Grim Haven (Devilborn Book 1)

by Jen Rasmussen

  The place smelled delightfully of cinnamon and chocolate, and seemed to be as much about the pastries as the coffee. But it was busy, and I was nervous as I scanned the crowd. Hotel staff tends to turn over fairly quickly; I didn’t expect to be recognized much at the Mount Phearson. But outside its doors, Bristol was a small town, and I wasn’t in the mood for any reunions.

  A couple of the faces were familiar, but most of them were getting their coffee to go, and they were too preoccupied to notice me. I hoped we’d be able to find an out-of-the-way table, and keep it that way.

  I recognized the woman behind the counter. Wendy something (Thaggard now, I supposed). She was older than me, too, but one of those people who everyone just seems to know. Not beautiful, but charismatic. Probably a homecoming queen. We wouldn’t have been at the high school at the same time, though, which almost certainly meant she wouldn’t know who I was.

  No such luck. She took one look at me as I came to the front of the line and said, “Verity Thane. Everyone’s been wondering whether you’d come back.”

  “Well, here I am,” I said.

  She held out a hand to shake. “Wendy Thaggard. Used to be Wendy MacLeary, but I don’t think we knew each other as kids?”

  “No, I don’t think we did.”

  She glanced at Lance and smiled. “Well, I don’t want to be the one who comes between Lance Boyle and his business, so I’ll just ask what you’d like for now. But you should stop by some other time, when you have time to chat.” She gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. “I think we’d have a few things to talk about.”

  “Sure.” I kept my face neutral as I gave her my order.

  What did she mean by that?

  Like most kids who grew up bullied in a small town, I was used to thinking of Bristol as full of enemies. And this particular small town could take the word enemy to a whole new level. I would have to figure out who mine were. And my friends, too, if I had any. I certainly never did as a kid. But there’d been nothing hostile in Wendy’s appraisal of me.

  A few minutes later, I sat across from Lance in the quietest corner we could find, sipping tea and nibbling on what was quite possibly the best almond croissant I’d ever tasted.

  “So, you’re coming into this at a rather delicate time,” Lance said. “We’ve got a lot of renovations going on, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “Don’t worry about me interfering,” I said. “I have a lot to learn before I make any major decisions. You just continue to do whatever you’ve been doing. But I’ll need you to bring me up to speed on all of it.”

  He considered me over the rim of his cup, a posture that, given his height, struck me as designed to be imposing. “You give orders pretty easily for one so young. But I suppose you’re older than you look.”

  I smiled and made a noncommittal noise. On the contrary, at a month shy of my twenty-fifth birthday, I was probably even younger than he thought. But I’d always been mature for my age. Or at least, I had been since I was thirteen.

  “Madeline Underwood very famously took over the running of the Mount Phearson when she was only nineteen,” I said.

  “Fair enough, I suppose.”

  “Did you know Miss Underwood well?”

  “I didn’t know her at all,” said Lance. “She didn’t normally employ a manager, as I’m sure you know. Mr. Pickwick hired me to take over day-to-day operations after she went to prison.”

  “But then you were given free rein?”

  “In most ways.”

  “So all these renovations are your projects.”

  Lance sighed. “I’ve found it very frustrating that the hotel has rested on its laurels for so long. A small, quiet getaway town like Bristol flourishes on the basis of certain things, none of which the Mount Phearson possesses.”

  “Such as?”

  “A spa, for one thing. Fine dining for another. Frankly, I’m surprised this town has managed to make it as a destination for as long as it has, with so little to offer besides antiques shops and mountain views. They certainly can’t count on that luck to continue indefinitely.”

  I smiled, deciding to test him. “Sure they can. They made a deal with the devil, remember?”

  He glowered at me. “Even for those superstitious enough to believe in such things, you’d think they’d have stopped resisting change once their devil left. But I had a hell of a time, if you’ll pardon the pun, getting some of the permits.”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean, left?”

