Stranger on Raven's Ridge (2 page)

“You need to sit down now.” Gaitor pressed her onto a leather bench. “I’ll get you a glass of brandy. That’ll do the trick.”

It would do something, Raven thought, though probably not what he anticipated.

The music changed from Irish jig to Irish lament. Through the haze in her head, a picture of Aidan came clear. He’d been quintessentially black Irish, tall, lean boned and gorgeous, with black hair and almost black eyes. There’d always been a hint of dark stubble on his face because—well, because polished had never been Aidan’s style. He’d stuck to jeans and Ts, work or biker boots and, as a rule, some form of leather jacket. His hair? Grown a little long and more often than not, left to wave a little messily around his striking face.

“McGinty thought whiskey would do you better.” Sitting, Gaitor pushed a glass, three fingers high, into her hand. “He tells me it’s a family favorite.”

And since McGinty also had a lot of family in Raven’s Cove, Raven expected he would know.

With Aidan’s image still front and center, she brought the glass to her lips, waited a beat, then shot all three fingers.

It was pure, liquid fire, a blazing line of it that decimated the wall and blew a wide hole in the smoke.

For six nightmarish days, Raven had been in shock. Nothing and no one had touched her emotions. Couldn’t, because the wall had been there to hold them in. Once it vanished, the pain literally erupted.

Aidan was dead. The only man she ever planned to love was gone. Forever. That wasn’t pain; it was devastation.

Her eyes came into sudden, sharp focus on Gaitor’s. She saw the sheen of tears inside them. And for the first time in six eerily long days, she broke down and wept.

Chapter Two

Raven’s Cove,
Maine
Two years later

“Y
OU
’
VE
LOST
YOUR
mind. I mean it. You are deep in the woods with
no bread crumbs, heading straight for the gingerbread house.” George Parkins dug
in and held on as Raven downshifted the small cube van to navigate a steep
slope. “This is crazy. You’re on track to be a top-flight diagnostic physician.
You’re moving and shaking—and I’m not referring to this rattletrap truck you
rented. What on earth made you listen to a man five decades older than
Methuselah and put a to-die-for job on hold? And please don’t say so you could
practice medicine in the speck of a town where Methuselah’s grandfather
lives.”

Raven kept her eyes on the thin slice of road that probably
hadn’t seen a paving crew since Elvis’s time. “Methuselah’s grandfather is my
great-grandfather, George. His name’s Rooney Blume.”

“And he’s in possession of how many faculties?”

“More than you and me combined, I imagine.” She sent him a
quick grin. Very quick. The pothole she’d avoided a moment ago could have passed
for a wading pool. “Raven’s Cove needs a doctor. The population tops a thousand
these days, and all they have physician-wise is a retired army medic with so-so
vision and a lingering case of shell shock. That won’t provide much comfort to a
woman in her third trimester or a man with a ruptured hernia. Besides—” she
downshifted again “—you volunteered to ride shotgun. No one’s asking you to live
here.”

George offered back a strange look. “So you’ve decided to make
the move, then? I’d hoped you were only doing a favor for an old man.”

“I am—for now. Rooney needs new appliances, and the friend from
whose small store he made his purchase can’t deliver them. I wanted to check out
Raven’s Cove, the drive’s manageable even in a rattletrap truck, and I like
doing favors for friends and family. Especially for one very old man who’s
optimistic enough to believe he’ll be able to enjoy a kitchen full of new
appliances well into the next decade.”

With a baffled shake of his head, George regarded the sky. “Are
those purply-black things up there rain clouds?”

Raven avoided a deep rut. “My mother says they’re a perpetual
formation at this time of year.”

“Uh, okay... Do I want to know why?”

A teasing smile appeared. “It’s part of an ancient legend.
Involves one of my ancestors. Said ancestor, Hezekiah Blume, allowed an evil
spirit to take possession of his soul. He thought better of it later, but
couldn’t wriggle out of the deal without major help. Enter a good spirit who
tried and failed to exorcise its nasty counterpart. The only option left was
transformation. Man and evil became a raven.”

“So you’re...are you telling me you were named for a
legend?”

“In a way. But only if you want to be technical, which my
mother hasn’t been since the day she was born. They called her Spacey Lacy when
she lived here.”

“Who are they?”

“Acquaintances mostly, many of whom have absolutely no business
throwing stones since the bulk of them believe that any person finding three
raven’s feathers on their door is destined to die.”

“Raven’s feathers,” George repeated. “On the door.”

“Placed there by the clairvoyant raven into which Hezekiah was
transformed.”

George stared at her. “When did this transformation take
place?”

“Three centuries ago, give or take.”

