Shadow Haven

By Jill Jones

The Louisiana bayou heats up when a grieving psychic returns home to find a new chance at love—and a foreboding message from the spirit realm.
 
When Boston psychic Gabriella Deveaux’s husband is killed in a plane crash, she and her daughter head home to the Louisiana estate where Gabriella was raised. Shocked to find the gracious old estate is crumbling, Gabriella is even more horrified to learn that she’s lost her connection to the spirit world. Into this chaos comes Jarrod Landry, her new lawyer—but while Gabriella is hesitant to trust the man, she can’t fight the sultry heat of attraction between them. When an otherworldly presence makes itself known, Gabriella must choose between guarding her battered heart, or confronting an evil more malevolent than she has ever known.
 
Praise for Jill Jones
“Jones is especially adept at creating tense plots and authentic characters.” —Publishers Weekly
 
“Spellbinding. Jill Jones continues to carve out a most unique and extraordinary niche for herself with her completely captivating and unusual novels.” —RT Book Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626815292

Jill Jones

Jill Jones lives in western North Carolina with her husband, Jerry, who is a watercolor artist.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Some of the ideas included in the reading of the Tarot in this story were gleaned from Tarot Made Easy, Nancy Garen, A Fireside Book, Simon & Schuster, 1989.

Chapter One

Long ago, a stranger warned me not to marry Charles Colquitt. The spirits as well cautioned me against the marriage. They, like the stranger, feared that Charles would destroy me.

I wish I’d listened to them then; if I had, I wouldn’t be running now.

There are many ways one can destroy the life of another; it doesn’t always take a pick-ax or a gun. My husband’s weapons were his words. They could be sharper, more deadly, than any sword or knife. They could slash and tear and bite, humble and browbeat. They could attack with great thunder, or sneak up quietly and strike when least expected.

My husband’s words could have, if I’d let them, sliced away my soul. As it is, I am missing great chunks.

But I am a Deveaux woman, and I endured through the years by calling upon the deep inner spirit of my people to give me strength. It was what he hated the most and tried hardest to kill, that part of me that managed to remain independent of him.

It all started, I guess, when I refused to take his name when we married. It’s a Deveaux tradition; the strong-willed, spirited women of my family never adopted their husbands’ names, and the land was always handed down to the women.

It was difficult at times to remember I possessed that Deveaux spirit. When Charles was particularly abusive, I had to consciously remind myself of who I was, and where I’d come from, or he would have crushed my soul altogether.

This is another of those times.

I am Gabriella Deveaux, I silently remind myself as I enter the manic stream of traffic on the highway leaving the New Orleans airport. I am the daughter of Juliette Deveaux, granddaughter of Ariella, and many generations descended from the legendary Angelique Deveaux who first came to Louisiana from the Caribbean as a bride.

The humid May air is thick and cloying, and I find it difficult to breathe.

I am Gabriella Deveaux, I repeat silently, favored by the spirits. Beloved by the spirits, empowered by the spirits.

Where are those spirits now, when I need them most?

When I was younger, I used my Deveaux power, my special gift, to speak to my ancestors and draw from them the wisdom and strength that later saw me through my troubled times.

But I am also Gabriella Deveaux, the first woman in my family ever to turn her back on the legacy that has nurtured and protected our people since Angelique’s day, and our plantation, Shadow Haven. I broke our tradition and left our land to live in a place far away, among strangers. It displeased the spirits greatly.

When I married Charles, I turned my back on many things, seeking adventure and experience in a wider world. I was young then, too young to realize the enormity of my mistake. I left my place of power, my heritage, my ancestors, and now, when I’m desperate to reclaim my legacy, I wonder if the spirits will allow it.

The mid-day sun glares through the windshield, teasing a headache that already throbs behind my eyes. I turn the air conditioner a notch higher, but the sultry heat sucks the cool, wet mist from its teeth before it has a chance to circulate further into the car. Sweat trickles down my back.

