Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls)

by R. C. Matthews

  “Fair enough,” Samuel said, squeezing his wife’s hand. “What are we waiting for, then? Your coach awaits.”

  Devlin hopped to his feet and motioned for Victor and Hatchet to meet him outside. While they stood on the sidewalk waiting for Samuel to bring his coach around front, Devlin shared the good news. Moments later they sat comfortably in the simple black conveyance, swaying and bouncing as they raced along the gravel path.

  Leaning to one side, Devlin stared out the window, watching the oppressively dark manor inch closer in the moonlight. The sharp angles of the sloped roof and turrets were reminiscent of an older age. From what he had learned through his barrister, the grounds were massive and encompassed both a thriving forest as well as lush oceanfront property, including craggy cliffs. He could hardly wait to explore it all and uncover its hidden treasures.

  When the carriage came to a halt, Devlin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d waited years for all of the pieces to his revenge to come together, and tonight marked the last stretch of his long journey.

  “Shall we?” Victor asked.

  Devlin grinned at his best friend and opened the door. He jumped to the ground, brushing Samuel out of his way.

  “You can remain in the carriage with Abigail if you wish,” Devlin said over his shoulder as he approached the grand entrance to the mansion. “My men will accompany me. We won’t be long, I promise.”

  Hatchet blew out a long whistle as he surveyed their surroundings, taking in the dark-gray stones, windows with tightly drawn curtains, and grounds overtaken by weeds and wildflowers. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, Devlin. This place is a disaster.”

  “Imagine the state of the inside,” Victor said, running a hand through his thick, black hair. “It’ll take months to restore the mansion if we can’t find servants to assist.”

  “I’ll ship servants in from neighboring towns if I have to,” Devlin said as he strode up the stone stairs to the entrance.

  He pulled a key ring from his trousers. An ornate “D” carved into the brass bow of a key caught his eye, and he fumbled while thrusting the shaft of the key into the lock. With a twist of his wrist, the lock clicked open. Glancing over his shoulder, he winked at his mates and pushed open the heavy door, putting all of his weight behind the action. The door emitted a wailing creak, and dank air seeped out, crawling over Devlin’s skin.

  He stepped cautiously into the foyer and shared a triumphant smile with Victor. Hatchet entered with a torch raised high above his head, revealing a regal staircase. It stood majestically before them, leading to the second floor, where a decadent chandelier hung in the center of the ceiling. Devlin started toward a room on their left but paused when Victor latched on to his arm and lifted a finger to his lips.

  “Did you hear that?” Victor whispered, his eyes widening. His breath hitched, and he cocked his head to one side, listening.

  The faint keys of a piano drifted through the air, and a shudder raced through Devlin’s body. He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to discern where the noise originated. But as soon as he’d heard the soft notes, they were gone. Had he imagined it, then?

  “It’s nothing but the howling wind,” he said, licking his lips. “Come.”

  Devlin led the way to a set of double doors and pushed them wide. A magnificent parlor came into view, replete with a marble fireplace, multiple settees and chairs, and a grand piano. The cobwebs clinging to every surface did little to detract from the beauty of the room but served to remind Devlin of everything he hoped to achieve in the coming months.

  “It’s exactly as I imagined it would be.” He exhaled and strode into the room, turning in a circle with his arms outstretched. “The ideal place to meet the gatekeeper to Hell, wouldn’t you say?”

  Chapter Two

  One month later …

  A clap of thunder shook the ground, startling Grace for a heartbeat. She clung to the sleeve of Brother Anselm’s habit, fighting against the howling wind and rain as they navigated a narrow road on the outskirts of town. They had traversed this path many times, so she was confident she’d not stumble, despite her blindness. Her mentor had begged her to wait until the storm passed before venturing out. But when it came to assisting the villagers, she could be quite stubborn, and in the end he had conceded to her wishes after bearing witness to Mr. Evans’s bout of hysterics.

