The Visitor (3 page)

Four

A
fter sipping a cup of chamomile, my nerves began to settle, but I was by no means calm. I tried to convince myself I was overreacting, but what were the chances of that stereogram turning up in the cellar at the same time I was being visited by the sightless apparition?

Macon hadn't seemed to notice anything unusual in the image or my demeanor. A phone call had pulled him away before he could study the card further, and by the time he returned, he was anxious to get on with his work. I'd escaped upstairs with the viewer and stereogram and had taken both straight to my office, where they now sat on my desk until I could decide what to do with them.

I wasn't particularly worried about having either in my house. I'd never believed that possessions or even places could be haunted. People were haunted. However, ghosts could sometimes use objects to communicate, and I had to wonder if the stereogram was yet another message from the blind ghost.

It was a big leap, and as I went about my business for the rest of the day, I reminded myself that now was not the time to let my imagination run wild. I had a bid to work up for Seven Gates Cemetery, my blog to update and a speech to write for the Oak Grove dedication ceremony. Until I had time to investigate, I would do well to put that card out of my mind.

But no matter how hard I tried to concentrate, my attention kept straying. The stereogram kept calling. Whether it was a facet of my personality or the nature of my business, I couldn't rest when a mystery needed solving.

Succumbing to temptation, I inserted the card in the holder and brought it to my eyes, turning my chair to the natural light so that I could scrutinize the three-dimensional image for messages and clues. But the only thing that meant anything to me was the face in the upstairs window.

At least now I could assume that my look-alike had once actually existed. She wasn't a vision of my future self, but a ghost from the past. That revelation should have eased my mind, but the fact remained, she'd followed me through the veil for a reason. She'd warned me to find a key, but where was I to even look?

Shivering, I set the stereo card aside and examined the viewer, noticing for the first time a small silver plate fastened to the underside. The inscription was so tiny I could just make it out: “To Mott, From Neddy. Together Forever.”

In even smaller print at the very bottom of the metal tag was the name of a shop: Dowling Curiosities, Charleston.

Given the age of the stereoscope and how long it had likely been stored in the basement, I hadn't much hope that the shop would still be in business. To my surprise, however, a Google search yielded a King Street address. I'd undoubtedly passed it any number of times while strolling through the historic district. I diligently noted the information in my phone so that I could look for the place on my next walk.

For the rest of the afternoon, I remained at my desk, alternately working on bids and studying the stereogram until hunger pains disrupted my concentration. Since Devlin would be spending the evening with his grandfather, I decided to walk down the street to a little place on Rutledge for an early dinner. To my surprise, however, he was sitting on the front porch waiting for me when I arrived home a little while later. As I approached the steps, a light breeze trailed a trace of his cologne, a dark, spicy scent with hints of warm vanilla and a dangerous note of absinthe. Sultry, seductive and a bit decadent for the daylight hours, but that was Devlin.

The late-afternoon sunlight filtering down through the trees blinded me for a moment so that he became nothing more than a dark form imprinted upon my retinas. It almost seemed as if another shape hovered over him, but then I blinked and, like the mysterious stereogram, the two images merged into one.

“I thought you were having dinner with your grandfather tonight,” I said in surprise.

“I am. But I happened to be passing by your house and I had the urge to see you before I head out.” He paused to stare down at me for the longest moment. “Are you all right? You were scowling just now as you came through the garden.”

“Was I? The sun was in my eyes.” I sidestepped out of the glare and as my vision adjusted, I was struck yet again by his devastating good looks. Despite the heat, he appeared as fresh as the proverbial daisy, his cotton shirt crisp, the line of his tailored pants still neatly creased. As I climbed the stairs, it occurred to me that I'd never sufficiently appreciated a well-fitting trouser until I met Devlin.

When I got to the top step, he bent to kiss me. Normally, I would have gone willingly into his arms, drawn by that delectable scent and his innate allure, but I found myself strangely reticent, holding back my desire as I tried to resurrect defenses that had tumbled upon our first meeting.

More and more I was coming to understand Papa's withdrawal. Retreating behind the wall of his own troubled thoughts had been the only way he knew to protect himself and those around him from the ghosts.

Devlin searched my face. “I don't think it was the sun. Something's wrong. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I'm just tired.”

“Because you're not sleeping.” He trailed his knuckles along my jawline. “I wish Rupert Shaw had never talked you into going back to Oak Grove. You've been having nightmares ever since you agreed to finish the restoration.”

“It's a very dark cemetery,” I said. “A troubled place even before the murders.”

His gaze deepened. “But it is just a place. What happened there was human evil, not supernatural. You do know that, right?”

He wasn't entirely correct, but I could hardly argue the point. “Not all my feelings about Oak Grove are negative. We met because of that cemetery. I certainly don't regret that. Although I'd like to think that our paths would have crossed regardless.”

