“I’m just tired.”
“Because you’re not sleeping.” He trailed his knuckles along my jawline. “I wish Rupert Shaw had never talked you into going back to Oak Grove. You’ve been having nightmares ever since you agreed to finish the restoration.”
“It’s a very dark cemetery,” I said. “A troubled place even before the murders.”
His gaze deepened. “But it is just a place. What happened there was human evil, not supernatural. You do know that, right?”
He wasn’t entirely correct, but I could hardly argue the point. “Not all my feelings about Oak Grove are negative. We met because of that cemetery. I certainly don’t regret that. Although I’d like to think that our paths would have crossed regardless.”
His eyes softened and some of the strain between us melted. “Such a romantic notion from someone usually so serious.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”
“In you, they’re not. I’ve never known anyone so full of contradictions. You’re a very complicated woman, which is only one of the many reasons I find you so fascinating.”
“You find me fascinating?” I asked without guile.
“Have I not made that clear?” He cupped the back of my neck as he gazed into my eyes. “Endlessly fascinating.”
I felt my knees go weak at the dark glint in his eyes, at the provocative edge in his drawl. Then foolishly I wondered if he’d once thought the same of Mariama, and I glanced away.
He took my chin and brought my face back to his. “Hey. What’s that look?”
“Sometimes I’m still surprised by us,” I admitted. “You and me. That we’re together.”
“Why?”
“We’re so different. We come from different places.”
“Maybe that’s why we work. Our differences keep things interesting,” he said lightly, but his expression sobered. He tucked back a strand of hair that had escaped from my ponytail. “I hate seeing you like this. So exhausted and distracted. Nothing’s going to happen if you fall asleep, you know. I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”
“I know that. Just as I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe. But some things are beyond our control. Even you have no sway over my nightmares.”
“Maybe you sell me short,” he said and tugged me to him.
This time I didn’t pull away, proving, I supposed, that when it came to Devlin, I didn’t have the courage of my convictions. If the blind ghost lurked in the shadows, I was oblivious to her presence, attuned to nothing more than my own pounding pulse and those seductive eyes peering down at me.
Devlin murmured something to me that later I would never be able to recall except for the silken drawl of my name. His kiss, when it came, was very slow, very deliberate and devastatingly effective. But his hands... Those strong, graceful hands were greedy and grasping...touching here, skimming there...making me tremble with need as I clutched at his shirt.
Somehow I found myself backed up against the porch wall, protected from the street by his body. He lifted my top, pressing his hands to my breasts and deepening the kiss with his tongue. I locked my hands around his neck and threw my head back with abandon as his mouth moved to my throat, then to my ear, then back to my lips. The traffic noises faded and the floorboards evaporated beneath my feet. Only the sound of his voice brought me back to earth.
“Sorry. I got carried away.” He moved back to adjust my shirt. “I know you’re not one for public spectacles.”
“You didn’t hear me complain, did you?” I asked breathlessly. “I wanted you to do that. All of it. When you touch me like that...”
“Like this?” he murmured, his hands sliding back inside my shirt.
Electricity sizzled along my spine. “Yes, exactly like that.”
With the tip of my finger, I traced the outline of the silver medallion he wore tucked in his shirt. I fancied I could feel the coolness of the medal beneath the fabric and the quiver of power and history contained inside that ominous emblem.
“You always know how to get to me, don’t you?” I said. “You know just where to touch me, how to look at me so that I can’t help losing control. Sometimes I wonder how you do it.”
“How I do what?”
“That,” I said with a shudder as he pulled me closer. “Everything you do makes me want you even more. I’ve never felt this way before. That sounds like a very bad cliché, I know, but it’s true. All you have to do is say my name and I melt. It’s as if you’ve cast a spell over me.”
I expected him to kiss me again after that candid and perhaps ill-advised confession and then sweep me inside to the bedroom to prove just how vulnerable to his touch I truly was. Instead, his mood seemed to shift as a disquieting shadow flashed in his eyes, and for some inexplicable reason, I thought again of Mariama, a sultry, hedonistic woman versed in the ways of dark magic. She was gone now, her ties to Devlin thankfully severed, but I wasn’t foolish enough to discount the influence she’d once had over him or the things she had undoubtedly taught him.
Was that why he still wore the medallion? As protection against her treacherous grip?
He claimed he didn’t believe in the power of talismans, and yet I’d never seen him without the silver emblem around his neck, the entwined snake and claw chillingly symbolic of the entanglements and dangerous alliances that came from being a member of the Order. And from being Mariama Goodwine’s husband.
The mood tainted by thoughts of his dead wife, I extricated myself from his embrace. “You’ve a long drive ahead of you and I don’t want to make you late.”
“Yes, it wouldn’t do to keep the old man waiting.” He seemed to immediately regret his harshness. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be short with you. As you may have guessed, I’m not looking forward to the evening.”
I put a hand on his sleeve. “Are you sure there’s nothing else bothering you? Seems to me I’m not the only one who’s been distracted lately.”
