Stranger on Raven's Ridge (3 page)

“Said the kettle to the pot. I’ll give you the full rundown
after—”

The sentence was interrupted by a sound. A short, sharp blast
that echoed and rippled and brought Connor’s eyes into full, wary focus.

His companion bent again. “Where?”

“Near the gate.”

“Not my day.” A warning finger came up. “Do not follow me.”

Still in his crouch, Connor scoured the area. The sun had
vanished under an enormous purple-black cloud. The air inside and out had gone
still. But the memory of the blast remained and repeated in his head—as it did
every night and would for the remainder of his life.

The memory of a gun being fired.

* * *

I
T
TOOK
R
AVEN
SEVERAL
heart-thumping minutes to convince
herself—and George—that a raven swooping down on them did not constitute an
attack.

“I thought it was going to land on our heads.” George returned
the gun he’d fired to the back of his jeans and batted his short brown hair. “I
felt its wings on my face.”

“You felt air.” Climbing back into the truck, and still jittery
herself, Raven reached for the key. The engine started—and immediately began to
knock.

“Is that mechanical or bird related?” George peered through the
side window. “I don’t see anything.”

“Pretty sure it’s not a raven on the roof.” She checked the
dash for red lights. “I get human anatomy, but the anatomy of a truck, not so
much.” After tapping the instrument panel, she eased the vehicle into gear.
“Let’s get to the house, shut if off and hope it heals itself, because I
seriously doubt Raven’s Cove will have an auto mechanic up to the challenge of
fixing it.”

The truck coughed and clanked and slowly limped its way into
the courtyard of Blume House. She maneuvered it around a massive stone fountain
carved into the shape of a bird’s nest, smiled at the pair of enormous black
ravens that surged up from each side, and cut the engine.

When they reached the veranda, George planted his hands on a
vertical beam and gave a shaky laugh. “I just made a discovery. I’m afraid of
large birds. I mean, I knew growing up that I didn’t want one for a pet, but I
had no idea I was terrified of them.” He offered Raven a sheepish smile. “Sorry.
I’m acting like a ten-year-old girl.”

She wiggled the key Rooney had sent her into the ancient lock.
“When I was ten, my friends and I used to dare each other to go into Mrs.
Grumbacher’s weed-infested yard after dark and steal leaves from her hawthorn
bush.”

“Who was Mrs....?”

“Local witch.” She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Or so we
believed.”

With a smile ghosting around his lips, he pushed off. “I stand
cut down and corrected.... Do you want me to try?”

“Be my guest.” Raven dropped the key in his palm.

While he went to work, she returned to the courtyard to size up
the house. “Some of these windows look low enough to crawl through.”

“Cop here,” George reminded. When twisting failed, he resorted
to jabbing and rattling.

Out of deference to the late-summer humidity, Raven lifted the
hair from her neck and held it there while she wandered away. “I’ll see what I
can find,” she called back.

She shouldn’t have accepted his offer of help. She’d realized
that before she’d done it. So why had she done it? Because George had known and
occasionally worked with Aidan? Probably, partly. Because she hadn’t wanted to
come here alone? Maybe. Because there was no danger of her being attracted to
him?

Well, ouch, she thought, wincing as the question tightened the
guilty strings in her midsection. When a more disturbing sensation joined them,
however, she pushed the guilt aside, released her hair and turned in a circle as
she walked.

What was it she’d been feeling for the past twelve plus months?
Creeped out was a given, and annoyance came and went, depending on the
circumstances and her mood. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Not really. Her mother
did, but that was a different thing.

The sensation dissipated when her gaze landed on a slightly
elevated window. Which must mean she didn’t feel immediately threatened. “Hope
that’s a good sign,” she said, and, after checking the ground, waded into the
tangle of weeds and wild bushes under the sill.

It surprised her that the pane slid up without much effort. She
hoisted her butt onto the ledge, reminded herself that she was family and,
bending under the glass, hopped onto the tiled floor.

She worked her way through boxes and broken shelves to a wide
plank door. The latch turned with a gritty rasp that matched the sound of the
hinges.

Old dust and the memory of dried herbs scented the air in a
second, larger room that contained even bigger boxes and many more shelves.
Something black and possibly feathered hung from a hook near the exit door. Not
a bat, she hoped, or a dead raven, and kept an eye on the shadowy outline while
she tugged on the iron ring. Thankfully, whatever it was remained motionless,
allowing her to move quickly past.

Long and narrow, the third room was a hodgepodge of sinks,
counters and cupboards. Beyond it was a corridor that led to a workroom filled
with stacked chairs, a chipped blackboard and still more boxes.

