The Kingdom Read online

  Thane turned to me. “You found a hidden grave in the cemetery? Where?”

  I tore my gaze from Luna. “No, not in the cemetery. On the other side of the hill, in the laurel bald.”

  The emotional undercurrents in the room were strong enough now to raise the hair at my nape, making me wonder if I’d made a dangerous miscalculation. Maybe I should have gone with my initial instincts and kept silent about that grave.

  “What were you doing on the other side of the hill?” Pell Asher demanded. “Did no one warn you about that place?”

  I glanced up, alert now for the slightest nuance. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s talking about the laurel bald,” Thane said. “Those places can be tricky to navigate. It’s easy to get turned around.”

  “Oh…I’m aware of that. As I said, my father grew up in these mountains.”

  “Then why would you knowingly enter one?” Hugh asked. Of all the people at the table, I found him the hardest to read, maybe because his face was so surreally handsome.

  But…how to answer his question? After my conversation with Wayne Van Zandt, I didn’t want to mention Angus. The fewer people who knew about him, the better. And, oddly enough, I found myself feeling a little defiant in the face of all their disapproval.

  “I wanted to do some exploring. I thought the waterfall was nearby. Luna mentioned the other day that I should see it while I’m here.” I flashed a smile, but she didn’t return it.

  “There’s a much easier way to get to the falls,” Thane said. “I can show you if you still want to go. But about that grave…” His expression sobered. “Why didn’t you tell me about it this afternoon?”

  “You caught me by surprise. I guess it slipped my mind.”

  “Did you call Wayne Van Zandt?”

  “I never thought of it as a police matter.” I glanced from face to face. All eyes were still on me, reminding me yet again of those birds staring down from the treetops. “Maybe I should clarify. The grave isn’t so much hidden as it is secluded. It even has a headstone.”

  “Is there an inscription?” Thane asked.

  “No, unfortunately. No name, no date of birth or death. But there is some symbolism—a rose and a rosebud. The inclusion of both sometimes signifies a dual burial of mother and child. And the presence of the severed stem may indicate a sudden or unexpected death.”

  I paused but no one said a word. Their silence seemed like a held breath. “Even more interesting is the layout,” I continued. “The traditional placement, especially in the South, is for graves to face the rising sun. Feet to the east, we call it. There was a time when a north-south orientation was reserved for outcasts and undesirables—those ostracized for their moral shortcomings.”

  “Like wearing a scarlet letter for all eternity,” Bryn said, and I thought I heard a mocking note in her voice.

  “I guess you could put it that way.” I scoured the table. “No one knew about that grave?”

  “Why would we?” Hugh’s shrug was a little too casual. “You said yourself it’s secluded. Probably been there for ages. You walk far enough into these hills, you’re apt to stumble across any number of old graves.”

  “But this one isn’t historical,” I said. “I’d guess it’s no more than twenty or thirty years old.”

  He looked skeptical. “And how can you possibly know that? You said there isn’t an inscription.”

  “I’m going by the style and condition of the marker. And I’ll tell you something else about that grave…someone does know about it. The site has been cared for over the years.”

  “Cared for…how?” This from Luna.

  “The ground has been scraped. Which is another curiosity, because that’s a tradition you don’t often find around here.”

  “Fascinating,” Bryn said.

  Maris stood abruptly, and the grate of her chair legs on the hardwood floor jarred me because I’d forgotten all about her.

  Catrice touched her arm. “Are you all right? You look so pale.”

  Maris’s hand fluttered to her forehead. “You’ll have to excuse me… . I feel a migraine coming on… .” She barely got the words out before she turned and fled the room.

  There was an awkward pause, but I felt some of the tension deflate with her departure. I didn’t think it had much to do with Maris, though. Any disruption would have been welcomed.

  “Well? What are you waiting for?” Pell Asher snapped at his son. “Go see about your wife.”

  Hugh looked as if he would have rather faced a firing squad, but he nodded and graciously excused himself from the table. My eyes were glued to Luna. I didn’t know her well enough to read her expression, but if I had to hazard a guess, I would have said she looked quite pleased with herself.

  Thane used the interruption to make our excuses. “It’s getting late, and I did promise Amelia that tour of the library.”

  “You’ll come again,” said Pell Asher.

  It wasn’t a question or an invitation, but a foregone conclusion that once again put me on the defensive. We’ll see, I thought.

  I inclined my head and murmured good-night. As we walked out of the room, I couldn’t help glancing back. Luna, Catrice and Bryn had all gathered around the old man much the way they’d done with Hugh earlier. I saw one of them stroke his arm while another replenished his wineglass. It was an odd, troubling scene, and I glanced away quickly, afraid of seeing too much.