“So we’re talking about one freaking old bird.”

“If you believe, yes. Otherwise, it’s just a bread crumb and
gingerbread tale.” Her lips twitched at his befuddled expression. “I did warn
you before you flew to Portland that Raven’s Cove was a little odd, and you
might want to rethink your decision to come.”

When his features softened, Raven sighed a little. Despite the
distance between Milwaukee andRochester where she now lived, George had been
coming on to her for the past twelve months, in his own quiet way. She’d been
able to sidestep his advances to this point, but it occurred to her now that his
being in Raven’s Cove, even for a few short days, might prove—tricky. And the
twinges of guilt she’d been experiencing lately didn’t help.

Before her conscience could get the better of her, she motioned
at a structure coming into view through a dense stand of woods.

“There it is. Blume House. Hezekiah’s pride and joy. Until he
slid into a funk and went all evil host on his friends and family.”

George’s bespectacled eyes widened as the house grew in size.
“It’s like a Black Forest castle.”

“Back in the day—in Germany where it was originally built—it
was a fortified manor house. Aidan and I came here once.” Although the pain
still sliced deep, Raven pushed through it and continued. “It was before we were
married, a few short weeks before a storm took out half the west wing. My cousin
Riese was running the place as a hotel at the time. Then
whoosh, bang,
along came Hurricane Enid, down came a bunch of walls,
and that was the end of it for Riese. She covered the furniture, locked the
doors and struck out for Palm Springs with a cop she’d met several months
earlier. The house has been vacant for the past five years.”

“Looks like it’s been vacant for the past five decades.”

Raven eased the truck to a halt outside a set of rusting iron
gates fashioned into the silhouette of a raven.

George’s gaze glued itself to the gothic-style house behind
them. “You’re considering setting up a medical clinic here in—I’m sorry, I have
to say it—spook central?”

“I am, unless the hurricane damage is more extensive than
Rooney claims.” Raven banded her arms around the steering wheel and leaned
forward to look. “It’s a rejuvenating prospect, a sea change from the work I’ve
been doing in Minnesota.”

“At the Mayo Clinic, Raven. That’s one pretty desirable work
place.”

“Venue doesn’t matter. That I’d be doing something more
community oriented does. Losing Aidan...” The breath she drew threatened to
choke her, but she persevered. “Losing him took me out of my orbit for a long,
long time. I’m not back in it yet, not all the way in it, but I know what I need
to do, and that’s something vastly different from what I’ve been doing for the
past two years. Routine’s a balm, but according to my mother and Rooney, I’ve
only been existing since Aidan’s funeral. They want me to rejoin the
living.”

George’s gray eyes sobered. “I could help you with that, you
know.”

She took care with her expression and her tone. “You did, and
you are. Believe me, George, if I could...” She halted to twist in her seat and
peer down the road.

Unsure, George mimicked the move. “What?”

“I don’t know. A feeling. Probably nothing.” But she couldn’t
stop the shiver that chased itself over her warm skin. “This might sound
weird—and for ‘weird’ read ‘paranoid’—but I keep thinking there’s someone behind
me. Following me, maybe watching me. Closely and with intent.”

“Like a Peeping Tom?”

“More like a shadow.”

“Or a ghost?”

From under the bill of her Brewers cap, Raven slid her narrowed
eyes to his face. “I’m not channeling Aidan. This is a legitimate intuitive
feeling. And yes, I know those terms contradict each other. I also know Captain
Beckett hasn’t been really easy about things since Gaitor dropped off the radar
twenty-plus months ago.”

Worry invaded George’s features. “He’s not alone. Last I saw of
Gaitor, he was heading out with a six-pack and a loaded sub. ‘Homage to Aidan,’
he told me. Then he got in his crappy little car and drove home to watch a
football game. That was a week after his retirement party. Since then, there’s
been no sign of him. He gave up his apartment without notice and vanished. It’s
like the ground swallowed him whole. He even left his car behind.”

Raven tried not to let her skin crawl. People did strange
things. Gaitor didn’t owe her or anyone an explanation for his behavior.
Assuming his disappearing act had been behavioral, and not a belated shot fired
by a still-seething and not-yet-sated crime lord.

Cheery prospect, she reflected and gave the bill of her cap a
tug. Hopping out, she stretched her arms upward to relieve the ache in her back.
“I think that might have been the longest drive ever.”

“No argument here.” George shrugged the stiffness from his
shoulders. “How do we...uh, hmm, okay. That’s kind of creepy.”

In front of them, the gates stuttered inward with a screech of
old metal.

“Faulty motion sensor?” Raven guessed. “Or maybe someone inside
saw us arrive.”