I am returning to Shadow Haven now, running for the protective grace of its shadowy bayou land. But will it receive me? And can it protect me and mine from the forces that threaten to destroy us? I have been gone many years. Is my power, my gift, gone as well?

Were those warnings true—has Charles destroyed me?

I keep glancing into the rearview mirror, fearing that I’ve been followed, although I don’t think it’s possible. Charles is dead, and I told no one of my plans to flee New York. It’s just my persistent paranoia, one consequence of my eight-year marriage to Charles Colquitt.

Buckled in beside me is the only good thing to come from that disastrous union, my daughter Michaela, who fidgets in her own six-year-old discomfort. Her mouth is an unhappy line, and she rubs sleepy eyes. She doesn’t understand what is happening. I’ve promised her ice cream as soon as we clear the heavy traffic, but she nods off before we even cross the Huey P. Long Bridge.

The highway dwindles in width and quality the deeper I drive into the lowlands of south Louisiana. Steam rises from the asphalt, and the road reminds me of a wet, black snake as it curves through the countryside. Small farms and weathered houses pass in a blur. Cotton fields and pastures bake in the sun. The landscape is achingly familiar; I recognize the neighboring farms, the little country church that stands at the bend in the road on the way home. Nothing seems to have changed much, except perhaps me.

A Dairy Queen appears on the right when I reach the small town of Tibonne, and I slow the car. I haven’t had the soft ice cream from a DQ in years. Memories of my childhood begin to surface. I went to school in this tiny dot of a town, had friends I left behind without batting an eye. I wonder if any of them are still around?

Michaela is sleeping soundly, so I pass up the DQ even though my own throat is parched. I’m anxious to reach our destination and put this difficult journey behind us.

But when I approach Shadow Haven and look for the twin stone pillars that mark the entrance to the plantation, I nearly miss my turn because they are so densely overgrown with weeds and vines. I’m filled with a sudden foreboding. For years, we’ve paid my neighbor, Conrad Armand, to care for the property, but from the looks of things, he hasn’t been doing a very good job of keeping it up.

I stop the car between the two crumbling pillars and kill the engine, my heart beating wildly. Rolling down the window, I inhale deeply the rich, moist air, and it calms me almost immediately. I have always loved the smell of Shadow Haven—a blend of earth and sky, seasoned with the indescribable scent of the nearby bayou.

Primordial. Dank. Mystical.

Home.

Hopefully, the shaggy appearance the seldom-used entrance is just an oversight on Conrad’s part, and I’ll find the stately old plantation house in better shape.

Whatever condition it’s in, I think, drawing my long, dark hair away from the sweat on my forehead, it’s the only option for us at the moment. It’s my hope that here I can gather the remnants of my shattered soul, restore my power, and find the strength to face the coming events. I am hopeful, too, that Shadow Haven will be too far away, the legal system of Louisiana too difficult to penetrate, that my pursuers will in the end give up their hateful and unjust quest.

Are we there yet? Michaela stirs and sits up, her large, deep brown eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Oui, chérie." The language of my childhood, that languid, Creole French, feels good as it trips off my tongue. It’s been years since I’ve spoken it, but it comes back naturally and easily.

Michaela wrinkles her nose and frowns at me. What’d you say?

I smile at her, but it’s a sad, poignant smile. Charles forbade me to teach Creole to our daughter; he’d considered it a bastardized pastiche of a language, although early in our relationship he’d seemed to find it charming enough. But being imperfect French, it didn’t fit in his world. We argued fiercely about it at first, but as I did about so many things during our marriage, eventually I gave in. I simply found it easier to accede to his wishes than try to fight his indomitable will.

Yes, baby, we’re here.

I turn my gaze to the tree-lined lane in front of us and see that nature has taken over here as well. Grass and weeds choke the once manicured avenue, and vines entwine the heavy live oak branches overhead, creating an ominously dark canopy above the road. It looks—and feels—like no one has cared for the place in a while. But I force myself to look beyond the overgrowth to the inherent decadent beauty of the land.

"Well, what do you think, chérie? It’s beautiful, mais non?"