  “You didn’t hear? Apparently the devil packed up and shipped out a few years back. Or so the ladies of the Garden Club tell me.”

  “I… how? Why?”

  Lance’s smile suggested he thought I was putting him on. Which I supposed was a natural reaction, for a stranger, to how shocked and confused I must have sounded. “Right. He’s supposed to be your father. Well, sorry to be the bearer of dysfunctional family news, but apparently your dad ran off.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Nobody seems to know why. Only that the deal is off. They seemed to take the diner going out of business as confirmation.”

  “When was this?”

  Lance shrugged. “Two, three years ago.”

  I busied myself with unnecessarily stirring the inch of tea left in my mug, not wanting to show how much this news disturbed me.

  My father had never been a part of my life, not directly. But the knowledge of him had always afforded me a sort of protection and security. As bad as things got when I was a kid, I always felt that nobody could really hurt me. Not if they believed I was their guardian demon’s daughter. Sure, the ones who didn’t put any stock in the stories might push me in the hall or spit in my lunch, but they didn’t matter. The ones who used magic were the ones you needed to watch out for, and they all believed.

  But now he was gone.

  How could Bristol even exist without its devil?

  Differently, that’s how.

  I swirled my tea around. “So that’s why.”

  “Why what?” asked Lance.

  Why not every feeling I’d had since crossing the town line had been sinister. Why Madeline Underwood had died miles away from here, powerless, alone, and disgraced.

  The darkness has lifted.

  And probably everybody in Bristol had reacted the same way I just did—with confusion and fear. Uncertainty about how we’d manage without our patron. After all, the darkness was all Bristol had ever known.

  But light was a good thing, wasn’t it? The devil had brought peace and prosperity, it was true. But he was still a devil.

  I smiled at Lance. “Bristol has a chance to reinvent itself.”

  Into my safe haven?

  He snapped his fingers and pointed at me, smiling himself. “Exactly what I’ve been trying to tell all of them.”

  “And they don’t disagree. It just won’t be up to you to reinvent it.” Wendy had come over with fresh drinks for us, in paper to-go cups. “A couple for the road, on the house. But Lance, how many times have I told you this? Bristol doesn’t want its future decided by outsiders.”

  I frowned at her. “I am not an outsider.”

  Wendy gave me a sympathetic look, but shrugged. “You are now. As far as most people will be concerned, you’re a stranger.” She looked back at Lance. “And your ideas are great, but you’ve got to be more diplomatic. You know how the Garden Club is. They’re used to running things.”

  Lance stood up. “Why do you think Agatha and I went to their thing last night? Call it a diplomatic mission.” He grinned at Wendy. “And somehow I don’t think you’re in a position to offer advice on endearing oneself to the Garden Club.”

  Wendy returned his smile in a way that made me think she might be an ally, after all. Any enemy of Miss Underwood’s coven was a friend of mine.

  “Well,” Lance said to me, “shall we go see some of the things I’ve been telling you about?”

  “Sure. Lead the way.” I looked at Wendy. “Thanks for
the extra tea.”

  “Thanks for coming in.” Her voice was friendly enough, but I couldn’t read her face.

  We walked back to the hotel, and Lance showed me around the spa already under construction, the square building I’d seen the night before. Then he led me back toward the far corner of the grounds.

  I stopped dead in my tracks halfway there.

  “Cordelia!”

  Lance looked at me like I’d lost it, which was probably to be expected, as the object of my excited greeting was not a person, but a tree.

  “Did you just call that tree Cordelia?” he asked.

  “It’s from a book,” I said absently, without taking my eyes off the old black walnut that stood alone, the only thing but grass on this part of the lawn. “I mean, not specifically, but that’s where I got the idea. A children’s book. She names the trees.”

  I stepped up to Cordelia and put my palm on her trunk. How could I have forgotten her? “I used to climb this tree as a kid. To read or just to sit.”

  Or to hide.

  I turned back to Lance, whose expression still clearly communicated his certainty that I was insane.

