Still, he remained silent.
“I know that a list of members exists, comprised of the oldest and most powerful families in Charleston. I’ve been told the name Devlin appears prominently on that list.”
That finally roused him. “Told by whom?”
“I’d rather not say. But I’m certain a perusal of said list would also turn up the name Bellefontaine and quite possibly Duvall. I could go on, but contrary to what you wish me to believe, I wouldn’t be telling you anything you don’t already know.”
He gazed straight ahead, hands still in his pockets, but he was far from relaxed now. I could feel the tension pouring off him in waves. For a moment, I thought about clearing my mind to see if I could enter his thoughts or a memory, but that was a dangerous endeavor and I wasn’t certain I wanted to learn the secrets that lay hidden in his subconscious.
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
I moistened suddenly dry lips. “Who would believe me?”
“You’ve talked to someone,” he said, still in that deceptively soft drawl. “I would very much like to know who has been filling your head with this nonsense.”
The way he turned slowly to stare down at me...that dark glint his eyes...
In that moment, I was sharply reminded of how long we’d been apart. As much as I wanted to believe we still had a connection, John Devlin was a virtual stranger to me now. A dangerous interloper who might no longer have my best interests at heart. “Does it matter?”
“Oh, it matters.” He cocked his head, still studying me. “Someone has managed to convince you that I’m somehow connected to a group of murdering zealots. I think I have a right to know the identity of my accuser.”
I knew that he wouldn’t relent, so I chose the safest option. “I have a number of sources, but Essie Goodwine is the one who told me about the twelve caged graves.”
The mention of his dead wife’s grandmother seemed to give him pause. “Essie?”
“Her brother was one of the men buried in that circle. But something tells me you already knew about that, too.”
“I haven’t seen or talked to Essie in a long time,” he said. “I don’t doubt that she told you about those graves, but as to the rest, I sense the heavy hand of Rupert Shaw.”
I shrugged, but my heart was still pounding and I wondered if it had been a mistake to come clean. Where did Devlin’s allegiance really lie? “I still don’t understand why it matters. Especially if the Congé is nothing more than a fable, as you claim.”
“You know our history. Rupert Shaw has had an ax to grind with my family for years. You have to look at everything he says through that filter. I’m sure he’d like nothing more than to drive a wedge between the two of us.”
Your engagement to Claire Bellefontaine has pretty much done that already.
I frowned. “Dr. Shaw has an ax to grind? It seems the other way around to me. He’s always spoken very highly of you and he regards your time at the Institute with genuine fondness.”
“Because he knew how much my working with him would get under my grandfather’s skin.”
“Why would he care about that?”
Devlin shrugged. “They go back. I don’t know the details of their original falling-out, but Dr. Shaw’s work became another bone of contention between them. My grandfather is the one who had him dismissed from Emerson University for conducting séances with the students.”
“At least he didn’t have him killed,” I muttered, thinking of those twelve caged graves.
“No, of course not. But Dr. Shaw lost everything—his career, tenure, his good name. Is it really so hard to believe that he’d try to use you to get back at me?”
“What purpose would it serve? You weren’t the one who crossed him. And anyway, you have it all wrong. Nothing Dr. Shaw said convinced me of your involvement with the Congé. You did that yourself. Think back to our last conversation in Kroll Cemetery. Your grandfather was very ill and you’d just learned something about your family that had clearly distressed you. You told me your grandfather was involved with some very bad people and because of that alliance, you couldn’t be with me. It was too dangerous, you said. I didn’t understand what was at stake until I learned about the Congé.”
I waited for a denial, but he was as silent as the ghosts that floated through the cemetery gate. Could he see them? Could he feel their cold?
The uncanny quiet made me restless and I kept talking to fill the void. “You saw something while we were at Kroll Cemetery. We both did. First in the guest cottage and then later in Rose’s burning house. Those manifestations convinced you of what I am and you knew that our continued relationship could attract the attention of the Congé. So you ended it. You had to for my sake.”
He laughed softly, the same sound I’d heard earlier when Claire Bellefontaine pushed him away. “You think I’m that noble?”
“I want to.”
“Well, I’m not. There are some who might even call what I’m about to do self-serving.”
I swallowed. “What are you about to do?”
His gaze burned into mine. “I’m about to take away the one friend you thought you could trust above all others. The one person you’ve always been able to turn to.”
“I don’t understand.”
He spoke in a subdued tone, but his words had the sting of a thousand needle pricks. “Have you never wondered about the timeliness of your association with Rupert Shaw? You told me once that he had contacted you through your blog, befriended you at a time when you were new to the city, alone and vulnerable. He even found you a place to live. Have you never wondered about the convenience of his assistant leaving the country so suddenly just when you were searching for suitable accommodations?”
“So?”
“Do you know who owns the house on Rutledge Avenue? Your rent and the upkeep of the property are handled through a management company, am I right? I’d go so far as to wager you’ve never met your landlady or even spoken with her on the phone. All correspondence goes through a service.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Rupert Shaw has owned that property for years. Don’t you find it passing strange that he never saw fit to tell you?”