  Fourteen

  The library smelled of dust, leather and old books, a scent that had comforted me since childhood. I paused just inside the door as I waited for Thane to turn on the light. Directly across the room, French doors opened into a garden, and I found myself searching for a pale face among the silhouettes of statues and topiary, even though I had no evidence that Asher House was possessed. Ghosts were drawn to people, not places. Entities craved the warmth and energy emanated by a living being, not the cold memories of a dying house. But if I’d learned anything during my brief time with a haunted man, it was that ghosts were no more predictable than humans.

  The light came on, and I glanced around curiously. No specters, but plenty of shadows. And spiders, I thought with a shiver, my gaze lifting to the glimmering cobwebs hanging from the vaulted ceiling.

  The space was large—cavernous, by my standards—but still seemed overly crowded with massive bookcases carved out of oak, and heavy furniture upholstered in distressed leather. There was a desk in the center of the room, a huge affair that rose on claw feet to face the fireplace. Several old hatboxes had been stacked at one end, and a brass reading lamp occupied the other. As my gaze slowly traveled the room, I saw globes, maps and a gigantic painting over the mantel of a proud and pampered bluetick coonhound. I crossed to the fireplace to have a closer look.

  Thane came up behind me. “That’s Samson.”

  “He’s beautiful,” I said, admiring the mottled coat.

  “Was. He’s no longer with us.”

  “Oh…I’m sorry. Was he your dog?”

  “Grandfather’s.” He moved up beside me, his gaze still on the painting. “They were quite a pair. Samson was never far from Grandfather’s side. He was like a shadow. And then one day he up and disappeared.”

  “Your grandfather must have been heartbroken.”

  “Heartbroken?” He frowned. “I don’t know about that. But he was certainly livid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry.”

  “Angry with whom?”

  “With me.” He glanced away but not before I saw the dart of warring emotions, the remnant of an old shame. “It was my fault.”

  A chill feathered along my spine at that look on his face. I told myself to leave it alone, but, of course, I didn’t. “What happened?”

  The green eyes darkened under a furrowed brow. “I took the dog into the woods one day without Grandfather’s permission. It was right after I first came here. I suppose he told you about that?”

  “About the dog?” I deliberately misunderstood.

/>   “No. About how I came to live with him.”

  “He mentioned that your mother died when you were young.” I had no intention of telling him everything his grandfather had revealed to me about his past. It was just too awkward.

  But he knew. I could hear a trace of bitterness in his voice despite the ghost of a smile. “You’re very diplomatic. I’m sure he gave you an earful. He makes no bones about the fact that I’m an Asher in name only.”

  I remembered his grandfather’s insistence that blood and land were the strongest ties, and I wondered how many times Thane had been made to feel an outsider by that outdated sentiment. For some reason, I felt the need to reassure him. “He spoke very highly of you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he did.” He glanced back up at the painting, but the air between us was charged with something unpleasant. Obviously, his place in this household was a thorn that still pierced deeply. I could understand that feeling of displacement. I’d come to my parents as a baby, and even though I always knew they loved me, I’d sensed a detachment, a wall that I never quite managed to scale. The only place I ever felt truly at home was the cemetery. My graveyard kingdom.

  I could feel Thane’s gaze on me. When I turned, he gave me a speculative smile, as though wondering where my mind had drifted. “Anyway, we were talking about Samson.”

  “Yes.” I didn’t know why I suddenly felt breathless. He had a way of looking at me that, despite my own walls, made me feel vulnerable and a little self-conscious.

  “We’d gone pretty far into the woods that day. He caught a scent and just took off. I called and called, but he wouldn’t come. He vanished and I never even heard a sound. I walked those trails for days and didn’t find anything more than a few drops of blood.”

  “Samson’s blood?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll never know. But if he was attacked, I can only assume it was something large enough to drag the body off without leaving a trace.”

  I thought of the scars on Wayne Van Zandt’s face and that eerie howl I’d heard in the woods earlier. And suddenly I was very glad that I’d left Angus on the back porch. “Is it possible someone took him?”

  “I’ve always wanted to believe that. Samson was a purebred, highly coveted in these parts. Someone could have taken him, but without making a sound? I don’t know…” He bent to light a fire. The kindling caught, and the flames began to crackle. I put out a hand, but the flickering warmth did little to chase away the chill of his words.

  He straightened. “We should probably get started,” he said briskly.

  “Yes. It’s getting late and I really do have to get up early.”

  “The crack of dawn, I believe you said.”

  I was glad to hear a more lighthearted tone in his voice. “When you work outside in the South, you learn to beat the heat. Although the weather these days is perfect.”

  “You have a hard job,” he said. “You don’t hire help?”

  “Sometimes, if the cemetery and the budget are large enough. But I don’t mind doing the work myself.” I glanced down at my calloused hands. “I’m particular about the way things are done. People tend to get a little slapdash if they don’t know what they’re doing or haven’t a vested interest. Breaks my heart to see a hundred-year-old rosebush chopped down out of carelessness.”

