The Awakening. Amanda Stevens

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СКАЧАТЬ couldn’t help but shudder at his intensity. I knew the weight of that stare only too well. I had felt the singularity of his focus in anger and in passion. As I stood frozen, rain pattering against my umbrella, forbidden memories stirred to life—his husky drawl in the warm darkness...those obsidian eyes hard upon me as my legs locked around him...

      I banished the images, reminding myself that Devlin was engaged now and some memories were best left buried. But even as I hardened my resolve, even as I tried to turn away from him, I could feel the pressure of his fingers around my arms, the feathery brush of his lips at my nape. It was as if he had come up behind me, coaxing me back against him as he wrapped me in a heated embrace. The sensation was so real and so powerful, I had the strongest urge to turn into him, to draw his face down to mine for a kiss. My hand lifted as if to touch him, but I quickly dropped it to my side and took a long breath to quiet my racing heart.

      “Don’t,” I whispered.

      He stared down at me for another long moment—almost defiantly, I thought—before he straightened and went back inside, leaving me alone and shivering in the rain.

      * * *

      I didn’t like wallowing in misery and self-pity, so I drove over to the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies for a quick visit with my friend and mentor, Dr. Rupert Shaw. He and Papa were the only ones I could turn to in times of paranormal upheaval, but today I wanted his company as much as his advice.

      Once we were settled in his cozy but perpetually cluttered office with cups of soothing chamomile before us, I told him about my new project at Woodbine Cemetery and my encounter with Prosper Lamb.

      “Do you know anything about Woodbine?” I asked.

      “Most of the cemeteries in that area are on the committee’s register of historic burial grounds,” he said absently as he sipped his tea.

      “Yes, some of the graves are pre–Civil War. According to the caretaker, Woodbine has a rather sordid history.”

      “Indeed?”

      His response was so incurious I wondered if he’d heard me at all. Earlier when I’d called, he had seemed genuinely glad to hear from me, but now he appeared distracted and more than a little dispirited. He watched the rain through the garden doors with a brooding frown.

      I set my teacup aside. “I have a feeling I’ve come at a bad time.”

      He gave a dismissive wave. “Nonsense. You’re always welcome here. You know that.”

      “Yes, but I shouldn’t take advantage of your good nature. I’ll go now and come back another day.”

      “No, stay put, my dear. The rain has made me gloomy and reflective. Left to my own devices, I could easily become maudlin. Your company is a welcome diversion. No one can cheer me up the way you do.”

      “Which is surprising, considering the things we normally discuss,” I teased. “We could talk about you for a change. I have the unfortunate tendency to dominate our conversations, but I am a good listener.”

      “That’s a kind offer and I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I’d rather hear more about your work. What’s this about a sordid history?”

      I nodded as I settled back against my chair. It was obvious he had something on his mind, but I wouldn’t press him. “It may be nothing more than gossip or an urban legend, but I’m intrigued by the caretaker’s claim of buried secrets. He says Woodbine is where the city’s well-to-do interred the people on the fringes of their lives. Mistresses, for example, and the children that came from those illicit unions.”

      “Cemeteries are more your domain than mine,” Dr. Shaw said. “But I would never underestimate the decadence and callousness of the upper crust nor the extraordinary lengths they’ve gone to over the years to keep a stranglehold on their fortunes and legacies.” There was an uncharacteristic bitterness in his tone that made me wonder again about his despondency.

      “Like forming the Order of the Coffin and the Claw,” I said. “And the Congé.”

      “Any number of closed and exclusive societies—the latter, of course, being far more sinister than the former.”

      I leaned forward, searching his careworn face and feeling faintly alarmed by the sallowness of his skin and the dark circles beneath his eyes. He had the look of a distraught man, but perhaps his mood really was attributable to the gloomy weather. Still, his attire seemed more threadbare than usual and his thick cap of white hair wasn’t as sleekly groomed as I’d come to expect. He had turned to the garden, watching the rain in glum fascination until I softly called him back.

      He stirred and offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. My mind keeps wandering but it has nothing to do with the company. You were saying?”

      “I asked if you’d found out anything more about the Congé.”

      “I’ve pulled back on my research. One of my sources became concerned that the inquiries had been noticed, and it seemed prudent to keep a low profile, at least for the time being. What I do know is that the Congé, with the exception of a very small and fervent faction, went dormant for a long period of time. As of late, there’s been resurgence. A powerful reawakening, I’m told. Old connections have been reestablished, while new members have been recruited. The Congé remain rooted in the occult, but they are also deeply embedded in the mainstream—business, government, finance. Like the Order of the Coffin and the Claw, they favor their own and eschew the unknown. Their primary motivation is to protect and maintain the status quo. But the Congé take it one step further. They fancy themselves kingmakers with a divine mandate. They use the fears and superstitions bred by these turbulent times to satiate their lust for power.”

      “Who’s behind the resurgence?”

      His mouth tightened as he set aside his teacup with a clatter. “My sources either don’t know or won’t say, but I wonder if Jonathan Devlin might not be at the heart of it all.”

      I stared at him in shock. “Why would you think that?”

      “It’s nothing more than speculation, but the Devlin name features prominently on the list I told you about weeks ago.”

      “The membership list?”

      He nodded as he twisted his pinkie ring, the snake-and-talon insignia all too familiar to me by now. “Think about what we know of their recruitment. They conscript from exclusive groups like the Order of the Coffin and the Claw, and there is no doubt whatsoever that the Devlins have had a long and intimate history with the Order.”

      “As do you,” I pointed out. “You’ve never actually admitted your association, but you wear their emblem just as Devlin does.”

      “You’re referring to my ring,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “I believe I once told you that I picked it up at a flea market.”

      “That is what you said.”

      “Even if I had once been affiliated with the Order, someone with my background and interests would never have been allowed into the exalted inner circle. And after my unseemly dismissal from Emerson University, I would have been further marginalized if not outright ostracized.”

      “Is that what happened?”

      He СКАЧАТЬ