“Skyler,” Jesse warned, but his breathing quickened. He put his hand to Olivia’s forehead and smoothed her hair back from her face as she tried to twist away from him. “Hush now,” he soothed. “It has to be this way …”
“She never told you about your real father,” Skyler went on. “She never told you about us.”
Olivia stared at him. She saw him exchange looks with his brother, and she heard his laugh echo off the slimy walls.
“We’re your father, Olivia. Jesse and me. And we’re Catherine’s father … and Miss Rose’s father … the father of all the Devereauxs. The father of the daughter you’ll bring into our world—”
Olivia sobbed in terror. A trickle of blood ran from her throat between her breasts. Skyler leaned down and gently sucked it away. Her head tilted back, and a long deep shiver went through her.
“That’s right, Olivia, don’t be afraid.” Skyler licked his lips and smiled. “I’m very good at what I do. In fact … both of us are. We’ve been doing it for years.”
“No!”
In a frenzy of panic, Olivia twisted and tried to kick, but her body was clamped tightly between both of theirs, her arms pinned helplessly beneath them. With one quick jerk, her blouse was torn open, breasts spilling out, hands fondling them … squeezing … caressing … Soft, knowing laughter floated above her in the dark, shadowy faces leaning down, kissing her breasts, sucking her nipples, tongues teasing lightly, and her breasts heaving, straining beneath soft, warm lips. And the shame, the helplessness as she felt herself arch into their kisses, trying in vain to free herself, only feeling hands burning, burning until she thought she’d go mad.
“No!”
“You’ve wanted this,” a voice said thickly. “You’ve wanted this for a long, long time …”
And tongues blazing trails of cold fire between her breasts, down over her ribs, and hands sliding up beneath her skirt, tugging … wrenching it away. From some remote corner of her frantic brain, she knew that a knee was wedged hard between her thighs, that swift, skillful fingers were working her panties slowly down over her ankles …
“Stop! Oh, stop—”
Heavy dampness rushing over her, trying to hide herself from eyes that could see in the dark, but no use, no use—hands gliding slowly over her stomach, over her thighs, between her legs, lightly, taking their time …
And lips on hers, bruising, demanding, hands memorizing her with slow, purposeful curiosity, fingers on the downy swell between her legs … stroking … lower … and lower …
Dying—I’m dying—shame and desire—terror and desire—worst nightmares, waking nightmare, pressing, gentle, moaning, body arching again with a throbbing will of its own … melting against the strong curves of erect and supple bodies …
“Yes, Olivia … that’s right …” Murmuring, kisses, sighs. “That’s right …”
Head lowering … down … down … tongue between thighs, screaming for mercy, yet straining against it, horrified at the helpless yearning, the desperate, aching need … licking … tasting … hot liquid waves of desire—unbearable …
Don’t touch me—don’t—touch me—touch me touch me touch me—
Gasping, can’t breathe, my breath his breath his breath our breath, writhing beneath hard, warm softness, wet warm tongue … crying, hands sliding beneath hips, urging higher, tighter against hungry mouth … don’t don’t … oh God … Skyler … Jesse—sucking … coaxing … exploring every crevice, every curve, with slow, practiced perfection …
And quickly then—smoothly—bodies lean and hot, stretched on top, above, below, bare skin, damp hair and salty sweat and sultry, steamy sighs—moving—yes, yes—locked together, legs opening, thrusting deep inside—impatient—demanding—hearts racing, bodies on fire, out of control—deep, deep—throbbing together to a fevered pitch, thrusting again and again—exploding—hot, shuddering waves, weakening—drowning—
“You’re ours now.” Whispers sucking the blood away, kisses licking the tears away, devouring her, body and soul. “Ours now. Right where you belong.”
And “Yes,” she murmured, “Yes … yes …”
Around them, beneath them, lay the dust of the Devereauxs, bones crumbling softly amid years and years of honor and sacrifice.
Olivia reached up to touch the faces in the dark. She could feel their smiles. Their love. She thought she heard music and the long-ago laughter of children.
She smelled roses and river breezes, warm and rich … and the sweet, heavy flowing of time.
Epilogue
SOMETIMES OLIVIA SAT OUTSIDE on the gallery and tried to recall how it was before.
It was getting harder and harder to remember.
It seemed there had never been another place but this one, where the gardens bloomed all year round and the ivy clambered over the stately walls and the soft, sweet sunshine crept reverently along the quiet, airy hallways.
And it came to her one morning, as she stood upon the gallery and gazed out through clouds of soft gray moss, that she had never known any place but this, had never known any faces but these.
She so loved being here.
In the slow, peaceful passing of days … in the graceful company of those she loved so much.
“Miss Olivia?”
Olivia turned with a start to see Yoly standing behind her, hands on broad hips, expression annoyed.
“What is it, Yoly?”
“That new girl’s here. The new help.”
Olivia nodded slowly. “Well …”
Her eyes swept over the serene landscape below … over the flowering shrubs and magnolias and the lush, twisted maze of the beautiful gardens. She could hear shouting and giggling, and voices floated up from beneath the trees.
“You can’t catch me, Skyler! You can’t!”
“Just watch me!”
And as Olivia stared, a little girl ran right across the yard, squealing delightedly, even as Skyler caught her and swung her high into the air.