Michaela stares down the lane. Looks kinda creepy to me.

Chapter Two

Creepy? Shadow Haven isn’t creepy. Even when Grandnana regaled me with scary stories about the loup-garou, that wicked werewolf of the swamps, or the ghostly lights that moved mysteriously through the bayous, I didn’t find this land creepy.

But I have to remember, Michaela has been raised in a northern suburban environment. Her outings have been mostly to manicured parks and playgrounds. She’s never seen the mystical, twisted branches of live oak trees or played in the ghostly shadows cast by the gray Spanish moss that dangles from most every limb. Grudgingly, I admit that to this child of the Long Island suburbs, this scene must look very creepy indeed.

I run my fingers through my hair and let out a long, slow breath. "Don’t worry, chérie. It’s a wonderful place. I grew up here. You’re going to love it."

Michaela looks up at me anxiously. "This is just a vacation, right?"

I can’t tell her of the darkness of our plight, but I won’t lie. I never said that, Michaela, I remind her. I said we were going to come here and see how we like it.

I don’t like it. I want to go home.

I hold my tongue. I understand that Michaela’s recent aloofness and insolence are part of the grief and anger she’s holding inside. She hasn’t accepted her father’s death, and her whole little life has been turned upside down. Still, it’s hard to hear her talk like this.

Patience.

As I have so often in the past ten years, I call upon this, my Grandnana’s mantra. Patience was her remedy for most everything that seemed wrong. Have patience, child. Things’ll all work out.

Patience had indeed allowed some things to work out in my difficult marriage, but I have serious doubts if anything —patience, time or distance—can save us from Charles’s final perversion.

"This is our home, Michaela, I tell her, squeezing her shoulder gently. Give it a chance, chérie. You’ll discover Shadow Haven is a magical place, if you’ll just give it a try."

Magical? Like Harry Potter?

I grasp the thin thread of her momentary interest. Use your imagination. Look around. You might see fairies and angels and all sorts of magical playmates around here.

She shakes her head. There’re no such things.

I know better. I know just how magical Shadow Haven is, but this is a subject that I must address slowly and carefully with Michaela. In time, I must share with her the secret of her heritage, the gift of the unusual powers held by the Deveaux women, the gift she will one day likely develop. But not now. For us, right now it is a dangerous secret.

Without further argument, I start the car again and head down the lane, thinking about the Deveaux powers. Once I used them to further my career as a sculptor, communicating with the deceased loved ones of my clients and learning their heart secrets which I transformed into unusual memorial statuary. But it’s been almost a year since I last worked on such a memorial. I quit after one particularly violent encounter with Charles concerning the matter, and I haven’t carved since.

It’s also been years since I communicated with my Grandnana’s spirit. I haven’t tried to contact her since leaving Shadow Haven. I concentrated on creating a bright new future with Charles rather than holding onto things from my past. That future is in shambles now, and I fear I’ve neglected my soul so long that I’ve lost the ability to reach those on the other side. Can such a gift atrophy from disuse?

A flicker of reflected light in the distance catches my eye, and I smile, recognizing its source. It is sunlight glinting off white polished marble in the nearby family cemetery. It’s as if in answer to my question the spirit of my beloved Grandnana is beckoning from the memorial I carved for her, and my heart skips a beat. Perhaps her spirit has heard the longing in my soul and will reach out to me.

You say there are no such things as angels, but I know where there’s at least one, I tell Michaela.

She doesn’t answer.

Want to see her?

She only shrugs, and I fight my fear and frustration. How can I reach her? Every day she seems to grow more distant.

Whether she wants to see the angel or not, I do. I steer the car down an even smaller, more overgrown lane to the Deveaux family burial plot. Grandnana always called it the enchanted garden.

The angel is smaller than I remember, but I recognize in an instant its incongruous, impish grin. I carved this, my first memorial sculpture, at the request of Grandnana’s spirit a few months after she died. She was with me every day as I worked on the marble, guiding my hand. When the grin emerged, I knew it was exactly how she wanted to be remembered—feisty, peppery, unconventional.