She was passing under a light fixture the size of a compact car
and listening to flies drone in the otherwise oppressive silence when she felt
it again. The sensation of someone behind her, watching her, possibly close
enough to touch her.

Swinging around, she searched the room. Although the windows
were covered with curtains, there was enough light for her to be certain she was
alone.

“Getting weird, Raven,” she murmured. But wisdom had her
turning another circle as she walked.

Still nothing and no one appeared.

Rocking her head from side to side, she located a third door
and pulled it open. And was very nearly steamrollered by a man the size and
shape of a sea lion. He slammed into her, reared back, then pushed her into the
jamb and ran.

Raven’s head struck wood. The room exploded briefly with stars.
She stopped herself from falling over a wooden bench as feet thundered across
the floor. Catching hold of the raised back, she regained her balance and,
without a moment’s hesitation, took off in the opposite direction.

She was halfway across a wide hall when another figure
appeared. Like the first one, it plowed into her at a dead run. Or she plowed
into it. Whatever the case, instead of shoving her aside, a pair of hands
grasped her upper arms and held fast.

She glimpsed a red-eyed raven, sharp talons and an open beak as
she was hauled kicking and clawing into a bared, male chest.

Chapter Three

She didn’t scream—what would have been the point?—but instead recalled the self-defense maneuvers she’d learned as a child.

“Wait, don’t...” the person holding her began, but she’d already planted her heel on his foot. When he swore, she fisted her hand and aimed for his throat.

He avoided the worst of the punch by feinting sideways—and uttering a growl just familiar enough that, instead of running, she scooped the hair from her face to stare in disbelief.

“Are you serious?” Fear warred with temper for control. “Steven?” Cousin Steven, the San Francisco lawyer? Here in Raven’s Cove? Her shocked gaze skimmed the long hair, the assortment of pierced body parts and finally the exposed chest beneath an unstrung leather vest. “With a Hezekiah tattoo?”

He made a negating motion with his hand. “Don’t talk, don’t move, don’t even breathe. Just stand there until I can think past the pain that’s shooting like a damn pinball between my foot and my neck.”

Raven complied, more out of astonishment than anything. But only until he straightened and started rubbing his throat. Then she swept her hair back all the way, straightened and arched her brows. “Okay, explain. First of all, what are you even doing on this coast? Second, what’s the deal with that man—I think man—who came this close to giving me a concussion in his rush to get out?” When his eyes glinted, she stared him down. “Don’t lie to me, Steven. I’m not nine years old anymore.”

“A rather obvious statement, I’d say.” Her cousin’s glower faded to a scowl. “Any man you saw had no business being in this house, so we’ll assume he was beating a hasty retreat. As for why I’m in the Cove, suffice to say that during the course of a certain sensitive trial, I took a wrong turn and got myself disbarred. Never having been concerned about rainy days, when the deluge hit the fan I ended up in very deep water. I was licking my wounds in an Oakland bar one night when old Rooney called me with a proposition. God knows how the news reached him, but it did, and his response was to point out that, as he was fast approaching the century mark, it might be prudent for him to turn the handling of his business affairs over to someone he could trust... Make a sarcastic comment about that last part, Raven, and I’ll let it be known to every nut ball at Ravenspell that, Rooney notwithstanding, you’re the most direct Hezekiah descendent currently in the Cove.”

Raven couldn’t stem her amusement. “So I guess,
How’s it going?
would be a redundant question at this point.”

“Ravenspell,” he reminded. “Chock-full of loons.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about it, and them.”

Steven wiggled his jaw back and forth. “You’ve heard, but you’ve never come. Why is that—Raven?”

The amusement blossomed into a laugh. “Nice try, but you can’t goad me anymore. I didn’t come because my mother told me what life in the Cove was like for her. Being a direct descendent and a free thinker somehow combined to make her the most likely candidate to be possessed by Hezekiah’s tortured spirit. Everything she did was scrutinized, analyzed and judged. She told me that ‘spacey’ was the kindest of the labels she was given.”

“Yes, we all have our labels to bear.”

Sensing a no-go zone, she switched tacks. “Where’s Addie these days?”

His expression soured even further. “My sweet baby sister is as busy as the proverbial bee in San Francisco. On top of the clients she already had, she inherited most of mine. Don’t you two keep in touch?”

“We Facebook, email and Twitter like the rest of the world, but not about work-related stuff. Maybe it was Addie who contacted Grandpa on your behalf.”

“Why would she do that?”

Raven widened her eyes. “Because she loves you and probably wanted to help.”

