no trouble—”

  “Please. You don’t have to wait on me, remember?”

  She returned his smile. “All right, then. They’re in the cupboard over the sink.”

  As Quinn left the room, Janine watched until he was out of sight, then collapsed onto the sofa breathing hard enough to have run a four-minute mile. Her heart was racing, her mouth was as dry as a desert and even her palms were damp. Physically, she hadn’t been so deeply affected since an ill-fated trip to Yosemite when Charles had insisted that Janine take her first—and thankfully last—rock-climbing lesson.

  There was no doubt about it. Quinn Coulliard’s Lisztian power over women had woven a spell to which even Janine was not immune. Oddly enough,
that wasn’t particularly upsetting. She was, in fact, secretly thrilled by the unfamiliar sensations coursing through her body. They made her feel—alive.

  Janine was so engrossed in thought that she was startled by Quinn’s footsteps in the foyer. She barely managed to straighten before he entered the parlor carrying the chipped mug he always used for his morning coffee.

  Still rattled by her peculiar reaction to the man, she emitted an uncharacteristic giggle, promptly covered her mouth and stared up in horror.

  He looked at the cracked cup in his hand. “Is there some kind of unspoken social rule about using a coffee mug for chamomile tea?”

  “No, no. Of course not.” Mortified, she cleared her throat and reached shakily for the pot.

  Quinn beat her to it. “Let me serve you, for a change.”

  Considering her sudden attack of nerves, she probably would have dropped the dumb pot, anyway, so she gratefully accepted his offer.

  Actually, she rather enjoyed watching a man in torn denims tipping a porcelain pot embossed with delicate pink roses. His muscular forearms were fascinating, and she shamelessly scrutinized the sculpted contours emphasized by a handsome smattering of dark hairs.

  The first time she’d touched his arm, she’d been surprised by how soft the hair was, like silken webs spun over solid steel. And his lean hands exuded undeniable strength yet held the fragile china saucer with such infinite care that she found herself wondering if they would caress a lover with the same tenderness.

  Hypnotized, she stared at the strong, masculine fingers, the deeply corded wrist, the muscled—

  “Janine?”

  She blinked and looked up stupidly.

  “Your tea.”

  When she realized that he’d been patiently holding the filled teacup while she’d been fantasizing about his body parts, she was mortally embarrassed. Mumbling her thanks, she took the proffered cup and steadied the saucer on her knee.

  Quinn filled the fat mug, then sat beside her and propped an ankle on his knee. The heat emanating from his body rivaled the glowing fire. She averted her gaze, staring at the teacup in her lap and wondering if she dared try to lift it. Since her hands were trembling like windswept leaves, that was probably a bad idea. The last thing she needed at this point was to spill the scalding contents into her lap.