People who saw this angel indeed remembered Grandnana that way and remarked that it was the perfect memorial for her. I began to receive requests from others to create funerary monuments for their loved ones. I never told any of them, of course, where I got the ideas for the images I carved, which they claimed were compelling representations of the personalities of the deceased. The Deveaux gift had always been kept secret to those outside the family, and I never wanted anyone to know that I was able to call upon the spirits of those who had passed over and learn the essence of their beings.

My ability to commune with the dead was the secret to the success of my career—until I made the mistake of sharing that secret with Charles. He was family, after all. But telling him had been a huge mistake. It was then he’d first called me crazy. It was on that horrible night that my already tenuous relationship with him finally fell apart.

I blink my eyes furiously, forcing these gloomy thoughts away and bringing me back to the moment.

"You see, chérie, I whisper, taking my daughter’s hand and leading her toward the small cemetery. There’s a beautiful angel."

Michaela looks up dubiously. It’s not a real angel.

I wonder if Grandnana can hear us. What advice might she give me to help Michaela accept her father’s death? She is so brooding and withdrawn, she won’t even let anyone hug her right now.

No, she’s not a real angel, I answer her, but I carved her long ago to help me remember my grandmother. Sometimes when I come here, I can almost hear Grandnana speak to me.

Careful. Patience.

It’s spooky, Michaela insists. I don’t want to go in there.

We stand at the gate to the wrought-iron fence that encloses the sacred ground. I’ve always found the enchanted garden a friendly place, a place of peace and tranquility where I was enveloped in the love of my people who had passed before.

But today, I feel nothing but emptiness. There is no touch of Grandnana’s spirit here now, as I’d hoped. In fact, I sense no spirit presence at all. Perhaps they have departed for good, since I have stayed away so long. Or else they’re just not speaking to me.

The cemetery is as neglected as the road we came down, with headstones listing to one side as the soil gives way slowly beneath them. A cloud shadows the sun, and an involuntary shiver runs through me.

I don’t want to go in there either, I agree with Michaela, at least not now. Let’s go on to the house. I’m tired, and there’s still lots to do today.

It’s late in the afternoon, and I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I brought linens and a few items for the kitchen and bath in my suitcase for our first night at Shadow Haven. Tomorrow, we’ll go to town and stock up on what we need. At the moment I want nothing more than to lie in the bed of my childhood and try to reclaim my lost spirit.

From the seedy condition of the lane and the cemetery, I expect the house to be likewise in poor shape, but I am not prepared for the disaster that meets my eyes when we emerge from the tree-lined lane onto the circular drive in front of the once-elegant old home.

I bring the car to a slow stop and cover my mouth with the back of my hand to stifle a cry of pain. "Mon Dieu!"

Triste is the impression that comes to me. Sad. The old house is incredibly sad. The windows are dark, most of the panes broken. The porch sags unhappily, and thick vines choke the columns. The siding is weathered to a dull gray, with only patches of its former white showing here and there, like bandages.

I cannot speak. I can only stare at the house in horror.

Eventually, I manage to get out of the car, but my legs are shaky. Stay here, I tell Michaela, sensing danger. I step onto the verandah and approach the front door with caution. A spider’s web enshrouds the portal, its intricate architecture laden with moisture and the remains of some poor creatures ensnared in its layered labyrinth. The fabric of it hangs heavy, like a veil, as if attempting to conceal the corruption that lies beyond.

The late afternoon air is hot and so still that I have to remember to breathe. Blood pounds in my ears. I can’t believe what I am seeing. Near tears, I brush the web aside and step through the half-open door, now bereft of the ornate stained glass that had once graced its hand-carved face. My stomach lurches as I enter the massive foyer.

The place is trashed.