A creak of wood drew her gaze to the staircase. But only until the door behind her burst open and George stumbled in.

He halted to stare. “You’re here.”

“I found a window.”

Beams of dusty sunlight bounced off a hanging mirror. George glanced over and blinked. “I, uh...” Trailing away, he cleared his throat, gave his glasses a poke and offered Steven a solemn nod.

Her cousin snorted. “Friend of yours?”

For a second, Raven thought she spied a movement on the stairs. Part of an arm or a shoulder. Whatever it was, it vanished too quickly for her to be sure. When Steven prodded her, she zoned back in. “Sorry, what did you ask? Oh, right, George. We drove up from Portland together with Grandpa’s new kitchen appliances. I think the truck died in the courtyard.”

Steven cupped her elbow. “In that case, what say we move this party to old Rooney’s house. If your truck’s dead, I’ll hitch it to my four-by-four for a tow. You can brew a pot of tea, Rooney’ll spike it, and while he’s telling you about your mother’s childhood escapades, George and I can unload his new purchases.”

Nodding absently, Raven contemplated the wide staircase. And for the life of her couldn’t figure out why her brain felt numb while her heart raced out of control in her chest.

* * *

I
F
HE
’
D
BEEN
THINKING
, if he’d been able to think, Connor would have heard the footsteps long before the person making them turned the second-floor corner. As it was, a man the size of a walrus stopped dead and gaped at him as if he were Hezekiah Blume come to life.

Connor was tall, but this man topped six-seven and had to weigh close to three hundred pounds. So the fact that he held up two flipper-size palms and flinched astonished as much as it amused.

“I was looking for a bathroom.” The flippers wagged. “Swear to God, I wasn’t going to pilfer anything. My ma, she’s into the woo-woo stuff. She and me, we live in Bangor. She wanted to come for the Ravenspell while she still could. But, hey, the woman’s seventy-nine. Tough as flaming nails, but still—seventy-nine. I couldn’t let her go off tenting alone. Man alive, though, those porta-johns are bad. So I came looking for something that wasn’t like walking into a septic tank.” He wiggled his upraised fingers. “D’you, uh, live here, then?”

The shadows that crisscrossed the corridor created a number of deep black pools. Connor knew by the way the man peered at him that he was standing in one of them.

“No one lives here,” he said. Which was true and not true. “Doesn’t mean the place isn’t privately owned or that the people who own it want strangers wandering up and down the halls.”

Chastised, the man scuffed a heel across the carpet. “I’ll say I’m sorry again, to you and the lady, too, if I see her.”

Connor kept his tone casual. “Might be best all around if you put the whole wrongful entry thing out of your mind.”

“Fine by me. Does the lady own the place?”

“Rooney Blume owns it. He’s got twenty years on your mother and doesn’t need to know about any of this.”

“Sure, good, I mean—I won’t come inside again. Swear.”

For no reason he could fathom—and because he wouldn’t be here long after sunset anyway—Connor took pity on the man. “There’s a sink and toilet in the shed behind what’s left of the western wall. Hasn’t got a lock. If you’re careful about making the climb, you can use it.”

“Ma, too?”

The picture that formed brought a smile. “Yeah, why not, her, too.”

The man’s shoulders heaved. “Thanks, Mr....”

“Blume,” he lied. “Steven. Don’t let me see you again. Lawyers tend to have bigger problems with uninvited guests than cops do.”

The man rubbed his hands down the legs of his pants. “If you say so. I’ll just...” Jerking his head, he backpedaled swiftly down the hall.

Connor waited until he heard the rear stairwell door open and close before he moved.

The guy was a curiosity, but whether harmless or not didn’t matter as much as it probably should. Getting the hell out, now
that
mattered. Because if he didn’t leave, he might screw up and do something incredibly dangerous.

Again.

* * *

H
E
TIPTOED
THROUGH
the big house, listening at doors, peeking around corners and making a minimum amount of noise. It was a tedious task that had him sweating and truly in need of a bathroom by the time he reached an exit.

Under a purplish black cloud, he picked his way through a minefield of rubble on the west side of the house. Once the worst of it was behind him, he sank onto a rock to mop the back of his neck. He waited five minutes, breathing deeply, before digging out his cell phone and dialing the required number. He didn’t think it was a good sign that his call was answered on the first ring.

“What?”

Start with the obvious, he told himself, leave the best for last. “I’m in Raven’s Cove.” He looked up at the imposing—and many said haunted—house. “Sort of.”

“Raven Blume?”

Fear and a touch of superstition dimpled the skin on his arms. “Believe me when I tell you, I wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t.”

