Page 44 of Wolfhaven

Maybe not, but she wanted her cloak back. She sprinted across the forest floor. Leaped over brambles. Crashed through the underbrush, acquiring a stinging smack on her cheek from a thin branch. The trees spat her out into a small clearing on a hill that was dotted with marble headstones. A single large mausoleum stood at the top of the rise lording it over the smaller graves.

“A cemetery plot,” Evaine wheezed. She braced her hands on her knees trying to catch her breath. “What is it you want me to see here?”

There was no sign of whomever—or whatever—had made off with her crimson cloak. The garment itself had disappeared again. She was the youngest person currently residing anywhere near this property, and she couldn’t keep up with the culprit who had taken it.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Evaine said out loud, only for the comfort of hearing her own voice. “But I do believe in evidence, and right now, there is ample proof that strange things are afoot here at Wolfhaven.”

A crow landed atop the marble mausoleum and let out a harsh caw.

“I want to return to London, too,” she answered as if the bird had told her to leave. “Since that is not presently an option for us, I had best try to figure out what these dead people want from me.”

She trudged up the slight incline, noting the chipped and tilted headstones that lay snaggled all over the ground. Many were old. Names repeated over the centuries—Gareth, Wulfric, Aethelred, and Eardwulf appeared at regular intervals. Old English names. For the women, Edwina and several variant spellings seemed to be favored, interspersed with Marys, Elizabeths, and Catherines common to many families in the country. Only the Lucan men seemed to be favored with unique monikers.

One headstone stood out. A small, low marble effigy depicting a lamb and a dove. Etched on the white marble were the words, Marina Corbett, September 21, 1869 – January 17, 1885. A gentle soul gone before her time. Someone had placed a red rose from the garden here. Its petals lay like a bloodstain against the pale stone.

“This is you, isn’t it?” Evaine said softly, brushing her fingertips across the lamb’s forehead. Its eyes were closed. The dove had its head tucked beneath one wing as if it were sleeping. “Gareth cared about you. Even if his feelings weren’t overtly romantic, I believe you would have been happy together.” She had no offering to leave this poor girl whose life had been so short and filled with pain. Nothing but words. “I hope you are tormenting that wicked duke in the afterlife. I hope you keep him tethered to these moors. His soul doesn’t deserve to rest.”

A metallic clang came from farther up the hill. The crow flew off. A cold wind raced across the land.

Standing, she said, “I pray that you are free of mortal pain now. He cannot touch you ever again. You saw to that, didn’t you, brave girl?”

The faintest giggle floated on the wind. Evaine turned, trying to locate its source. She needed to get back. She had already been gone for longer than she intended.

Chills coursed through her body at the sight of a person in a red cloak standing at the edge of the trees. No face was visible beneath the hollow of the raised hood. The laughter came again, and the figure whirled into the forest.

“You are no ghost,” Evaine muttered grimly, and ran after it.

Chapter 22

Evaine

Evaine wasn’t chasing a phantom.

Ghosts didn’t crack twigs as they ran.

Their cloaks didn’t get caught on branches.

Steadily, she closed the distance between herself and her quarry—until they arrived in a small clearing where a tree had fallen over. Then, the figure in red disappeared.

Evaine stopped short. Standing beside the downed tree, dining on green shoots poking through the forest floor in search of available sunlight, was a large stag. She held her breath expecting it to run away, but the animal merely raised its head and gazed at her with curious black eyes.

“Aren’t you magnificent,” she breathed, her quest to find the person who had stolen her cloak momentarily forgotten.

The deer stared at her. She stared back, transfixed. Seconds stretched.

“I should have brought an apple,” she muttered. A movement in the corner of her eye brought her head whipping around just in time to see an old man with a shotgun take aim at the beast, and fire.

“No!” she cried out. The deer staggered, bleated a terrible noise, and dropped to the ground, dead. Blood seeped into the dirt. The light in its soft dark eyes went out.

Evaine stared in horror.

“You shouldn’t be running through these woods,” Cogswell said, stomping closer. “I might have shot you.”

“And that’s my fault?” she said indignantly. “How could you kill it?”

“I’ve been hunting deer on this property since I was a lad, young lady. I’m not about to stop feeding myself and my wife on account of an uppity outsider.”

She inhaled sharply, recoiling.