Beneath the Raven's Moon - Softcover

LaForge, Emily

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0743456130 ISBN 13: 9780743456135

Publisher: Pocket, 2003

Synopsis

When the Raven swallows the moon, darkness descends and sometimes people die....

That's what Catherine Carmichael was told as a child growing up at Ravenswood, the forbidding mansion built by her grandfather on a remote peninsula in upstate New York. Now, twenty years after her father's sudden disappearance and her mother's spiriting young Catherine away to safety, she returns to the shadowy old manor for the reading of her eccentric uncle's will. There, amid ghostly servants and disturbing houseguests, she must confront a legacy of evil -- and an urbane, dark-haired stranger who sparks in her the passion she needs to unlock her family's secrets and banish forever the darkness from Ravenswood...and her own heart.

About this title

About the Author:

Emily LaForge is the pen name of Jill Jones, author of several romantic suspense novels and the recipient of the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. She lives in the mountains of North Carolina. Visit her Web site at www.jilljones.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

"Mother always referred to my Uncle Malcolm as 'that demented bastard,' that is, when she spoke of him at all." I laugh uneasily as I try to describe my family's little dysfunction to my friend Charley Peterson. "They've been estranged for years. She'll hate it that he's included me in his will."

I reach into my small fridge and snag a can of cold soda for Charley. I wasn't expecting him, but I'm glad he's stopped by. I've been edgy since I opened the letter that came this morning.

"Sounds like a swell kind of guy." Charley pops the aluminum cap and guzzles the sugary caffeine. "You ever read any of his books?"

"Only recently. We weren't allowed to read them when I was growing up, and when I got old enough to read what I wanted, I had other things on my mind, like the conservatory." I place the kettle on for tea. My stomach wants something more settling than cola at the moment. Charley's a good friend and a good listener, but there's more to this story than I'm willing to tell him, more even than I know.

"I've only read one," Charley says of my uncle's books. "Pretty creepy stuff. Well-written, but I'm not into horror fiction."

"Me neither, but I guess a lot of people are. I heard a short obit about him on the BBC when he died. They're saying he's the Edgar Allan Poe of the twenty-first century, that his tales will transcend time and will still be scaring readers a hundred years from now."

I, too, have read only one of my famous uncle's books. I picked it up at the newsstand shortly after I learned he'd died. I almost didn't buy it because from the cover blurbs it sounded ludicrous, not the kind of novel I'd normally choose to read, nor one I'd likely find credible. A teenage werewolf story, for God's sake. But delivered with the enormous talent of Malcolm Blount, I believed every word, and without question, it was the scariest book I'd ever read.

It wasn't the plot or the characters or the setting that terrified me. It was the author's obvious understanding of mankind's deepest fears and his ability to pluck at those fears with icy fingers. After reading what could only be the product of a seriously warped mind, I can understand why Mother would dislike her brother, but not why she has so steadfastly refused to speak of him.

Neither do I understand why that bothers me so much.

My hand trembles as I pour hot water into my teacup, and to my dismay, I feel the familiar, unsettling anxiety begin to seep through me.

I take a deep breath and work at grounding myself. I listen to the London traffic honking and roaring three stories below and remind myself what day it is. It's a trick my therapist taught me -- when the anxiety hits, try to replace it with thoughts of things normal and mundane. And breathe.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes not.

The attacks seem to be getting worse, and I'm afraid that one day I'll lose control at the wrong time. I'm terrified that I might screw up a concert or something. "Let's go into the other room," I say, feeling suddenly claustrophobic in my tiny kitchen.

Unaware of my distress, Charley goes into the small sitting room that's dominated by my baby grand piano. "Edgar Allan Poe?" he picks up the drift of the conversation. "That's pretty heavy. No offense -- I found your uncle's work entertaining -- but I'd stop way short of calling it classic fiction."

I can tell Charley's ready to pick one of his famous little fights with me. He doesn't consider them fights. "Intellectual sparring," he calls it. I'm just not up to it at the moment.

"I really don't give a fig," I tell him and settle into one of the two wing chairs in the room. Thankfully, he doesn't pursue it. Instead, he picks up the letter that lies open on a low table nearby. It's from a law firm in New York, informing me of my uncle's death and requesting my presence at the reading of his will. It's a formal business letter, but for some inexplicable reason it chills me even though within its message lies the promise of a large inheritance.

"It says here the reading's next Monday, at Ravens-wood. Where the heck is that? Or rather, what is it?"

My mind suddenly shifts to a remote peninsula in upstate New York and a forbidding structure isolated from the world. "It's a castle," I say, and laugh again nervously, "worthy of the best Victorian gothic novel, with gargoyles and the whole bit. My grandfather built it after World War II, and it belonged to both Uncle Malcolm and Mother until she renounced her share of it when she remarried. She told me once -- but I'm sure she was joking -- that the place was cursed."