“Can you see her?”

“Not exactly, but I heard her talking to a tattooed man a while back. He took her to see her grandfather, some old-as-the-hills coot named Rooney. She won’t be leaving town in a hurry. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. Her truck’s giving her trouble.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s making a funny sound.”

“Because of you, or on its own?”

The man flailed a hand. “Did I mention the tattooed man? He’s like everywhere I go, and he watches the gate like a hawk, or maybe I mean a raven. The other Raven—Blume—shut her truck off for less than three minutes and only walked a few yards away. There was no time to mess up the engine. Which I wouldn’t have done anyway because she has a trigger-happy nerd riding shotgun with her.”

“If I ask who the nerd is will you answer in one sentence or less?”

“I don’t know who he is.”

“Not exactly the response I’d hoped for.”

A shiver crawled up the big man’s spine. “Look, you wanted me to do a job, and I’m doing it. You said follow her to Maine, and I did.”

“I also told you under no circumstances to lose her.”

A hint of ornery snuck through. “I didn’t come all this way to sleep in a frigging tent and listen to crazy people talk about a raven man. I’m on her. I’ve also got news you might want to hear, and it’s not something you paid me to find out.”

“I’m all ears and anticipation.”

Giving his overheated neck another wipe, the man glanced back at the house. “I bumped into someone when I was heading out to call you just now. And I hope you’re sitting down, ’cause your world’s gonna rock clear to China when I tell you who I think it was.”

* * *

S
HE
MANAGED
TO
ESCAPE
.
Unfortunately, it took the better part of two hours to do it, because Rooney, being Rooney, wanted to talk. About many things, but mostly, Raven discovered, about the infamous history of Blume House.

Because she already knew the legend of Hezekiah’s transformation, he had sidetracked to a secondary story that also played into Ravenspell.

“As a doctor,” he began with a mostly toothless smile, “you’ll appreciate that Blume House was used as a facility for convalescing soldiers when the Great War ended in 1918. That was many years after Hezekiah’s time, but evil is notorious for its patience, to say nothing of its staying power.” He filled his black mug with a one-to-three blend of tea and whiskey. “It’s said that some of what infected Hezekiah managed to escape the transformation.” His blue eyes sharpened on her face. “Can you guess where it might have gone, Granddaughter?”

“I’d like to think hell, but being a Blume, I’ll say into the fabric of the house?”

Rooney beamed at her. “You’re a Blume, through and through, young Raven. Which is why you won’t be afraid that such a dreadful thing as happened in September of 1919 will happen when that same portion of Blume House becomes a medical facility once more.”

Amused, she regarded him across the table. “I’ll bite, Grandpa. What dreadful thing happened back in 1919?”

“When all was said and done, two men wound up dead. One was murdered, the other killed himself.”

“Why would two deaths—never mind. Go on.”

“The killer believed that the man he murdered had caused his twin brother to die on the battlefield a month or so before the war ended. It was an eye for an eye, he claimed, but not in a way that satisfied.”

“That way being...?”

“You can’t guess?”

Raven watched Steven, George and a pair of neighbors who’d volunteered to help, wrestle the old range through Rooney’s barely wide enough cottage door, before sliding her gaze back to the old man. “I’ll speculate that either the killer wanted his victim to die slowly and in pain but couldn’t pull that off with medical staff and other convalescing soldiers around, or he’d have preferred to kill the victim’s brother instead of him, making it a true eye for an eye.”

“Number two’s the bingo,” Rooney congratulated. “Problem was, the man who died had no kin. Made the choice of victims a moot point.”

Raven masked her teasing tone. “And this story relates to the evil that secreted itself in the walls of Blume House, how?” Then replied at the same time as her great grandfather, “You can’t guess?”

The old man cackled. “I’m gonna enjoy having you nearby, I think. Fresh blood’s what you are and what this town’s been needing for a long time now.”

“I’m truly hoping the evil doesn’t see it that way.” She lifted her cup but knew better than to take a sip. “As for my guess, I’ll postulate that the murderer wasn’t a man who enjoyed killing—thus the need to convalesce after the war—nor had he previously been the kind of person who would commit an act of vengeance regardless of the crime. Therefore, the evil in Blume House must have infected him and forced him to commit an act so abhorrent that his mind shattered. Which relegates his story—by virtue of the evil takeover and its September date—to the lore that is Ravenspell.”

“Impeccable logic, Granddaughter.” Rooney toasted her and drank heartily. “Of course, time has a way of changing things, and it’s now generally believed that the evil has spread beyond the walls of the house to the Blume-owned grounds surrounding it.”