Something unpleasant burrowed under my skin and picked at my doubts. “How do you know this?”
“It was recently brought to my attention.”
“By whom?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you know the truth. He didn’t tell you about the house because he needed to maintain distance in order to foster your friendship. Would you have been as comfortable or as open if you’d shared a business relationship with him? He wanted your trust and your confidence so that he could continue watching you... Studying you...”
“I don’t—”
“You talk about all those names,” he went on in that softly brutal tone. “A perusal of that same list would undoubtedly uncover the name Shaw. Oh, yes,” he said at my shock. “His ancestors go back to the founding of Charleston just as mine do. He is as likely a member of the Congé as I am.”
“He is the exact opposite of the Congé,” I insisted.
“Maybe that’s what he wants you to believe.”
I reached for the key at my neck. “Why are you doing this?”
“It’s high time you accept the truth about your so-called mentor. I told you from the very start that Rupert Shaw couldn’t be trusted. He’s not the man you think he is. He has an agenda. Just as we all do.”
Nineteen
Angus was beside himself by the time I got home that night. I found him pacing in the kitchen and as soon as I opened the door, he dashed out into the side yard. I dropped my belongings on the floor and grabbed his leash.
He came eagerly when I called and I took him out the side
gate to the street, mindful as always of our surroundings. I knew the area well and we went out so often for nighttime walks that I recognized many of the faces we met along the way, but I didn’t let down my guard. Complacency invited trouble.
Look what happened at Woodbine Cemetery.
Just when I thought Asher Falls was nothing more than a distant memory, evil had found its way back to me.
I was still shaken by the episode at the cemetery gate. Almost as stunned as I’d been by my encounter with Devlin, but I wasn’t ready to think about that yet. Our conversation was too fresh and raw and disturbing. Better to concentrate on an old foe and the reason for its reemergence in my life.
No matter how hard I tried to convince myself that I had imagined that encounter or how often I reminded myself that evil was still trapped in Asher Falls, hopefully confined deep within a mountainous cave or in the drowned cemetery that rested beneath Bell Lake, I couldn’t dismiss that smell nor could I quell the taunting voice in my head. Something had made contact with me earlier and I thought once more of Prosper Lamb’s door. If left open too long, bad, bad things crept through.
But why now? It almost seemed as if the entity had sensed a weakness in me, but despite my harrowing adventures at Seven Gates Cemetery, I didn’t feel especially vulnerable. If anything, I had come through that episode stronger than ever—ready, willing and able to defend myself against aggressors from this world and the next. Hadn’t I proven that earlier with Devlin?
Something else must have drawn the evil. Was it possible that someone had brought it here?
Prodded by my agitation, I picked up the pace, allowing poor Angus little time to enjoy the sights and smells of an autumn evening. I found myself going back to the beginning of my day and the discussion with Jonathan Devlin about the negative energy inside his house. The possibility had crossed my mind that the ghost child from Woodbine Cemetery might haunt him, but I didn’t yet know how the two of them were connected. Nor did I understand why Prosper Lamb—if he, indeed, lived in that old house—could know about the song that was attached to the ghost child and evidently to my mother and my aunt.
Mostly I didn’t understand what any of these things had to do with Asher Falls and the evil that resided there, but I was frightened by the implications. This was no longer a simple murder mystery—if the killing of a child could ever be considered simple.
This wasn’t about vengeance or justice so the girl’s spirit could finally rest in peace. There were greater forces at play here. Deeper repercussions. If evil truly had come calling, if that dark force intended to use the ghost to somehow get to me, then a child’s eternal soul could be at risk.
That seemed a little dramatic even for me, but I didn’t think it overstated.
I shivered and drew my jacket more tightly around me. I didn’t smell evil in the wind now. I didn’t hear voices in my head. But I had a sense that darkness was gathering and devastation loomed.
Ever sensitive to my mood, Angus hugged my side as we walked along. We went as far as the lake, but we didn’t linger in the park. The shadows were too thick and I was too jumpy. Traffic was still heavy on Rutledge, and the restaurants teemed with people, but the night had become a disturbing place. I kept glancing over my shoulder to make sure we weren’t followed and I searched the sky for signs and portents. Even the call of a songbird put me on edge, and I couldn’t wait to get back home to the safety of our sanctuary.
I’d left lights on in the house, and the glowing windows were a welcome sight when we turned up the drive. I let us in the side door, then removed Angus’s leash and filled his food and water bowls, but he remained at my heels as we made our rounds through the rooms.
Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he trotted out to the kitchen to eat while I went to shower. By the time I came out of the steamy bathroom, he was curled up in his favorite corner, but he rose when he saw me and went to the door, wanting out again. I made him wait while I put on the kettle, and then pulling a cardigan over my pajamas, I followed him out to the back garden.
The moon was breathtakingly brilliant, obliterating all but the faintest outline of the Big Dipper. Even so late in the season, the artemisia thrived along the walkways, providing a silvery backdrop for the gardenias. The smell trickled through my senses, stirring nostalgia and awakening old memories. It was a beautiful evening tainted by premonitions.