“Someone lives here?”

“Possibly.” Humor sparked, and it felt good. “Whether feathered
or human remains to be seen.”

“How many times have you visited this, uh...?” The question
faded to a stare.

With a faint chill skating along her spine, Raven followed her
companion’s gaze to a human-size bird huddled in a leafy stand of trees to their
left.

The chill immediately lowered to a tingle.

“It’s a raven-shaped boulder.” She breathed out her relief.
“They’re scattered all over the property. You get used to it.”

The clouds overhead darkened—or something did. Raven felt the
air around her stir. And barely had time to raise her head before a silent
shadow fell over her from behind.

* * *

C
ONNOR
O’
BRIEN
STOOD
alone in the fourth-floor attic of Blume
House. He had an excellent view of the ocean waves that crashed and foamed over
the rugged sweep of coastline that comprised Raven’s Ridge. Almost as good was
the view past the neighboring woods that bled into a clearing where last night
he’d counted close to forty tents. That number had more than doubled today. He
hated to think what tomorrow would bring.

He’d been told that a small army of people, many of them
self-proclaimed psychics, descended on the ridge every three years for a
three-day celebration known as Ravenspell. Not surprisingly, several of the
participants or seekers or whatever the locals called them, arrived days in
advance of the actual event which stretched from September sixth to the ninth.
Then again, a party was a party, after all.

This particular party involved Hezekiah Blume’s man-into-bird
transformation, coupled with a tragedy that had occurred at a later point in
time. All Connor really knew was that some form of gruesome death resided at the
core of both things.

Coffee mug in hand, he rested a shoulder against the window
frame, sipped and stared, and tried not to let his mind wander. Life was what it
was, what it had to be. And what it was, in this case, was better than the
alternative he’d been given once hell had opened its fiery jaws and demanded a
sacrificial soul.

He spotted the glint of a lens near one of the smaller tents.
Easing back a step, he took another drink. He wore black out of habit and
usually stuck to the shadows, but neither precaution rendered him invisible—as
he’d discovered mere days after his arrival here.

The Cove should have been a temporary stop at best. A place to
think and regroup, to plan for a nebulous future. But one wrong turn combined
with a squeaky floorboard had changed all of that. For the better, he liked to
think.

He heard a low creak behind him. The screech of hinges and
muttered curse that followed were familiar enough to elicit a smile. “Better
than a doorbell, cousin.”

The new arrival snorted. “Not if you’re the one who has to make
the climb. Why are you always up here when I come by?”

“Same reason you always come by when I’m up here. Your campers
are multiplying.”

“Like rabbits in heat.”

“Rabbits are born in heat.” The vague amusement dissolved as
Connor ran his gaze over the gathering ground. “Do they know the rules?”

“Inasmuch as I can make them known to a collection of airheads
with ravens’ feathers for brains and very little in the way of actual lives.
Beware, though, the curiosity level is bound to go up as the sun goes down.”

“And the drugs and alcohol begin to flow.”

“Not much either of us can do to stop that. I’d set old Rooney
on them—he can almost pass for the walking dead—except being what and who these
people are, he’d probably fascinate more than frighten them. We’ll have to
settle for locked doors, latched windows and, ha-ha, good manners.”

Connor shrugged. “It’s not that much of a deal. I can avoid a
trespasser or two for however long it takes your festival of ravens to play
out.”

“Sad to say, it can play for a rather long time. There’s the
lead-up crowd as you see, followed by the more serious event goers. Then you
have Ravenspell itself, the inevitable hangers-on, and just when you think
you’re clear, you trip over a bevy of stragglers who refuse to pack their
crystals and leave until forced to do so by whatever town councilor feels like
bothering.”

“Sounds like my uncle Dan’s wedding reception.” Connor finished
his coffee, let his eyes scan the woods and the section of iron fence that
bisected them. Another glint, this one of white metal caught his eye. He
crouched for a closer look. When the metal flashed again, he nodded forward.
“Front gate’s open.”

“What?” Annoyed, his companion bent and squinted. “Crap, it is.
Stupid piece of junk works like every other contraption in the place—that being
when it chooses to. Did anyone come through?”

“Not yet, but there’s a truck outside.”

The man next to him snarled. “I hate Ravenspell.” His
expression darkened. “I’ll get rid of them.”

With pleasure, Connor suspected, and struggled with a feeling
he recognized clearly as envy. For some things more than others and for one
thing above all. But the act of ousting an intruder definitely ranked in the top
five.

“Make sure you know who you’re dealing with,” he advised when
the attic door screeched open. “It doesn’t take much of a mistake to get
burned.”