  “Lance, I don’t know how long it’ll be until I’m legally your boss,” I said. “But I swear to you, if you cut down this tree for any reason, the first thing I will do when that day comes is fire you.”

  He raised his eyebrows. Then, looking a bit like he was trying not to laugh, nodded. “Well, then. Good thing I have no plans to use this part of the grounds as anything but green space. Your tree here would provide some lovely shade for a picnic. Shall we continue?”

  “Please.”

  After a few seconds of walking in silence, Lance said, “So, good climbing tree, is it?”

  “It is.”

  “My boys may be too old for that now, but I’ll let them know, just in case.” He cleared his throat. “That’s my awkward way of bringing up my two kids. Since you just pointed out that you may be my boss by the time summer rolls around.”

  “Summer?”

  “They live with my first wife, outside of Charlotte. Because of the distance, the usual custody arrangements of sharing weekends and so forth don’t work. They spend their summers here with me and Agatha.”

  I glanced at him, his jaw tight, and felt guilty for not giving much consideration to how awful this must be, for everyone at the hotel, but especially him. Who knew how long things would be up in the air during probate, or whatever the legal process was. And then a stranger would be their boss. They had no idea what I was like, whether they’d be able to continue as they had been. And Lance had so many grand plans.

  I’d just have to keep trying to reassure him. All I wanted was a safe place to hide from the Wicks. Learning to run a hotel was secondary.

  Mostly secondary. I had to admit, the idea of the Mount Phearson being mine, now that Miss Underwood and my father were gone, was becoming a little appealing.

  “Agatha is your current wife?” I asked, remembering him mentioning the name at The Witch’s Brew.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, great. I look forward to meeting everyone.”

  We made our way to the tree line, where the hiking trail started. “We’d like to preserve this existing trail,” Lance said. “But clear some more of the woods to make room for a barn and pasture, and add a horseback riding trail as well.”

  “What about the old buildings back in those woods?” I asked as we headed back toward the hotel. The area around the Mount Phearson was littered with the remains of outbuildings, from the days when it had been a private estate.

  “Most of them are in ruins. We can clear them out easily enough. But a few of the more picturesque ones we’ll preserve, throw some signage in front of them. Do a historical walking tour, maybe, with a guided map.”

  “You could add a ghost tour.” I knew of at least one scary old ghost living in some of those crumbling remains. Although, if memory served, he might be too scary. It could be dangerous. “Or maybe not.”

  Lance gave me an irritated look. “Yes, let’s go with not. The last thing people here need is more of that sort of encouragement.”

  I laughed. “Madeline Underwood felt the same way, believe it or not. She thought that kind of thing was low class.”

  “It’s certainly not the kind of tone we’re going for.”

  I smiled. “I agree the ghost tour is probably a bad idea. And I can see that all this supernatural stuff annoys you. But a word of advice from someone who grew up with these locals you seem to be having a hard time with: you won’t be able to will away two hundred years of local culture just by frowning at it. If you embrace it instead, you can probably find some ways to make it profitable.”

  “I’ll think about that,” he said, but I could tell he wouldn’t. “Come on, let’s go inside and I’ll tell you about the new wings. More guest rooms on the upper floors, of course, including some luxury suites. We’re up to almost two hundred rooms now, and there will be over three hundred by the time construction is finished.”

  I gave him credit for ambition. “And there are three restaurants planned, too?”

  Lance nodded. “The Cask & Barrel is already open—”

  “Wine and small plates,” I said. “I heard last night.”

  “Right. They’ll actually offer service at a couple of other points around the hotel as well, including some seating by the fireplace. That’s one of our best features, and we don’t take enough advantage of it.”

  “I agree. I always loved it as a kid. What about the other two?”

  “Colonel Phearson’s Pub is three weeks out from its opening. Casual, fun. Interesting cocktails, craft beers, and upscale pub food with a Southern twist. The third will be fine dining. I don’t have a name yet. I’d like that to be a real showpiece for us.”

