They say a painting can have a life of its own
In the case of Ghosts in the Mind by Henry Sebastian Hubert, thats more than just an expression. This painting is reputed to come to lifeand to bring death. The artist was a friend of Lord Byron and Mary Shelley, joining them in Switzerland during 1816, the year without a summer. That was when they all explored themes of horror and depravity in their art.
Now, almost two hundred years later, the painting appears in New Orleans. Wherever it goes, death seems to follow.
Danielle Cafferty and Michael Quinn, occasional partners in solving crime, are quickly drawn into the case. They begin to make connections between that summer in Switzerland and this spring in Louisiana. Danni, the owner of an eccentric antiques shop, and Quinn, a private detective, have discovered that they have separate but complementary talents when it comes to investigating unusual situations.
Trying to blend their personal relationship with the professional lives theyve stumbled into, they learn how much they need each other. Especially as they confront this work of artand evil. The people in the portrait might be dead, but something seems to wake them and free them to commit bloody crimes. Cafferty and Quinn must discover what that is. And they have to destroy itbefore it destroys them.
Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
THE NIGHT IS FOREVER
THE NIGHT IS ALIVE
THE NIGHT IS WATCHING
LET THE DEAD SLEEP
THE UNSEEN
THE UNHOLY
THE UNSPOKEN
THE UNINVITED
AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS
THE EVIL INSIDE
SACRED EVIL
HEART OF EVIL
PHANTOM EVIL
NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES
THE KEEPERS
GHOST MOON
GHOST NIGHT
GHOST SHADOW
THE KILLING EDGE
NIGHT OF THE WOLVES
HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS
UNHALLOWED GROUND
DUST TO DUST
NIGHTWALKER
DEADLY GIFT
DEADLY HARVEST
DEADLY NIGHT
THE DEATH DEALER
THE LAST NOEL
THE SÉANCE
BLOOD RED
THE DEAD ROOM
KISS OF DARKNESS
THE VISION
THE ISLAND
GHOST WALK
KILLING KELLY
THE PRESENCE
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
PICTURE ME DEAD
HAUNTED
HURRICANE BAY
A SEASON OF MIRACLES
NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD
NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
EYES OF FIRE
SLOW BURN
NIGHT HEAT
* * * * *
Look for Heather Grahams next novel
THE CURSED
available soon from Harlequin MIRA
Waking the Dead
Heather Graham
www.mirabooks.co.uk
In memory of my in-laws, Angelina Mero Pozzessere and
Alphonse Pozzessere, who first introduced me to
Massachusetts, wonderful Italian foodand the historic
and incredible city of Salem.
And to Dee Mero Law, George Law, Doreen Law Westermark,
John Westermark, Kenneth Law, Bill, Eileen and Eddie Staples,
and Auntie Tomato, Gail Astrella.
Thanks for the very strange, fun and quite incredible road trips to Salem!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Extract
Prologue
June 1816
The Shores of Lake Geneva, Switzerland
LIGHTNING FLASHED, CREATING a jagged streak in the angry purple darkness that had become the skyday and night at once, or so it seemed.
Henry Sebastian Hubert hunched his shoulders against the strange chill that permeated the evening. The skys darkness was never-ending; the rain and the cold were foreboding. Hed heard that in America, there had been June snow in some of the northern states. Here, in Geneva, it always seemed dark, damp and wretchedly coldbut certainly no worse than it had been in England.
Another twisted arrow of light slashed across the eerie black sky, illuminating the lawn that stretched before the lake. Percy Shelley, Claire and Mary Godwin, and George, Lord Byron had arrived. Mary was calling herself Mary Shelley on this Continental jaunt but Shelley had a legal wife in England. Clairewell, Claire was Claire. He could hear her laughter as they approached, high-pitched and sounding rather forced.
The young woman tried so hard. Shed been Byrons lover in London, and did not seem to understand that Byron sought nothing more permanent. But through Claire, Byron had met Shelley, and his admiration for Shelley was complete and enthusiastic. And among their foursome, Claire was the only one who spoke French decently, making her a definite asset.
Henry was enamored of them all. There they come, he said aloud. The brilliant, the enchanted.
Behind him, he heard a strange sound and turned. Raoul Messine, the butler whod come with the castle, was also looking toward the water.
You were about to speak? Henry demanded.
No, monsieur. It is not my place.
Henry stared at him. Messine was thin as a stick; he had a pinched face and resembled a skeleton in black dress wear. He had served the late Lord Alain Guillaume and, Henry had been assured, was the finest servant to be found. Of course, Lord Guillaume had been a hedonistand some said that Raoul Messine provided him with any pleasure his heart desired. Alain Guillaume had met with an early grave, drawing his sword against authorities whod been sent to search for a missing servant. Afterward, Messine had properly interred his master in the castles crypt. Henry had rented the castle from the lords son, Herman, who had moved to London years before his fathers death and preferred to remain there. Apparently, the son had taken after his mother and had no interest in his fathers cruel pleasures.
Messine suited the dreary stone walls of the castle, blackened with growth and age.
Speakas if it were your place! Henry insisted.
Messine shrugged. The depraved, he said. There was something strange about the mans eyes. He said the word depraved as if it were a compliment.
To Henry, both the word and the tone seemed odd coming from a man who had served the likes of Lord Guillaume. Unless hed enjoyed serving his masterand perhaps taking part in his exploits? Henry didnt know yet, but he was curious.
They simply discard convention, my dear fellow. That is all, Henry said. They have great minds and great imaginations!
Indeed, sir, and you are their equalwith your paintbrush, Messine told him.