"Cursed?" It's Charley's turn to laugh. "Sounds like your whole family's into horror fiction." I don't buy into that taunt either.

I have no urge to share anything further with him concerning Ravenswood, not that there's much to share. I have only vague recollections of the place, and not very pleasant ones. Shadowy early-childhood memories surface frequently in my dreams, bringing unaccountable terror and the devastating anxiety attacks to which I am prone. My therapist has advised me to delve into this dark past, but I'm not sure I want to. Even now, just thinking about Ravenswood, my heart begins to beat too hard.

"So how much do you think Uncle left you?" Charley presses. He lets the letter fall back onto the table.

I know what he's thinking -- I don't need the money. He thinks I'm wealthy already, and in a way, I am. With the exception of the anxiety attacks, I have a good life. In fact, most people would say I have it made. I live in a terrific flat in London. I'm independent, thanks to a healthy trust fund set up for me by my stepfather, Alexander Gray. I have a career I love -- I'm a concert pianist with the London Symphony Orchestra, albeit just a stand-in when one of the full-time musicians can't make it. But my real love is jazz.

I've never told Mother that on my nonconcert nights, I'm on the keyboard at a local jazz club, performing with Charley, who in spite of his irritating ways plays a mean sax. Nor does she know that Charley and I have cut a CD that's getting some attention from a recording studio in the States. Who knows, maybe one day we'll make it big, and I can tell her then.

Mother doesn't think much of Charley. I overheard her once tell Alex that Charley reminded her of my father -- charming, handsome, and lazy. I can't say. I don't remember my father. She's afraid I'm going to marry Charley, but she needn't worry. Charley and I are friends, professional colleagues, and nothing more. I think Charley would like there to be more, but kissing him would be rather like kissing my brother.

"I have no idea what or how much I might inherit. Maybe very little, or maybe," I glance across at him and force a teasing smile, "enough to allow us to produce our own CD."

He raises his cola can. "I'll drink to the latter." He gulps the soda. "So, are you going?" he asks.

The very idea troubles me. I move to the piano and lift the cover. "I don't know." My fingers roam the keyboard. "I don't think I have to go there in order to inherit, although the letter 'strongly suggests' I come."

"For the fortune that you stand to inherit, and what it could mean to me, I also strongly suggest you go," he quips.

I don't reply, but my fingers press harder on the keys, and the music grows louder. The truth is, I'm ambivalent about being named in Malcolm's will. A part of me thinks it's only fair, since Malcolm had no children or other heirs. Just because Mother didn't want any part of Ravenswood doesn't mean I'm not interested. Besides, I'm wildly curious about my eccentric, reclusive, and brilliant uncle.

On the other hand, there are those shadows to consider.

Suddenly another chill runs through me, and I stop playing abruptly.

"What's wrong?" Charley asks.

A vague memory edges toward the surface. "There was a piano at Ravenswood."

"So?"

"So...nothing, I suppose." But there is something. Anxiety now clenches my stomach so tightly I feel nauseous. I don't know where the memory of the piano came from, or why it's upsetting me, but the image is growing more vivid as it steadily crawls its way out of the shadows. "It was a large piano, it seems to me, but then I was a small child and most things seem big to little kids."

"You've been to Ravenswood?"

"I was born there," I reply sharply. "You know I'm American." I wonder if the piano is still there.

"I forget that sometimes," Charley says. "How long did you live at Ravenswood?"

I wish he'd stop asking questions and let me think. "Until I was five, when my father walked out on us." The words are out before I can stop them. I've never mentioned that to Charley, or anyone else outside the family.

For once, Charley's dumbstruck. "I'm sorry," he manages at last. "I didn't know...."

"Don't be sorry. It's history." Here I go again, making light of that which has caused me the deepest pain. I feel suddenly and inexplicably weary. "It's time for you to go, Charley."

"Hey, look, I'm sorry...." He stands and comes to me, but I don't look at him. I shake my head.

"Please, I need some time to sort myself out about this."

When he's gone, I push away from the piano, torn by indecision. Nobody says I have to go to Ravens-wood. I don't need my uncle's money. But my therapist believes that repressed childhood memories are the root of my anxiety attacks. He's urged me before to return to Ravenswood and attempt to confront them. Until now, I've been unwilling to do so. But the memory of the piano and the anxiety it generated tell me he's right.

I glance at the letter, and suddenly I know what I must do. I can no longer avoid the issue. I must go to Ravenswood, and my reasons have nothing to do with Uncle Malcolm's fortune.

Copyright © 2003 by Jill Jones

About this edition

• Publisher: Pocket
• Publication date: 2003
• ISBN 10: 0743456130
• ISBN 13: 9780743456135
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 400