  When they finally reached their destination, Mr. Evans ushered Grace inside. She immediately sought the comfort of the fire snapping in the stone hearth and stretched her fingers out while taking in her surroundings. The cottage was welcoming; warm air caressed her icy skin, the woodsy scent of cedar planks encircled her, and a pot of stew bubbled nearby. The rich aroma filled her nostrils, and her stomach grumbled in response, reminding her that it was almost time for supper.

  “Foul weather this afternoon,” she said, willing her chattering teeth to stop.

  “As foul as the evil spirit lurking within these walls,” Mr. Evans said. “Thank you both for coming right away. My wife is at her wits’ end, and my son is terrified.”

  A woman shrieked, and booted footfalls raced over the wood planks before a door opened with a crash. Brother Anselm wrapped Grace’s hand over his arm and guided her across the room. Another howl accosted them, but this one belonged to a young lad who deteriorated into a fit of weeping.

  A woman’s incoherent moans saturated the chamber, raising the hairs on the back of Grace’s neck.

  “Lord help us,” Mr. Evans cried. “My wife is possessed. Do something!”

  Grace strode in the direction of the woman while issuing orders. “Begin the prayers, Brother, and go stand before Mr. Evans and his son. Protect them as best you can. There isn’t time for our standard ritual.”

  After reaching for the gold cross on a delicate chain around her neck, Grace pulled it over her head and took a steadying breath, filling her lungs to capacity. She blew the air out as she cleared her mind and gave thanks to God for bringing her to Mrs. Evans in her hour of need. Grace homed in on the location of the ghastly wails and held out the cross.

  She opened her heart and mind to her Creator and called out in a clear voice, “In the name of our Holy Father, reveal yourself to me!”

  Listen to me! My daughter lies in the forest, attacked by wolves. Oh, why won’t anyone listen to me?

  Grace swallowed hard, momentarily shocked by the spirit’s revelation. It never ceased to amaze her that she could decipher what sounded like nothing more than garbled words to others. If Mr. Evans only knew what his unwanted guest had been trying to say to him!

  Keeping her voice calm, Grace reassured the ghost. “I’m listening, and I promise I’m here to help you. Please believe me, I feel your sadness and pain. Tell me your name.”

  “What’re you doing, Grace?” Mr. Evans bellowed. “Get that demon out of my wife’s body now! You’re here to help my wife, not that horrible creature. You’re as crazy as Willie Jackson claims! God help us, I should’ve listened to him.”

  His voice cracked, and Grace drowned out his hysterics with practiced ease. She’d been labeled crazy so often it barely registered anymore. Right now she needed to direct all of her focus on the ghost inhabiting Mrs. Evans’s body.

  I’m not a demon, fool! My name is Jacqueline Moore. I’ve cried and begged for his help for days, but he won’t listen. Let me guide you to my child, Grace. You must save her. Please save my child!

  “I will help you,” Grace said, holding her hands out, palms up. “Release your hold on Mrs. Evans and then guide me to your daughter in your spirit form. Can’t you see that I am blind, but I hear you clearly? The others see you, and yet they hear only garbled moans. Let me help you. Release Mrs. Evans at once, and I’ll follow you wherever you lead me.”

  You promise on your mother’s grave?

  Grace nodded, ignoring the piercing stab of pain in her heart. Though dead for years, Grace still missed her mother’s loving presence, a fact that ghosts latched on to qui
ckly.

  A loud thump sounded in front of Grace, and the floor vibrated near her feet, where Mrs. Evans landed in a heap.

  “Gwendolyn!” Mr. Evans cried out, and the rustling of his clothes indicated he ran to cradle his wife.

  Smoothing her hands over her dress, Grace turned and called over her shoulder. “Brother Anselm, please come. Mrs. Evans will recover soon, I daresay, but there is a child lost in the forest that requires our help.”

  “Oh, goodness,” Brother Anselm said, rushing to her side. “Lead on.”

  Grace concentrated on the ghost’s voice as they ventured outside. Thankfully, the rain had stopped, but she strained to hear anything over the howling wind. The ghost wept constantly, drawing them farther and farther into the forest. Grace stumbled over fallen branches and large rocks, all the while trying to soothe the distraught ghost and steady her own growing unease. Devil’s Cove was a small town, and she could not recall having heard of a missing woman and child of late. Hadn’t the ghost said she had been trying to speak with Mr. Evans for days?