“How do you do that, Skyler?” The little girl giggled again. “How do you run so fast?”
And Olivia could see his smile, the sly narrowing of his green eyes.
And he looks just like he did the first time I saw him, she thought with a curious ache in her heart … just like the very first time …
“Miss Sarah sure looks like you, Miss Olivia,” Yoly chuckled. “That wild little thing—she sure does.”
But Olivia was still watching the game down below and didn’t hear.
She saw Jesse mending a brick wall and Sarah running up behind him, one chubby hand over her mouth as she gleefully motioned Skyler to join her surprise.
She saw Jesse’s quick intake of breath as he pretended to be frightened, and the way Sarah jumped on him, pulling Skyler down with her, the laughing, tumbling tangle of them down below on the cool green grass.
“Miss Olivia?” Yoly said gently.
And Olivia looked back at her, frowning slightly, as some thin wisp of memory beckoned to her, then disappeared.
“Yes, Yoly.” She leaned forward onto the sturdy white railing and breathed deeply of the perfumed air, and then she turned to Yoly with a gracious nod.
“Show her her room—you know which one.”
“Yes’m.”
“And make sure she meets … Jesse and Skyler.”
She lifted one hand to brush back her hair, catching several strands gently between her fingers. Surely that wasn’t a touch of gray so soon … surely it was only faded from long, happy walks in the sun …
“Oh … and Yoly—”
“Yes, Miss Olivia?”
“Make sure Mathilde makes something … special … for dinner.”
“Yes’m.”
Olivia leaned into the balmy breeze.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember a life without Devereaux House.
But there was nothing inside her mind.
Nothing at all.
A Biography of Richie Tankersley Cusick
&n
bsp; Born on April Fool’s Day 1952, Richie Tankersley Cusick was destined at a young age to write scary books. In a career spanning three decades, she has paved the way for young-adult horror writing, a genre she continues to publish in today.
Although born in New Orleans—home to some of the country’s most ancient ghosts—Cusick spent her early years in a small bayou town called Barataria, which once provided a safe haven for the fearsome pirate Jean Lafitte. A true Southern writer, she took early inspiration from the landscape of crumbling mansions, Spanish moss, and aboveground cemeteries, and began writing stories at a young age. For years a ghost lurked in her family’s house, making particular trouble around the holidays, when he would strip the Christmas tree of its ornaments and hurl them to the floor.
After graduating from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, Cusick took a job at Hallmark and moved to Kansas City, where she once again shared her home with a mischievous spirit. It was then that she started work on her first novel, Evil on the Bayou (1984), based on her childhood memories of life in the eerie Louisiana swamps. Its success allowed her to leave Hallmark and begin writing fulltime.
When Cusick’s novel-writing career began, horror fiction for teens was a new genre. Along with authors like Christopher Pike and R. L. Stine, Cusick pioneered the form, finding success writing chilling stories with only a dash of the gore that defines adult thrillers.
Since Evil on the Bayou, Cusick has written more than two dozen novels about everything from vampires to pirate ghosts. In 2003 she began The Unseen, a four-volume series about a young girl who is tormented by the occult. Cusick currently lives with her three dogs in North Carolina, where she enjoys listening to classic horror-movie soundtracks as she writes on an antique roll-top desk once owned by a funeral director. The desk is, of course, haunted.
Richie Tankersley Cusick at age three in front of her grandparents’ house in Rolla, Missouri.
From left to right: Richie’s father, Dick; her mother, Lou; Grandma Tankersley; and Aunt Deanie. Richie’s grandmother was the biggest inspiration in her life, and the first one to really encourage her passion for writing.
Richie in her senior year at Riverdale High School in Louisiana in 1970.
Richie was editor in chief of the school newspaper, the Scotichronicon, and was also voted most creative of her senior class.
Richie’s official press card as editor in chief of the Scotichronicon.
Her responsibilities included writing editorials, thinking up topics, conducting interviews, and assigning stories to the staff.
Richie started playing guitar at an early age, inspired by her uncles and their love of country music.
She has always loved singing, and has written several hundred songs.
Richie in her cubicle at Hallmark Greeting Cards, Inc., where she worked as a writer from 1975 to 1984.
In addition to writing every type of greeting card imaginable, Richie wrote poems and prose for posters, puzzle backs, calendars, plaques, key chains, buttons, coloring books, mugs, and more.
Richie with her maid of honor and lifelong friend, Lise, at her wedding in 1980.
Richie’s haunted roll-top desk, pictured here in her former home office in Missouri.
The desk belonged to a funeral director in the 1800s, and has been the source of some spooky occurrences, including eerie footsteps, muffled voices, and ghostly singing.
According to Richie, sometimes the quirkiest little thing can help an author break through writer’s block.
In this case, she is using a quill pen and ink.
A sketch of Beverly Island and the summer house from Richie’s horror novel The Lifeguard.
Richie loves to have visuals for her book settings, and made these sketches so she wouldn’t get “lost.”
Richie chatting with fans at a book signing in Rolla, Missouri, in 2004.
Richie with her three dogs at her home in Missouri in 2011. From left to right: Halle Berry, Emma, and Audrey.
Richie’s dogs are her constant companions, and often get put out when she spends long hours writing rather than playing with them.
eBOOKS BY
RICHIE TANKERSLEY CUSICK
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Blood Roots Page 28