His eyes softened and some of the strain between us melted. “Such a romantic notion from someone usually so serious.”

“The two aren't mutually exclusive, you know.”

“In you, they're not. I've never known anyone so full of contradictions. You're a very complicated woman, which is only one of the many reasons I find you so fascinating.”

“You find me fascinating?” I asked without guile.

“Have I not made that clear?” He cupped the back of my neck as he gazed into my eyes. “
Endlessly
fascinating.”

I felt my knees go weak at the dark glint in his eyes, at the provocative edge in his drawl. Then foolishly I wondered if he'd once thought the same of Mariama, and I glanced away.

He took my chin and brought my face back to his. “Hey. What's that look?”

“Sometimes I'm still surprised by us,” I admitted. “You and me. That we're together.”

“Why?”

“We're so different. We come from different places.”

“Maybe that's why we work. Our differences keep things interesting,” he said lightly, but his expression sobered. He tucked back a strand of hair that had escaped from my ponytail. “I hate seeing you like this. So exhausted and distracted. Nothing's going to happen if you fall asleep, you know. I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

“I know that. Just as I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe. But some things are beyond our control. Even you have no sway over my nightmares.”

“Maybe you sell me short,” he said and tugged me to him.

This time I didn't pull away, proving, I supposed, that when it came to Devlin, I didn't have the courage of my convictions. If the blind ghost lurked in the shadows, I was oblivious to her presence, attuned to nothing more than my own pounding pulse and those seductive eyes peering down at me.

Devlin murmured something to me that later I would never be able to recall except for the silken drawl of my name. His kiss, when it came, was very slow, very deliberate and devastatingly effective. But his hands... Those strong, graceful hands were greedy and grasping...touching here, skimming there...making me tremble with need as I clutched at his shirt.

Somehow I found myself backed up against the porch wall, protected from the street by his body. He lifted my top, pressing his hands to my breasts and deepening the kiss with his tongue. I locked my hands around his neck and threw my head back with abandon as his mouth moved to my throat, then to my ear, then back to my lips. The traffic noises faded and the floorboards evaporated beneath my feet. Only the sound of his voice brought me back to earth.

“Sorry. I got carried away.” He moved back to adjust my shirt. “I know you're not one for public spectacles.”

“You didn't hear me complain, did you?” I asked breathlessly. “I wanted you to do that. All of it. When you touch me like that...”

“Like this?” he murmured, his hands sliding back inside my shirt.

Electricity sizzled along my spine. “Yes, exactly like that.”

With the tip of my finger, I traced the outline of the silver medallion he wore tucked in his shirt. I fancied I could feel the coolness of the medal beneath the fabric and the quiver of power and history contained inside that ominous emblem.

“You always know how to get to me, don't you?” I said. “You know just where to touch me, how to look at me so that I can't help losing control. Sometimes I wonder how you do it.”

“How I do what?”

“That,”
I said with a shudder as he pulled me closer. “Everything you do makes me want you even more. I've never felt this way before. That sounds like a very bad cliché, I know, but it's true. All you have to do is say my name and I melt. It's as if you've cast a spell over me.”

I expected him to kiss me again after that candid and perhaps ill-advised confession and then sweep me inside to the bedroom to prove just how vulnerable to his touch I truly was. Instead, his mood seemed to shift as a disquieting shadow flashed in his eyes, and for some inexplicable reason, I thought again of Mariama, a sultry, hedonistic woman versed in the ways of dark magic. She was gone now, her ties to Devlin thankfully severed, but I wasn't foolish enough to discount the influence she'd once had over him or the things she had undoubtedly taught him.

Was that why he still wore the medallion? As protection against her treacherous grip?

He claimed he didn't believe in the power of talismans, and yet I'd never seen him without the silver emblem around his neck, the entwined snake and claw chillingly symbolic of the entanglements and dangerous alliances that came from being a member of the Order. And from being Mariama Goodwine's husband.

The mood tainted by thoughts of his dead wife, I extricated myself from his embrace. “You've a long drive ahead of you and I don't want to make you late.”

“Yes, it wouldn't do to keep the old man waiting.” He seemed to immediately regret his harshness. “Sorry. I don't mean to be short with you. As you may have guessed, I'm not looking forward to the evening.”

I put a hand on his sleeve. “Are you sure there's nothing else bothering you? Seems to me I'm not the only one who's been distracted lately.”

Now it was Devlin who detached himself from my touch, gently brushing aside my hand as he moved out of the shade into a patch of waning sunlight. “I'm fine.”

He hovered at the top of the steps gazing out over the garden before he turned to glance back at me. The look on his face made me tremble even though I was hard pressed to put a name to the indefinable darkness I glimpsed in his eyes. Wariness? Resolve?