  “Well, that might be something I can actually help with,” I said as we walked in the main entrance. “I was managing a fine dining restaurant until a few days ago.”

  Lance’s eyebrows went up. “Yeah? I don’t suppose you know any good chefs who might be looking to relocate? I’ve tried making overtures to a few of the better ones in Asheville, but— dammit, what does she want now?”

  I followed his gaze to the seating area by the fireplace, where a beautiful, thin and toned woman stood talking to another, equally thin but much less fit-looking. Almost cadaverous, in fact, with her pale skin and severe, dark gray bun.

  I didn’t know the first woman, but I knew the second. And my thoughts echoed Lance’s.

  “Balls,” I muttered.

  Lance glanced at me. “I take it you know Marjory Smith?”

  “She was Miss Underwood’s best friend,” I said. “I suppose she’s head of the cov— the Garden Club now.”

  “Among other things. Frankly, she’s a pain in my rear.” Lance sighed. “But we might as well go and rescue Agatha from her.”

  Personally, I’d have left Agatha to fend for herself, but I followed Lance across the lobby. He kissed his wife on the cheek, and her irritated expression eased slightly.

  “There you are,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  “I was giving Verity a tour of the renovations.” He gestured at me. “Verity, my wife, Agatha.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. Then, supposing it couldn’t be put off any longer, turned to Miss Smith. “Miss Smith. How nice to see you. I was sorry to hear about Miss Underwood.”

  Marjory Smith raised a very thin, very sculpted eyebrow. “Were you, dear? You seem to have benefited a great deal from her loss.”

  I wasn’t expecting her to hug me like a lost daughter, or insist I call her Marjory now that I was all grown up, but I wasn’t expecting such blunt hostility either. Miss Underwood’s witches were usually more subtle than that. Maybe I was feeling the fallout of the Bristol devil leaving town; maybe there was no need to even pretend to be kindly toward me anymore.

  “Well, no matter,” Miss Smith said. “I only wish I could have saved you the troub
le of coming all this way. If Mr. Pickwick had only listened to me—”

  “John had to go to Asheville on business for a few days,” Lance interrupted. “We didn’t know to expect Verity, or he would have made sure to be here. But since he’s not, let’s table this nonsense until he gets back.”

  Marjory turned her flat, birdlike stare on Lance, who didn’t seem as discomfited by it as I’d always been. “You don’t think she deserves to know?”

  Agatha made an irritated noise. “Marjory, really, let’s not start—”

  Miss Smith ignored the Boyles and turned to me. “I’m afraid there’s no inheritance for you after all, dear,” she said. “Max Underwood is still alive.”

  The last time I saw Max Underwood, I was cleaning the owner’s suite, and he was supposed to be dead.

  He and I were around the same age. All three of Madeline’s siblings were quite a bit younger than her, and lived with an aunt in town. When we were in the third grade Max died—or I guess “died”—after he was struck by a speeding car that lost control on the mountain road.

  And then came a day, six years later, when the girl who usually cleaned the third floor of the hotel had to have surgery, and another girl called in sick. I ended up being handed the key to the owner’s suite. This was quite unusual; I’d lived in the hotel for fourteen years, and had never seen Miss Underwood’s inner sanctum. I was warned not to disturb anything. Apparently that also meant anyone.

  I wasn’t supposed to go into the walk-in closet, but I heard a noise. Curiosity is always a mistake.

  I recognized Max right away. The Underwoods had very distinctive features, for one thing: thin faces, thin noses, thin everything. He was wearing blue pajamas and a lost expression, and had a lot of bruises.

  Judging by the sleeping bag and the little box of snacks beside it, he lived in that closet.

  “Max?”

  He just stood there, staring at me, clutching a stuffed animal. I remember distinctly that it was an elephant.

  “Do you remember me, Max? We were in Mrs. Tremont’s class together. I’m Verity.”

  “Verity means truth,” said Max.