Читать книгу The Awakening - Amanda Stevens - Страница 12

Seven

I sat stunned, my gaze riveted to the spot where the ghost had vanished as the frost on the window receded. The air around me warmed, but my bones felt cold and brittle. I drew a shaky breath as my every instinct tingled an ominous warning.

Forget what you saw. Ignore what you feel. Don’t get dragged into another dead-world mystery.

But it was too late for caution. Too late to seek asylum in denial. The ghost child had already latched on to me, robbing me of warmth and energy, and in due time she would usurp my vitality unless I could help her move on.

Now I knew why my presence in Woodbine Cemetery had awakened her. Now I knew what she wanted of me. She had been murdered and no matter how much I might wish to believe otherwise, she wouldn’t return to her grave until her killer had been exposed.

It wasn’t the first time a ghost had come to me seeking justice, but a murdered child was an entirely different level of horror. Who would have done such a thing to that little girl? And how could I uncover a killer when I didn’t even know the identity of the victim?

I touched a finger to the window. It was cool from the night air and nothing more. The temperature inside the restaurant was pleasant, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I reached for my sweater, draping it over my shoulders and clutching it to my chest as I searched the garden for the specter. She was gone, melted back into the shadows of the dead world.

I picked up my tea and then set down the cup with a clatter when I realized someone had approached the table. I assumed Temple had returned and arranged my expression so as not to give away my distress. But when I glanced up, another shock rolled through me and my fingers tightened reflexively around Rose’s key.

The woman who stood over me was a stranger, but I knew her name, knew her face, knew that smile tugging at her ruby lips as she stared down at me. I knew the sound of her voice even though we’d never spoken. She was Claire Bellefontaine, Devlin’s fiancée.

Even if I’d never seen her in person, I would have recognized her from the engagement photo that had run in the paper. A photo that I had regarded far longer and far more often than I should have, truth be told. But I had seen her in person and recently.

Only a few weeks ago I’d been walking back to my car on Tradd Street when the lights of an oncoming vehicle had startled me into a recessed doorway. From my hiding place, I had observed first Devlin and then Claire Bellefontaine enter a shadowy courtyard. Their clandestine behavior had seemed peculiar to me and I became convinced the shrouded carriage house beyond the courtyard was, in fact, the inner sanctum of the powerful and deadly Congé.

I had no proof, of course, but I trusted my instincts and by then Dr. Shaw had informed me of the infamous list and had warned me of the Devlins’ connection to the nefarious group. If Claire Bellefontaine was also involved, I now found myself in the presence of a very dangerous and cunning enemy.

Before either of us spoke, two thoughts ran simultaneously through my head. One: no matter that I still reeled from the shock of the ghost child’s revelation, I couldn’t give myself away to the woman standing over me. Two: now that I had the opportunity to observe her up close, she was far more attractive than I could have ever imagined. Easily one of the most beautiful women I’d ever encountered. A cool, ethereal blonde. The physical opposite of Devlin’s late wife, Mariama, a fiery Gullah temptress. I didn’t like to think where I fell on that spectrum.

Claire’s silvery-gold hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, highlighting her near-perfect bone structure. Her eyes were blue, her lips full and her skin tanned and flawless. She wore a simple white sheath, exquisitely cut and adorned with a single gold chain.

“Please forgive the intrusion,” she said in a cultured drawl that reminded me of Devlin’s, but the tentative note in her voice took me aback.

“Yes?” My heart fluttered a warning as another thought came to me. Had she seen me with Devlin in the alcove? Nothing had happened but a cordial conversation, so why did I suddenly feel like the other woman? The role didn’t sit well with me and I tried to shake off the lingering effects of that brief encounter.

Her fingers curled around the back of Temple’s chair. I couldn’t help but note that her nails were clipped short and perfectly manicured. I didn’t see a ring on her finger and hated myself for looking.

“We’ve never met, but I know you by reputation. I’m Claire Bellefontaine.” She extended her hand and I could do nothing but offer mine in return. Her grip was appropriately firm and she didn’t linger awkwardly as if to prove a point, yet I felt an intense relief the moment she released me.

I dropped my hand to my lap and threaded my fingers together. “Amelia Gray.”

She smiled. “Yes, I know who you are. As I said, your reputation precedes you.”

Surely she hadn’t come over to my table to make a scene, so why was she here?

“I’m on the board that administers the Woodbine Cemetery Trust,” she said. “I wanted to tell you in person how happy we are that you’ll be overseeing the restoration.”

She couldn’t have caught me more by surprise, but I managed a courteous reply.

“Other firms were recommended, but your work speaks for itself,” she went on. “And of course, you have an ardent admirer in Rupert Shaw. He’s an acquaintance of yours, I believe.”

“We’re friends, yes, but I had no idea he was involved in the Woodbine project.” Yet more alarm bells sounded. Why hadn’t Dr. Shaw told me earlier about his involvement? Why had he pretended to know so little about the cemetery? I supposed it was possible that he could serve on the board and still be uninformed about the day-to-day details, but why not at least mention his recommendation?

Claire’s expression remained guileless, but something hard lurked beneath that cool surface. “Perhaps he didn’t want you to think that he had influenced the outcome. But I assure you that despite his wholehearted endorsement, the board would never have awarded you the contract if we hadn’t been unanimously impressed by your résumé and portfolio.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s all I wanted to say. I won’t keep you any longer.” She produced a card from her bag and placed it on the table. “I know you already have a contact on the board, but if you ever have a question or problem that can’t be resolved to your satisfaction, please feel free to call me. This project means a great deal to me. You see, I have family in Woodbine.”

“I understand.” She had family in Woodbine? In one of the unnamed graves?

“Good night, Miss Gray.”

“Good night.”

She walked away, trailing the faintest scent of sandalwood and privilege. The other diners watched her. Men and women alike. Her beauty and charisma were palpable. What a magnetic couple she and Devlin must make.

I picked up her card. The stock was thick and creamy. Expensive and understated. Claire Bellefontaine. Attorney at Law.

The restaurant had grown cold again. I thought perhaps my suspicions regarding Devlin’s fiancée had chilled me. It wasn’t every day I found myself in such close quarters with a possible member of the Congé, someone whose mission it was to stamp out unnaturals like me.

But the frost was otherworldly. I turned to the garden, startled to find the ghost child hovering directly outside the window, so close I could have touched her cold face if not for the glass between us. I could see her features clearly now, could sense her powerful emotions. Her pale hands were clenched at her sides and as I sat there riveted by her nearness, her mouth dropped open and she emitted a piercing howl. The inhuman sound was so ear-splittingly shrill that I thought the window might shatter.

I resisted the urge to cover my ears, but the sound sliced like a blade through my nerve endings. The pain became so intense I felt physically ill. I glanced around at the nearest diners. How could they not hear that scream? How could they remain impervious to such bone-chilling rage?

She remained right outside the window, but she wasn’t looking in at me, I realized. Her anger was directed elsewhere. When I followed her icy gaze to the front of the restaurant, I saw that she was staring at Claire Bellefontaine.

And Claire Bellefontaine stared back at me.