Beneath the Raven's Moon Page 2

  After a long trek down the hall and around two corners, Edith stops at a door and inserts a key. “This is to be your room, Miss Carmichael.” She opens the door and gestures me inside. I catch a glimpse of curiosity in her eyes when she looks at me, but she quickly averts her gaze.

  Edith follows me into the room, which is actually a large suite with a sitting area and huge bathroom containing an enormous claw-footed tub. The main room is presided over by a giant four-poster bed covered in faded red velvet and canopied with dusty gold tapestry.

  There’s something about that bed…

  Another shadowy sensation slithers through me, a faint, frightened memory that has something to do with my mother. I shudder involuntarily. Edith sees me and believes I’m shivering from the cold.

  “I’ll have Niles light your fire when he brings your baggage,” she says, indicating the already-laid logs in the fireplace. “It’s hard to keep this mausoleum comfortable on days like this.”

  I can’t imagine this place ever being comfortable. I long for my small, cozy flat on a busy side-street in London. I long for my music, for Charley. I’d even take my mother at the moment. Something warm, somebody familiar.

  “Thanks,” I reply to Edith’s offer of a fire. “I’d appreciate that.”

  The dour woman nods briefly and goes to the door. “Drinks will be served at five-thirty in the drawing room. Do you remember where that is?”

  I stare at her, surprised. “No. No, I’m afraid I don’t. I was only a child when I left here.”

  Edith’s sagging mouth seems to edge downward even more, as if it vexes her to have to give me directions. When she’s done, she asks, impatiently it seems to me, “Will there be anything else, madam?”

  “Actually, yes.” I feel ridiculously apologetic for putting this woman out. “A phone. May I telephone my family to let them know I’ve arrived safely?”

  “Of course. There’s one over there.” She flicks her hand in the direction of a large, ornate desk situated in a corner next to the fireplace. “Feel free to call anywhere in the world. Mr. Blount would wish you every convenience, I’m sure.”

  This last is uttered beneath her breath, but I hear the hostility. “Did you know Mr. Blount well?” I ask.

  She glances up at me with eyes that seem to have turned to ice. “Yes, m’am,” she answers tightly. “Alistair and I worked for Mr. Blount for over twenty years.”

  Although her cold demeanor disturbs me, my curiosity spurs me onward. “What was he like, my uncle?” I can see I’m now disturbing her.

  She hesitates, considering her answer, then says, “He was a writer,” as if that answers my question. She turns to go.

  “I know that. But what was he like as a man?”

  She halts in midstride and faces me again, and I catch a glimpse of fear in her eyes. Again she pauses, weighing her answer. “He was…a difficult master, but the pay was good,” she says at last. “I must be going now.”

  I watch as she moves swiftly down the corridor. Clearly, Edith had been resentful of, maybe even afraid of Malcolm Blount. Why?

  I pick up the phone, dreading talking to Mother, since I never told her I was actually coming to Ravenswood. The last time we spoke, I said I was considering it, and she spent half an hour trying to dissuade me. Now that I’m here, I understand why she tried to talk me out of coming. I’m sure it’s my imagination, but a sense of evil seems to pervade the very atmosphere at Ravenswood.

  Why does this place feel so dark? Is it the residual energy of the man who lived here? It’s easy to surmise from his work that Malcolm Blount was likely not a nice man. But just how “not nice” was he? Was he evil? Are the horrors in his books just figments of his imagination? Or did he derive them from…experience?

  If Mother knows the answers to these and my thousand other questions, she’s refused to tell me, and by this time, I know better than to ask. All I know is that she blames my father’s desertion squarely on Malcolm and his wicked temper. Malcolm apparently lived with us when he returned from two tours of military duty on the front lines and his subsequent wanderings throughout the world. He and my father never got along, and in the end, my father had enough and left.

  Malcolm may be the reason my father left, but I’ve always felt there was something more than my uncle’s dark personality that drove him away. My gaze wanders around the faded decadence of the room. What happened here, what really happened? And what do I know about it that I refuse to remember?