Now it was Devlin who detached himself from my touch, gently brushing aside my hand as he moved out of the shade into a patch of waning sunlight. “I’m fine.”
He hovered at the top of the steps gazing out over the garden before he turned to glance back at me. The look on his face made me tremble even though I was hard pressed to put a name to the indefinable darkness I glimpsed in his eyes. Wariness? Resolve?
No, I thought with a jolt. What I saw in Devlin’s eyes was dread.
Five
That night, I turned in early with a new novel, but exhaustion claimed me before I made it through the first chapter. Saving my place with a crystal bookmark my aunt had given to me years ago, I turned off the light and snuggled down in the covers as I tried to clear my mind of secrets, stereograms and the smell of old decay in the cellar.
I must have been dreaming about that smell because the phantom scent roused me from the first deep sleep I’d had in nights. I lay very still with eyes wide-open, trying to orient myself in the darkness. The odor was so fleeting and indistinct it might well have been a remnant of my dream. I wasn’t frightened. Not then. Not until I heard breathing.
The rhythmic sawing was low and croaky. Human but not human.
A thrill of alarm chased across my scalp even as I tried to rationalize the sound. It was just an old-house noise like all the other creaks and groans I heard from time to time. The doors and windows were locked tight. A human intruder couldn’t get in without making sufficient racket to wake me and it was a rare occurrence for a ghost to penetrate hallowed ground. I was safe here in my sanctuary. I desperately needed to believe that.
But as I lay there drenched in moonlight and dread, the sound came again, raspy and furtive. And close. Very close. Right behind the headboard, I was certain.
My own breath quickened as I slowly turned.
Nothing was there. Nothing that I could see. Because the sound came from inside the wall.
I wanted more than anything to leap from bed, put distance between myself and those terrifying rasps, but instead I lay there listening to the darkness as my mind raced back to the conversation with Macon. He’d said earlier that something was nesting in the cellar. An opossum or a rat, perhaps?
An animal would certainly explain the musky smell, but what of the breathing? The ragged exhalation suggested something larger than a rodent, a sentient prowler that could invade hallowed ground and maneuver its way into my sanctuary.
Slipping a hand from beneath the covers, I reached for the lamp switch. Light flooded the room, chasing shadows from corners and momentarily staunching my terror. Nothing stirred. I saw no evidence of a visitor, animal or otherwise. The rasping had stopped, but I still had a sense that something hunkered inside the wall. I could feel an avid presence behind the plaster.
Climbing out of bed, I plucked one of my slippers from the floor and then, taking a position at the end of the bed, I flung the shoe against the wall above the headboard. I heard a muffled squeal, followed by furious scratching that now came from the hallway.
Gooseflesh popped at the back of my neck. I had no idea what I was dealing with. Human, animal...something from another realm? I couldn’t imagine the space between the walls accommodating anything larger than a raccoon, but if the sound really had come from the hallway outside my bedroom... If something had found a way in through the basement...
Images spiraled through my head as I stood there trembling. The last thing I wanted to do was leave my bedroom to investigate, but what choice did I have? I needed to make sure nothing was loose in my house.
Oh, how I wished for Angus’s company at that moment. Ever since the battered mutt had adopted me during a restoration in the Blue Ridge Mountains, he’d been my constant companion, a guardian against intruders from this world and the next. But he was in the country with my parents because I’d thought, foolishly perhaps, that they needed his protection more than I did.
Grabbing a flashlight from my bedside drawer, I eased through the door and inched my way down the corridor, pausing now and then to track a new sound. Was that the scratch of a claw, the faint click of a door?
By the time I reached the kitchen, I’d almost managed to convince myself that nothing was amiss. I was just about to step into my office when a soft thud brought me around with a jerk.
My gaze went straight to the cellar door and I paused there with hammering heart. Then I tiptoed across the room, and I pressed my ear to the thick wood. All was silent in the cellar, but I could feel cold air seeping through the keyhole. Not for anything would I put my eye to the aperture, but I had to wonder if something was on the other side peering in at me.
I knelt and shone the flashlight beam through the opening. A high-pitched squeal—or was it a whistle?—had me scrambling back to the middle of the kitchen floor. Drawing my knees close to my chest, I sat there quaking, my gaze glued to that keyhole.
I still didn’t see how a flesh-and-bone intruder could have invaded my sanctuary. The only way in from the cellar was through that locked door...unless...
Could there be a hidden crawl space somewhere?
My gaze darted about the kitchen. The notion of a secret passageway was deeply disturbing, but I wasn’t about to go exploring for the entrance. For now, all I could do was seal the keyhole with a piece of duct tape and shove a table up against the door—futile precautions that did little to calm my nerves.
Leaving lights on all over the house, I went back to the bedroom and crawled under the covers, bracing myself for another long, sleepless night. Turning to the nightstand to retrieve my novel, I froze with a gasp.
The translucent husk of a cicada, perfectly preserved and still attached to a twig, lay on top of the book. The silver bookmark with the dangling crystals was gone.