  Brother Anselm puffed out deep breaths of exertion and paused, grabbing hold of Grace’s arm and pulling her to a stop. “Perhaps we should alert the constable first. Is this really a good idea, my child? It’s rather dark in the forest. What if we are set upon by wolves or bandits? We can’t help a child if we fall victim ourselves.”

  No! You’re almost there … seven more steps or so.

  Patting him on the arm, Grace shook her head and then trudged onward. “She’s up ahead, Brother. We mustn’t stop now.”

  Brother Anselm emitted a resigned sigh behind her, and the gentle shuffle of his feet resumed. She counted steps: one, two, three, four, five …

  Her foot collided with something solid, and she gasped, falling to her knees.

  “Stop!” Brother Anselm said, horror evident in his tone. He gagged, and the sounds of his retching filled Grace’s ears just as a putrid stench filled her nostrils. Her heartbeat ticked faster, and she swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. The child must’ve been dead for quite some time already.

  Isabelle, my poor, sweet Isabelle. She’s dead. My sweet baby is dead. You must ensure she receives a proper burial, Grace.

  After scooching back a pace or two, Grace stood and turned away to drag in a lungful of fresh air. “Are you all right, Brother?”

  He braced her by the shoulders and sighed. “Yes, and you?”

  “Fine,” she whispered, willing her heart to steady once more. Her work was not done, but she wished for it to be over soon. At times like these, she would gladly accept the horrors of exorcising demons to the gut-wrenching pain of helping lost souls, especially that of a young child. “Jacqueline, you have my word that Isabelle’s body will be properly buried, but now you must go to her in Heaven. Allow me to help you reunite with your daughter.”

  Chapter Three

  Three days later …

  A gust of wind blew through Grace’s hair, sending gooseflesh racing down her arms and reminding her why she despised sitting close to the tavern entrance. Only this time it was different as a hush settled over the boisterous room. Grace cocked her head to one side and listened closely. Nothing but the hiss of the gas lanterns could be heard. Not even the telltale squeak of the wooden floorboards as Mercy Seymour made her rounds, racing from table to table in a never-ending attempt to keep the tankards full. This was odd, indeed.

  But even odder was the sense of foreboding that crept into Grace’s veins. She inhaled a deep breath, and her nostrils itched. Fear had a distinctive scent, and the air was rife with it. She shivered.

  Mercy shuffled past Grace’s table, mumbling under her breath, and just like that, the muted voices resumed and the unsettling moment passed. As the clanking of forks against plates grew louder, Grace exhaled and tuned out every last speck of noise, homing in on the conversation taking place at the entrance. Ever since she had gone blind at the age of seven, her cochlear and olfactory nerves had sharpened to an astonishing level, almost as if God mourned the loss of her sight as much as she had and gifted her with heightened sense of sound, taste, and smell.

  “Evening, sir,” Mercy said with the tiniest of tremors lilting on her words. “I’ve a fine table for you this way. Please follow me.”

  The floorboards groaned under a heavy set of boots, and a mixture of fresh sea air and sandalwood assaulted Grace’s senses. She bit down on her lip when the footsteps paused, and her fingers tensed around the fork and knife she held steady over her plate. His heavenly scent enveloped her; he must be a fine fellow to smell so good. Her heartbeat thumped painfully against her ribs, and she hated herself in that moment for falling victim to vanity. However, she couldn’t help but wonder if the man stared at her in disgust, drawn with a morbid curiosity to gawk at the sightless spheres that rested in her eye sockets.

  Her mother had gazed often into her eyes and proclaimed their beauty when she was a child. Bluer than the bluest sky on a bright spring morning. That was a long time ago and much had changed. The brothers of the priory couldn’t afford much, but she was thankful for the simple prosthetic eyes they’d procured. Brother Anselm assured her the dark-brown shade was appealing.

  She shoved the treasured memory to the back of her mind and resumed cutting a piece of roasted beef on her plate. Let the man stare if he must. Bowing her head, she pulled the fork toward her mouth and welcomed the taste of the savory beef, seasoned to perfection. It melted on her tongue, tender as it was.