  Chapter Three

  The gray day has faded into a melancholy evening, with a mist that is thickening into rain. Despite the fire, my room is cold. Earlier, I managed to overcome the chill with a hot bath and a nap beneath a woolen throw on the sofa close to the fire, and I feel somewhat refreshed after my long journey to this strange place. I choose a warm dress of teal blue velveteen for the evening.

  Again, I question the wisdom of having come here. When I spoke with Mother a few hours ago, she railed at me for making the trip, but beneath her anger, I heard her fear. I don’t know why, but she’s genuinely afraid of my being here, and her fear transferred to me. Maybe she’s right, maybe I should leave the shadows in the past and deal with them as best I can in the present. That’s what keeps therapists in business.

  I drape a chenille shawl around my shoulders and pick up my small handbag. Drinks are to be served soon in the drawing room. Will I remember that room? Will it, like the four-poster in this room, evoke some long-slumbering recollection?

  Not wanting to have any strange reactions in front of the others, whoever they are, I slip out of my room half an hour early. I try not to jump at shadows as I make my way down the dimly-lit corridors. There’re no bogeymen here, I remind myself. The evil I sense at Ravenswood has to do with Malcolm Blount, and Malcolm Blount is dead.

  I catch a sharp breath when I open the drawing room door. A huge grand piano, black and shiny as a raven, reigns the room. My pulse quickens as I recognize it. I move a step closer and run my fingers over the silky smooth finish. It’s almost as big as I remembered.

  I make my way around the magnificent instrument and settle onto the bench. My fingers trip lightly across the keyboard, and suddenly I’m aware of the warmth of my mother’s body as she sits next to me in memory, showing me how to place my fingers on the keys. Her hands are much larger than mine. I begin to play a basic exercise she taught me as a child, and immediately I’m that child again, wanting to please this woman who wants so badly to be pleased.

  Soon, my fingers seem to take off of their own accord, as they so often do. Music crashes through the room. Bach. Beethoven. Wagner. Then comes Gershwin. Rogers and Hammerstein. Even the Beatles. And then, as always, the jazz begins pouring through me without restraint. I fold into the rhythm, and from somewhere comes the tune, if one can call it a tune. More like a theme around which the notes play like noisy children in a park. I close my eyes and lose myself in the moment.

  Then the sound of a footstep freezes my fingers on the keyboard. I look up to see a man in evening dress standing in the doorway, watching me with a quizzical look on his face. He cocks his head slightly and gives me a hint of a smile. “Please. Don’t stop.”

  I swing the cover over the keys. I never allow anyone, not even Charley, to see me when I get like this. When I’m lost in the music like that, I feel exposed, vulnerable. “I…didn’t mean to get so carried away.”

  He comes into the room with an easy grace. He is tall, but not extraordinarily so. His hair is thick and dark, his eyes a deep hazel, his lashes long. His face, with its sensual mouth, belongs on a magazine cover, I think. He seems familiar, although I’m sure we’ve never met. Maybe he’s a model. Maybe I have seen him in a magazine. For some reason, perhaps because he’s caught me in such a private moment, his presence unduly perturbs me.

  “You’re very talented,” he remarks, leaning on one arm against the piano and casually crossing one ankle over the other. “Do you perform somewhere, outside of this quaint medie
val fortress?” He gestures to the room.

  My mouth has gone dry. “In London. With the symphony, but only as a substitute when someone’s out sick.” Now why did I say that? My cheeks burn.

  “You ought to be the main event,” he says, edging the cover off the keyboard again. “If that’s what you want.” His eyes engage mine, and I’m unable to look away. He taps a key. “Please, play some more.”

  I don’t want to play another note. My hands are shaking, and my stomach’s in a knot. What the hell’s going on here? My anxiety usually only attacks when I’m alone. Why is it rearing its ugly head now?

  Because I have no excuse not to, and I’m too embarrassed to jump up and run away, I play “Moonlight Sonata.” The mellow cadence and haunting melody usually soothe me, but not tonight. I’m too aware of the man standing there, his eyes riveted on me. I wish he’d go away, or at least sit down somewhere in the room. I wish he’d quit looking at me.