Six
I was very tired the next morning, having dozed only fitfully after I’d gone back to bed. The insect shell left on the nightstand troubled me greatly because it was concrete proof that something had been in my house, even in my bedroom. In hindsight, the actions of my strange visitor seemed almost childlike—pilfering my sparkly bookmark after a macabre game of hide-and-seek. But this revelation made the intrusion no less alarming. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Despite my exhaustion, I managed to rise at a decent hour and was out the door well before nine. I’d scheduled a meeting with a local historical society for late morning, but I still had plenty of time to investigate Dowling Curiosities.
I found a place to park, and as I walked along the shady streets, the sights, sounds and tantalizing smells of a Charleston morning helped soothe my ragged nerves. The tourists were already up and about, although most of the upscale shops along King Street’s antiques district were not yet open.
Passing the address of the shop, I backtracked but saw no sign or shingle. I thought I’d entered the wrong address in my phone until I realized the shop was located at the back of a building. Access was through a wrought iron gate and down a cobblestone alley lined with potted gardenias.
A sign in the window informed me that the shop would open at ten so I headed over to the harbor for a walk along the water. By the time I returned, it was a few minutes after ten and I could see some activity in the shop. A woman was just leaving and we nodded to one another in passing. Bells announced my arrival and her departure as the door swished closed and I stood for a moment gazing around.
Dowling Curiosities was small, cramped and smelled of camphor. The restricted space might ordinarily have repelled me, but the light shining in through the windows was pleasant and the crowded displays had been styled by a clever hand: antique dolls dressed in mourning clothes, carnival sideshow posters in gilded frames, glass cabinets showcasing all manner of curios from ivory-handled dueling pistols to bizarre mechanical toys. And on long shelves above the display cases, dozens of antique cameras and stereoscopes.
As I approached the back counter, a man came through the curtains and stopped dead when he saw me, his hand flying to his heart.
“Oh, my,” he said on a sharp breath. “You gave me a fright. I didn’t know anyone was about. I heard the bells but assumed that was Mrs. Hofstadter leaving.”
“We passed each other in the doorway.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
I looked around doubtfully. “You are open for business, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” He stepped up to the counter with a welcoming smile and I found myself charmed by his whimsical fashion statement—plaid pants and a sweater vest over a lavender shirt with a popped collar. He looked to be in his mid-to late thirties, but the silky sweep of dark blond hair across his brow gave him a boyish look that belied the tiny crinkles around his gray eyes. “How may I help you?”
“I’m hoping to find some information about an antique stereoscope.”
“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Stereoscopy happens to be a passion,” he said. “What kind of stereoscope are you interested in?”
“I’m not here to buy. I found an old viewer in my basement and I’m hoping you can tell me something about it.”
As we spoke, I removed the stereoscope from my bag and placed it on the counter. He picked up the device and lifted it briefly to his eyes even though the cardholder was empty.
“This is a handsome piece. Manufactured by the Keystone View Company here in the States. You can still see their stag elk trademark on the side. See?” He pointed out the emblem. “The unit appears extremely well preserved for having been stored in a damp basement.” He gave me a reproachful glance.
“I had no idea it was even there,” I said defensively.
“What a wonderful find, then. I’d put the age somewhere around 1890 to 1900
.”
“That old?”
“Yes, indeed,” he said as he carefully returned the viewer to the counter. When he glanced up, there was a shrewd gleam in his eyes. “If you’re looking to sell, I should warn you that the Monarch—which you have here—was the most common viewer on the market back in those days. Handheld units were mass-produced and relatively inexpensive even in the late nineteenth century. They’re collectible, of course, but not as highly prized as the larger stereoscopes.”
“It’s not mine to sell. As I said, I came across it in my basement and I’m trying to determine the original owner.”
“That’ll be next to impossible, I’m afraid.” He leaned an arm against the counter and I got a whiff of orange blossoms with a dark base note of hawthorn. “A viewer this old has undoubtedly changed hands any number of times. Unless you know how it came to be in your cellar, I don’t know how you’d be able to trace the provenance.”
“That’s why I came here, Mr. Dowling—”
“Owen, please.” He flashed a beguiling grin.
“I think you may be in a unique position to help me...Owen. There’s a small silver tag on the bottom with the name of this shop and an inscription.”
He lifted a curious brow as he turned the viewer over. “So there is. ‘To Mott, From Neddy. Together Forever,’” he read, a frown fleeting across his features as he studied the plate.
“Do you recognize those names?” I asked anxiously.
“What? No,” he said with a distracted air. “I was just trying to remember when we switched from silver plating to brass tags for inscriptions.” He paused, considering. “I don’t recall ever seeing one like this, so I think we can safely assume the viewer was bought and sold before my time.”
“I know it’s a long shot,” I said on a hopeful note. “But I thought you might have a sales receipt or even a record of the engraving.”
“The computerized files won’t go back that far, and even if they did, it would be impossible to locate a receipt without a last name. But if I may make a suggestion?”
The Visitor Page 3