  The footfalls resumed against the wooden planks, and the noise of the tavern reached its normal deafening pitch. Grace lifted her head toward her supper mate as the tension left her body. She must know about the newest patron of The Black Serpent. That he should bring the entire establishment to dead silence spoke volumes about the man, yet she yearned for specifics.

  “Brother Anselm,” she began, licking her lips. “Please.”

  She needn’t say more. After living in each other’s company for nearly fifteen years, he understood her plea. What she didn’t know was whether he would comply and provide the details she sought.

  A soft chortle from across the table was enough to bring a smile to her face. Brother Anselm was amused, so the tale must be a good one. As she waited for him to collect his thoughts, she fished for a potato on her plate. They were always the largest pieces, and her fork sank into them with ease. She speared a tasty morsel and bit into it, delighting at the creamy gravy rolling over her tongue.

  “It’s Captain Devlin Limmerick,” Brother Anselm said in a hushed tone.

  Grace stopped in midchew and her stomach fell to the floor. “The pirate?”

  “Privateer,” he countered. “Or at least that is what he would have the good people of Devil’s Cove believe. He has taken residence at Devil’s Cove Manor. Can you imagine?”

  She forced the potato down her throat and washed it away with a sip of ale. That was only one of many rumors she’d heard about the man. A shudder ran through her. “No, I can’t imagine living there. The man must be the very devil himself to reside in a mansion reputed to house the gatekeeper of Hell. Pray tell, does he look like the devil?”

  “Ah, my dear girl,” Brother Anselm said with an amused lilt. “You cannot believe the nonsensical rumors whispered about the gatekeeper. But the man … should you like to hear that his hair is black as night, and that he sports a chiseled jaw capable of ripping his opponents to shreds? Tall, with rippled muscles that will crush every foe? Eyes so dark and sinister that to even look into their depths would send a man screaming in the other direction?”

  Grace’s lips twitched as the heat of a blush rushed up her neck and into her cheeks. That was exactly what she wished to hear. But from the sound of her mentor’s voice, it wasn’t entirely the case.

  “Oh, that would be fine, indeed,” she said on a sigh. “Is it not so?”

  Brother Anselm laughed and pulled her hand into his. “I would liken him to an archangel. Golden hair kept long and pulled away at
the nape of his neck. Quite unconventional. Chiseled jaw, that much is true. But his eyes. From what I could see in this dim light, I believe they must be as dark blue as the fathomless sea upon which he commands his ships.”

  Not what she had been hoping for, but all was not lost. There must be more to the man in order to command a room with only his presence. Perhaps he towered over everyone and wielded an axe or sword. Yes, that would do nicely. “Would you say he’s as big as Goliath?”

  “Quite,” came the answer from an amused baritone at the edge of their table, and Grace froze.

  Good Lord, the pirate was standing right there. Brother Anselm could’ve forewarned her, at the very least. More likely he was enjoying himself. What a jest! She often wondered at his dedication to the cloth, but there were few opportunities for intrigue in their day-to-day lives, so who was she to rob him of a little fun?

  How much of their conversation had the captain heard?

  Reaching for her napkin, Grace wiped delicately at her lips and turned to their unwelcomed guest. “Pardon me. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Allow me the honors,” the man said, and Grace imagined he dipped a proper bow in her direction.

  It was the swishing of his waistcoat that gave him away. She pressed her lips together to hide her smile. She could not see him, so the gesture was wasted on her, though she secretly enjoyed the chivalry of it all. It said something about the man that he found her deserving of the required social graces. Odd, for a pirate, for that’s exactly what she believed him to be. Privateers didn’t elicit such fanciful rumors in a place like Devil’s Cove.

  “Captain Devlin Limmerick, at your service.”

  The deep pitch of his voice was menacing in its own right—enough to send shivers down her spine—and the man had only said “at your service.” She had no doubt he could incite fear in even the burliest of men. He stood quietly, like a cat prepared to pounce, awaiting her response. Tension settled between her shoulders, and she suddenly felt like a juicy little mouse.