Hubert wasnt sure he could begin to equal the brilliance of Shelley in any measure, but he was grateful that the man had come with his interesting party of guests.
A moment later, those guests dragged their small rowboat ashoreClaire still laughing. Covering their heads with shawls and jackets despite the fact that they were already drenched, the four of them ran toward the great gates to the small, fortified castle Henry had rented.
The House of Guillaume was nothing like the beautiful Villa Diodati Lord Byron had taken near the water, nor did it in any way resemble the massive and beautiful Castle Chillon across the lake. Originally built during the Dark Ages, around 950 AD, when the area had been under the control of the Holy Roman Empire, the castle had drafty halls. The rooms were small and sparse and only one place, the south tower room, gave him enough light to paint. It was a wretched rental, but at least the enclosure no longer housed farm animals. But Guillaume offered four strong walls, four towers and a small courtyard that led to a keep with a majestic hall and a number of usable rooms. As long as Henrys servants kept fires burning constantly, it was bearable.
And, most important, he had lured George, Lord Byron, herealong with Percy Bysshe Shelley and his young lover, Mary Godwin. The party also included Marys stepsister, Claire, who had surely come in hopes of regaining her place as Lord Byrons mistress, and the striking young John Polidori, a writer of sorts himself, but hired by Lord Byron as his personal physician.
What made the castle an exceptional choice despite its discomforts was the impression it allowed him to give othersthat he was a moody artist making his name in the avant-garde world, where the dark side of human nature, religion and science were intriguing the finest minds of his day.
Thanks to family money, he could afford this place. Nothing better, perhapsbut the castle sufficed.
Henry! Claire was the first to greet him, running to where he stood at the gates, throwing herself in his arms. She was soaked and didnt care in the least that she dampened him, as well.
He gave her the mandatory hug and stepped back. Welcome! he called cheerfully as they ran up. Welcome, welcome, get under the portcullis, my friends, and well make a dash for the house! Im so glad youve arrived!
Did you doubt us, dear fellow? George asked, giving him a hug, as well. The hug was enthusiastic; he wasnt sure if George was testing him. Lord Byron enjoyed outrageous behavior, although he toned it down in London, lest his words not receive the respect they deserved when he voiced his opinions in the House of Lords. He was often condemned for his poetry, ostracized by societyand yet his political rhetoric sometimes held sway.
Were delighted to see you, Henry, Mary said. She had such a sweet smile. While shed chosen the bohemian lifestylerunning off to the Continent with Shelley when he was legally married to another womanthere was still a sense of charm and old-fashioned morality about Mary. Henry was in love with her himself, he realized. Any outing is exciting these days, she went on. The weather is so very dreary.
Yes, man, and were quite frozen solid, Percy said, slipping his arms around Mary and grinning at Henry. Youve a fire, I believe.
A big fire, and a great deal of delicious, mulled brandy, Henry promised. Messine had already sent two other servants down to the lake. Theyd gather his guests luggage from the boat.
Henry greeted Polidari, who was bringing up the rear, carrying his own bag.
It will be good that I am a physician, since well all be catching our deaths of cold! Polidari told them.
They raced across what had once been the inner courtyard and was now the only courtyard that led to the giant double doors and the hall. Raoul Messine was there, and he held the doors open for them, handing warmed towels to the sodden guests as they made their way in. Henry followed last, closing the great doors as he entered. Mary was already before the fire, wrapped in the towel, a delicate tendril of damp hair resting upon her pale cheek. At least the hearth was massive and the fire burned warmly. But even with the fire and the many lamps set in sconces around the hall, the castle seemed dark, shadowed, forbidding.
I love this glorious and faded homage to a day gone past! Byron announced. He dried his hair as he looked around. Ah, suits of armor standing guard, macabre paintings of lords and ladies long dead, shadows here, there, everywhere. How fitting that we should come here to work, old friend, for youve heard of the task weve undertaken?
Ghost stories, Henry replied.
Shelley nodded. We are to create creatures of the eerie darkness within our souls, faces so horrid that not even a mother could give them love...scenes so terrifying that none may escape. Mary had a dreamshes writing her dream. Ill take that brandy, Henry, my friend. Brandy has a way of setting the mind to sights within it!
Henry, you must write a story, Mary said. She touched the edge of one of the swords on the wall and said, Ouch! Oh, indeed, these remain ready for battle!
Ah, my love, this was a fortified castle in the Dark Agesfilled with torture and screams! Shelley teased her, taking her hand. Youre bleeding.
Just a drop, Mary insisted. Nothing of concern.
Blood! Ah, as this great ruined hulk of an old edifice deserves. Or so we would say in our stories! Byron said.
Theyve got me working on one, Polidori told Henry. You, too, must be seduced into the madness of this circle.
Claire whirled around the hall before the fire. Her clothing was still sodden and clung to her form, tempting the eye, and yet, Henry thought, Lord Byron seemed displeased rather than tempted. Of course, hed heard that Byron would bed anyone who was pretty enough and that he tired of his conquestsmale and femaleas quickly as he enjoyed them.
Henry is an artist! Claire said. George Byron, you paint with words. Henry uses a brush.
Byron pushed by Claire to stand near Mary and Shelley. Yes, indeed, he declared. Henry is a true artist. And he must join us in our madness, and while we create stories of normal circumstances suddenly distorted, out of focus, corrupted by monsters, he must do so on a canvas! Byron paused to kiss the finger Mary had pricked and met her eyes. He must paint with rich colors and darknessas we do with words. Ah, yes, he must paint...with the color of blood!
They were asking him to join their private yet so privileged adventure.
Its a challenge I should love! Henry assured the group.
What shall he paint? Oh, what shall he paint? Mary asked.