  He searched my face. “You’re not afraid to be alone in a cemetery after what happened?”

  He was still curious about Oak Grove. I couldn’t blame him. It was a bizarre story. The discovery of an underground torture chamber beneath an old city cemetery had caused quite a sensation in Charleston. The notoriety eventually died down, but last spring, after it first happened, I couldn’t leave my house without being accosted by a reporter. I wondered now if I’d come to Luna’s attention through the news.

  “I always take precautions. Besides, once I’m immersed in a restoration, I forget about everything else. It’s very therapeutic.”

  “You’re brave,” he said, and there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment before. “I admire that.”

  I tried to laugh off the compliment. “I’m not so brave. Just prepared.”

  “Even better. Brave and sensible.”

  I was reminded of something Devlin had once said to me. Strange and practical, he’d called me as we walked through the killer’s tunnels.

  Devlin.

  I didn’t want to think about him just now or of that night in his house when our passion had opened a terrible door. When the Others, drawn by our heat, had crept through the veil, and I’d had to face the nightmarish reality of our union. I’d seen firsthand the consequences of associating with a haunted man, and now there was no going back. No closing that door.

  I drew a breath and turned away. I couldn’t deny that I was drawn to Thane, maybe because I sensed something in him that I recognized in myself—that feeling of not belonging.

  Before tonight, I hadn’t known much about him beyond that charming smile and those beguiling green eyes. I wished for that ignorance back. He was a little too real to me now. A little too appealing for someone who needed to forget.

  “Where should we start?” I asked awkwardly, looking everywhere but into those eyes. “You mentioned old photographs. And maybe a site map?”

  “About that.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I probably should have warned you…it’s going to take some digging to find that stuff. Everything was moved up to the attic years ago. I brought down a bunch of boxes earlier so we’ll just have to go through all of them until we find what you need.”

  “The attic?” There was a note of horror in my voice. “Even the photographs?”

  His nod was grim. “I know. A lot of them have historical significance so it’s a shame they haven’t been properly stored or cataloged. I’ve always meant to get around to it, but never found the time or patience.”

  Said the man who’d once led me to believe he had nothing but time on his hands.

  “I can see how it would be a daunting task,” I murmured, but I would have relished such a project. Photography was a hobby of mine and old photographs, a passion. As a child, my favorite pastime on rainy days was going through the family albums. Even though I’d always known of my adoption, I’d spent hours searching through those pictures in hopes of finding someone who looked like me.

  We walked over to the desk, and Thane blew a cloud of dust from one of the hatboxes before lifting the lid. I tried to hide my dismay at the jumble of photographs inside, so many of them faded and creased from age and careless handling. I shouldn’t have been shocked by the condition. The whole house was a testament to neglect.

  “Have a seat.” Thane motioned to the chair behind the desk while he perched on the corner. He handed me one of the boxes and took another for himself.

  “So…did you go to school in Asher Falls?” I asked as I began to sift through the photographs.

  He looked up in surprise. “For a while. Why?”

  “No reason. I drove by the school the other day with Ivy and Sidra. It seems a little odd that a town this size has a private academy but no public school.”

  “It’s really not that odd. Asher Falls had a public school years ago. When enrollment dropped, they consolidated with Woodberry.”

  “Didn’t the enrollment drop at the private school, as well?”

  “No, because Pathway is also a boarding school. Kids from all over attend.”

  “What’s Pathway like?”

  “Like any school, I guess.” But there was something in his voice that made me wonder. “It’s a prep school, really. If you can find a way to fit in there, you can adapt to places like Emerson.”

  My head came up. “Emerson University in Charleston? You went there?”

  He looked bemused. “Yes. Is that a bad thing?”

  “No, it’s just… I knew someone else who went there.”

  “Oh?”

  “Actually, I’ve known a few people who attended Emerson. A friend of mine used to be a p
rofessor there…Rupert Shaw. But he was probably before your time.”

  “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  “Nowadays, he runs the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies.”

  “Parapsychology? As in paranormal goings-on?” His eyes gleamed in the lamplight. “Don’t tell me you had a ghost problem.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” I smiled benignly before bowing my head to my work.

  We fell silent after that, and I was soon so absorbed in the photographs that I barely noticed when Thane got up to stretch. The parade of Ashers enthralled me. I found the faces so intriguing…the nearly identical shape of their noses, the same jaw and chin line. But the familiarity of those features also unsettled, like the nag of a restive memory. Then it came to me. The circle of statues in the cemetery—all those angelic faces—had been sculpted in the likeness of long-dead Ashers. Thane had been right. Apparently, the family was very good at erecting handsome monuments to the collective ego.