  Just as I think I’m going to explode from the tension, the door bursts open. I cease playing, and at last the man looks away. Two more people enter the drawing room—a young man maybe in his mid-twenties and a woman old enough to be his mother. Perhaps she is. She seems to be scolding him.

  “You’ve just got to get over it, Billy. You are what you are, and you’ve been that for twenty-five years. It’s not going to change.”

  The man, Billy, looks unhappy. He’s dressed in a black silk shirt and tight-fitting black slacks. His hair is also black and curly, although his hairline is high and rapidly receding. He could be bald by the time he’s thirty. His cheekbones are high as well, and angular, and his large blue eyes protrude slightly. He’s not unhandsome, but his anger mars what looks he possesses. He’s startled when he sees us.

  “Who are you?” His tone is both curious and rude.

  I don’t know which of us he’s addressing. I stand and start to introduce myself when my erstwhile audience of one straightens and turns to face the man named Billy. He extends his hand, but his expression is guarded.

  “My name is Everett Steele.”

  Instead of taking the proffered hand, Billy places his fists on his hips and glares at the man. “Yeah, right. As in Everett Steele, the movie star, I presume?”

  I gape at the man in sudden recognition. So that’s why he looks familiar.

  “That’s right.” Steele lowers his hand and narrows his eyes at Billy. I don’t know who this Billy is, but his rude behavior is inexcusable. Silence stretches between the two men as they take each other’s measure. I hold my breath.

  “What are you doing here?” Billy demands at last.

  Steele leans against the piano again and crosses his arms over his chest. “I was invited by Malcolm Blount’s lawyer.” He raises his head slightly. “Why are you here?” he challenges.

  Billy’s face turns a mottled red, and he seems to be having a hard time controlling his fury. I’m afraid he might punch out the movie star. Instead, he growls, “Malcolm Blount was my father.”

  Still struggling to comprehend that the man with the hazel eyes is Everett Steele, heartthrob of the silver screen, I’m unprepared for this second surprise. I jerk my head around sharply.

  “Your father?” I didn’t know my uncle had a child, or that he was ever married. I wonder if Mother knew and didn’t tell me.

  Billy releases Everett Steele from his intense regard and turns his attention on me. “And you would be…?” His voice is like a sneer.

  All eyes turn to me, and I fumble to smooth the fabric of my dinner dress. “I’m Catherine Carmichael. Malcolm Blount’s niece.”

  “Malcolm’s niece,” Billy repeats derisively. “Funny, no one ever mentioned him having a niece.” I bristle, hearing undisguised suspicion behind his words. I take it that Billy Blount hadn’t counted on sharing his inheritance with so many people.

  “My mother is Malcolm’s younger sister,” I reply, trying not to sound defensive. “And she never mentioned that Malcolm had a son,” I can’t help from adding.

  Billy’s lip curls. “That’s probably because I’m his bastard.” He holds my gaze for a long uncomfortable moment, as if daring me to ask anything further. Then over my shoulder he spies the bar. “I’m Billy Fortune, not Billy Blount,” he tosses at me as he heads in that direction.

  I catch Everett Steele’s eye, but if he’s affected by Billy’s abrupt announcement of his bastardy and his overt bad manners, it doesn’t show. His earlier ease has vanished, though, and he remains guarded. I note the clench of his jaw and wonder where a famous person like him fits in this scenario. Of course, my uncle was famous, too. It wasn’t beyond reason that their paths had crossed somewhere along the way. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if Steele is another of Malcolm’s offspring.

  The other woman speaks at last. “Oh, get over it, Billy, for God’s sake.” she upbraids him. “He’s dead now, remember?”

  Billy pours two drinks before he returns to our strange little party. He hands the woman one of them. “Single malt. That is your favorite, isn’t it, Madeleine?”

  “Thank you, Billy,” she says, accepting the glass, but her eyes are hard. She does not like Billy Fortune.

  I try again to guess the relationship between these two. Is she his mother? She’s in her fifties, maybe early sixties, but is trim and well-built. Her blonde hair is swept up in a clip at the back of her head, and her jewelry is substantial—large stone-studded earrings, a heavy gold necklace, and diamond bracelet and watch. She’s wearing a long black dress with a full skirt that flows when she walks. As if she senses my questions, she turns to me and introduces herself.