With the perfume of my garden filling my senses, evil seemed a millions miles away at that moment, but I knew from experience that my yard was not a safe haven. Hallowed ground ended at the back steps. I didn’t see the shimmer of apparitions or the dark silhouette of netherworld beings, but I could feel the chill of a nearby manifestation. Somewhere out there in the dark, a ghost made its way to me.
I went back inside to fix my tea and then sat on the steps, cradling the warm mug in my hands. I felt a bit lost tonight. Restless and wary as if I didn’t quite belong in my own garden. At the cemetery with Devlin, I’d felt more alive than I had in a long time, but now the tug of the dead world was stronger than ever. In those quiet moments, my premonitions deepened.
Struggling under the weight of my foreboding, I called to Angus, but his attention was caught by something at the edge of the garden. He wasn’t given to digging as some dogs were, but I could see his paws working frantically in one of my flower beds. I called to him again and he came to me reluctantly, allowing me to scratch behind his ear nubs, but he whimpered impatiently as I did so.
“What have you found over there?” I murmured. He returned my affection with a resigned look, but tried to squirm away when I ran my hand over his scarred head. “Fine then. Go do your thing. But please leave the gophers alone.”
Ever the obedient companion, he darted back to the same flower bed and resumed his digging. I thought about scolding him or making him go inside, but he was only reverting to his true nature. I could hardly begrudge him his instincts, but I did hope the gopher managed to tunnel fast enough to get away from him.
As I sat sipping my tea, I finally allowed myself to think about Devlin, really think about him and the impact of our meeting. Of all the day’s occurrences, the one that niggled the most was his assertion that he wasn’t a noble man. Some might even call what I’m about to do self-serving.
I wasn’t surprised that he still harbored ill will toward Dr. Shaw. Even though Devlin had once worked at the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies, he’d never made any bones about his contempt for Dr. Shaw’s work. The two men had a long and troubled history, evidently going back even farther than I realized. I also wasn’t surprised that the bad blood had started with Jonathan Devlin. He was imperious and controlling and I didn’t trust him for a moment.
I wasn’t sure I completely trusted Devlin, either—not after tonight. Whatever his motive, he’d succeeded in stirring qualms about the one person I’d always thought I could turn to in times of ghostly disturbances.
But the accusations against Dr. Shaw could only be considered self-serving if Devlin stood to gain personally from creating a rift. Maybe he’d only meant to counter Dr. Shaw’s claims about the Congé, but I couldn’t help wondering if he had a deeper provocation and a more insidious agenda.
To find out that Dr. Shaw had owned the place that I considered my sanctuary was troubling, to say the least. If he’d owned the property for years, then he must know its history and the hallowed ground upon which the original structure had been built. Had he known about my gift even before our first meeting?
Jonathan Devlin had been able to uncover my family’s legacy, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume Dr. Shaw had done so, as well. I was suddenly reminded of all those times early in our friendship when I had so carefully skirted the issue of ghosts to keep from revealing my true nature. He’d observed my struggle and had never once let on that he knew the truth about my gift.
He had deceived me by omissio
n and now I wondered what else he had kept from me and why he had been so keen for me to accept the Woodbine restoration when he knew that Claire Bellefontaine could be a danger to me.
Why, why, why? So many questions, so many loose threads. I hardly knew where or how to piece them together. Maybe it would be best if I distanced myself from this mystery. Just walk away, as Devlin had suggested.
But then I thought about that spreading darkness in the cemetery. The shadowy presence that had crept closer and closer to the ghost child as if it meant to swallow her.
I was so caught up in my musings that I forgot about Angus and his prey. A low growl jerked me from my reverie and I called out to him. When he didn’t come, I half rose in alarm, but he was still busy in the flower bed, pawing and sniffing at something that lay on the ground.
“Leave it be, Angus. Come!”
Whatever he’d uncovered lay motionless and I shuddered in dread at what I might find in the morning.
“Angus! Come away from there!”
He came but he refused to leave behind his prey. Something dangled from his teeth and I cringed.
“Angus, drop it!”
He paused in confusion, gazing at me across the yard with those deep, soulful eyes before trotting over to deposit his kill at my bare feet. I braced myself, expecting to find a maimed gopher or a frightened mouse, but instead he had dropped a mutilated teddy bear on the step.
I let out a breath of relief. I even managed a shaky laugh until I realized the significance of Angus’s find. Despite the battered condition, I recognized the keepsake at once. Someone had placed that very toy in the bed of the stone crib only that morning and now Angus had dug it up in my garden.
The button eye had been torn loose and the stitches pulled apart as if in a fit of rage. But the more disturbing aspect of the discovery was the scent that emanated from the mohair. The smell had a greasy quality that reminded me of frying meat. I wondered if some animal product had been rubbed into the fabric and sprinkled in the flower bed to attract Angus’s keen sense of smell.
The Awakening Page 16