No, I thought with a jolt. What I saw in Devlin's eyes was dread.

Five

T
hat night, I turned in early with a new novel, but exhaustion claimed me before I made it through the first chapter. Saving my place with a crystal bookmark my aunt had given to me years ago, I turned off the light and snuggled down in the covers as I tried to clear my mind of secrets, stereograms and the smell of old decay in the cellar.

I must have been dreaming about that smell because the phantom scent roused me from the first deep sleep I'd had in nights. I lay very still with eyes wide-open, trying to orient myself in the darkness. The odor was so fleeting and indistinct it might well have been a remnant of my dream. I wasn't frightened. Not then. Not until I heard breathing.

The rhythmic sawing was low and croaky. Human but not human.

A thrill of alarm chased across my scalp even as I tried to rationalize the sound. It was just an old-house noise like all the other creaks and groans I heard from time to time. The doors and windows were locked tight. A human intruder couldn't get in without making sufficient racket to wake me and it was a rare occurrence for a ghost to penetrate hallowed ground. I was safe here in my sanctuary. I desperately needed to believe that.

But as I lay there drenched in moonlight and dread, the sound came again, raspy and furtive. And close. Very close. Right behind the headboard, I was certain.

My own breath quickened as I slowly turned.

Nothing was there. Nothing that I could see.
Because the sound came from inside the wall.

I wanted more than anything to leap from bed, put distance between myself and those terrifying rasps, but instead I lay there listening to the darkness as my mind raced back to the conversation with Macon. He'd said earlier that something was nesting in the cellar. An opossum or a rat, perhaps?

An animal would certainly explain the musky smell, but what of the breathing? The ragged exhalation suggested something larger than a rodent, a sentient prowler that could invade hallowed ground and maneuver its way into my sanctuary.

Slipping a hand from beneath the covers, I reached for the lamp switch. Light flooded the room, chasing shadows from corners and momentarily staunching my terror. Nothing stirred. I saw no evidence of a visitor, animal or otherwise. The rasping had stopped, but I still had a sense that something hunkered inside the wall. I could feel an avid presence behind the plaster.

Climbing out of bed, I plucked one of my slippers from the floor and then, taking a position at the end of the bed, I flung the shoe against the wall above the headboard. I heard a muffled squeal, followed by furious scratching that now came from the hallway.

Gooseflesh popped at the back of my neck. I had no idea what I was dealing with. Human, animal...something from another realm? I couldn't imagine the space between the walls accommodating anything larger than a raccoon, but if the sound really had come from the hallway outside my bedroom... If something had found a way in through the basement...

Images spiraled through my head as I stood there trembling. The last thing I wanted to do was leave my bedroom to investigate, but what choice did I have? I needed to make sure nothing was loose in my house.

Oh, how I wished for Angus's company at that moment. Ever since the battered mutt had adopted me during a restoration in the Blue Ridge Mountains, he'd been my constant companion, a guardian against intruders from this world and the next. But he was in the country with my parents because I'd thought, foolishly perhaps, that they needed his protection more than I did.

Grabbing a flashlight from my bedside drawer, I eased through the door and inched my way down the corridor, pausing now and then to track a new sound. Was that the scratch of a claw, the faint click of a door?

By the time I reached the kitchen, I'd almost managed to convince myself that nothing was amiss. I was just about to step into my office when a soft thud brought me around with a jerk.

My gaze went straight to the cellar door and I paused there with hammering heart. Then I tiptoed across the room, and I pressed my ear to the thick wood. All was silent in the cellar, but I could feel cold air seeping through the keyhole. Not for anything would I put my eye to the aperture, but I had to wonder if something was on the other side peering in at me.

I knelt and shone the flashlight beam through the opening. A high-pitched squeal—or was it a whistle?—had me scrambling back to the middle of the kitchen floor. Drawing my knees close to my chest, I sat there quaking, my gaze glued to that keyhole.

I still didn't see how a flesh-and-bone intruder could have invaded my sanctuary. The only way in from the cellar was through that locked door...unless...

Could there be a hidden crawl space somewhere?

My gaze darted about the kitchen. The notion of a secret passageway was deeply disturbing, but I wasn't about to go exploring for the entrance. For now, all I could do was seal the keyhole with a piece of duct tape and shove a table up against the door—futile precautions that did little to calm my nerves.

Leaving lights on all over the house, I went back to the bedroom and crawled under the covers, bracing myself for another long, sleepless night. Turning to the nightstand to retrieve my novel, I froze with a gasp.

The translucent husk of a cicada, perfectly preserved and still attached to a twig, lay on top of the book. The silver bookmark with the dangling crystals was gone.