  “I’m Madeleine Treadwell, Malcolm’s agent,” she says, taking my hand. “Or at least I was, for more than twenty long, trying years.” Her large, gray eyes seem to absorb me as she mentally processes my relationship with her former client. Her voice is gravelly, and the scent of tobacco underlies her perfume. Her handshake is strong, direct, and for some reason, I like her.

  “His agent?” She of all people must have known Malcolm Blount’s ways. She would have known if he was evil. “I’ve been told my uncle was a…difficult man. Is it true?”

  Madeleine snorts. “Malcolm Blount was about as difficult as they come,” she says. “He was arrogant, controlling, had an ego as big as Mars. But,” she pauses and adds, “he was also a brilliant writer. I made a mint off him.”

  “He was an asshole,” Billy declares.

  “You’re the asshole,” Madeleine snaps. “He gave you gobs of money and you pissed it off. I have no sympathy for your complaints, especially since he’s obviously included you in his will.”

  I feel a touch at my elbow, and I jump. I am unused to such open confrontation.

  “Would you care for a drink?” Everett Steele asks.

  My nerves are wracked, and my skin seems tender, almost sore, where his fingers graze it. “I’m not much of a drinker,” I say, although at the moment I could stand a shot or two. “White wine, if that’s available.”

  Steele nods and goes to the bar. I watch him go. I’ve always been a sucker for a man in a tux, but I’ve never seen a guy who fills one out quite as well as Everett Steele, with his broad, square shoulders, narrow waist and long legs. No wonder he’s the darling of Hollywood. He’s quite simply a beautiful man, even with his cool demeanor. Maybe his reserve is his way of staving off the curious public. Never having been famous myself, I cut him some slack, but I’m still wondering why he evokes anxiety in me.

  I force myself to look away and turn to Billy. I see by the smirk on his face that he’s caught me ogling Everett Steele. Well, why shouldn’t I? Every other woman in America does. In England as well. Irritated, I summon a cold smile.

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Billy,” I lie. “I didn’t know I had a cousin.”

  I see his face darken. “Cousin?” The way he says it surprises me, as if it hasn’t occurred to him that we’re related by blood. “Forgive me, cousin,” he smirks. “The idea of family is foreig
n to me.”

  Everett returns and hands me a glass of perfectly chilled white wine. I thank him, glad for the interruption in the tense conversation. My cousin is an angry, rebellious young man, and he makes me nervous. He also annoys me, but it seems I can’t escape him tonight. Might as well try to be civilized. “What do you do, Billy?” I ask, making polite conversation.

  Madeleine laughs. “Yes, Billy, what do you do?”

  Billy eyes her coldly. “Whatever I damn well please.” “Oh, that’s right. You’re a trust fund baby, I forgot,” Madeleine mocks openly. “But I hear you’ve about run through it. Broke the rules. Touched the principle.”

  Why is this woman needling him so? Billy appears as if he’s about to come apart at the seams.

  “You’ve always been such a bitch, Maddy,” he says evenly. “It’s why I love you so.”

  She laughs and settles into a chair. “I know you’re mad as hell that Malcolm’s included me in his will, but don’t worry, Billy, there’s plenty to go around. Your father was richer than you can imagine.”

  Billy offers no reply, but his eyes seem to bore right through Madeleine Treadwell, as if he’d just as soon kill her as look at her.

  Chapter Four

  A deadly silence falls over us, and my stomach tightens. The atmosphere in the room virtually quivers with malice. Mercifully, we’re rescued by the butler.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the servant says as he enters the room, giving us a slight bow. “Welcome to Ravenswood. I’m Alistair Jones, Mr. Blount’s valet. Before he died, he asked me to help him arrange for you to come here for the reading of his will. His attorney, Jacob Steiner, will arrive in the morning. In the meantime, it was Mr. Blount’s wish that you be made comfortable and shown every hospitality. My wife, Edith, is preparing dinner which will be served in half an hour in the dining room, directly across the hall.