Above my head, an angry gash in the ceiling is all that is left of the huge, ornate crystal chandelier that had hung there. The cypress spindles that once supported the banister appear to have fallen victim to a chainsaw. Obscenities have been spray-painted on the silk wall coverings along the central hallway. Most of the furniture is missing, and what remains has been destroyed. There is a sense of evil in the very air, as if the loup-garou has visited here and left his ugly mark.

It takes every ounce of my will not to collapse in tears onto the debris-strewn floor. What has happened here? Where is Conrad?

"Are we going to live here, Mother?" Michaela asks incredulously from somewhere behind me. I turn to my daughter, who is looking at the place in open dismay.

It is I who need the comfort of a hug at the moment, but I know Michaela won’t allow me to touch her. Instead, I tousle her hair.

"Don’t worry, chérie. I told you this was a magical place. You just watch. We’ll make this old house beautiful again."

But even as I say the words, I wonder if it’s possible. It will take a lot more than magic to fix what’s wrong at Shadow Haven, and in our lives…

Chapter Three

Magic, I am learning, is much easier when you have money. Although Charles was wealthy, he left none of his millions to me. Michaela is his sole heir. I could, as her guardian, use some of the money on her behalf, but considering my history with the hateful Colquitts, Charles’s wealthy parents, I want no part of that money. It will soon likely be tied up in court anyway.

Fortunately, I have some savings from my own earnings, as well as funds from a life insurance policy Charles took out early in our marriage and, I’m certain, forgot to cancel once he’d decided to shed himself of me. I also liquidated all of our household items, which included some expensive paintings, antique furniture, and Charles’s collection of guns and other assorted items he valued. Antioch House, the estate liquidations and auction company he worked for, wrote me a check on the spot, saying they’d have no trouble reselling them. It was kind of them to help me out like that.

So, if I’m frugal, I can work some magic with the resources available to me.

I’ve hired a competent local handyman who is willing to work extra hours to make the old house habitable. In less than a week, Willie Johnson and his two helpers have cleared away most of the debris, replaced the front door, installed new windows, and made sure the electricity is safe and the plumbing operational. Michaela and I have been staying in a local motel in the meantime. We’re both anxious to move in to Shadow Haven.

The flooring of the upstairs of the big house is damaged beyond cosmetic repair; leaks in the roof have rendered it unsafe, so Michaela and I will be living in first-floor rooms once occupied by servants at the back of the house. The work is, of course, far from completed, but this is sufficient for us temporarily.

We’re on the front porch swing, awaiting delivery of new furniture. I let Michaela pick out her bedroom set and linens, hoping that once she’s settled into a room of her own, she’ll lose her resolve to return to New York. I suspect it’s not New York she longs for so much as for a return to the life she’s always known.

That life is gone forever, chérie, I think sadly, gazing at her beautiful little face. I am at a loss as to how to help her access the grief she so badly needs to express. If only she would break down and cry.

In the past week, I have tried repeatedly to contact Grandnana’s spirit in the enchanted garden, for I desperately need her advice, not to mention the comfort of knowing she is still here for me. But so far, she has remained beyond my reach. Each time I try, my fear and frustration mount. Will I ever be able to communicate with her again?

I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching and raise my head, gazing down the lane.

Here comes the truck, Michaela says as she jumps from the swing and runs to the edge of the verandah. It’s good to see the eager smile on her face. This is the first time since Charles died that she’s shown much interest in anything.

I stand up and follow her to the porch railing, but frown when I see that the approaching vehicle isn’t a furniture delivery van, but a sleek, black BMW convertible. The top is up, so I can’t tell who is inside. Michaela darts toward the car before I can stop her. I have a bad feeling about this. I scarcely dare to breathe as I watch from the verandah.

A tall man slowly unfolds himself from the low-slung vehicle. He is dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, red tie. He carries a briefcase.

Everything about him screams lawyer.

I bite my lip. So much for finding refuge at Shadow Haven.

Michaela! Come back here, I call, but she stands her ground and eyes the stranger with open curiosity. I see him lower his large body until he is at eye level with my daughter. I don’t want her talking to him. Michaela! Come here right now.

She obeys at last, and the man stands again and heads my way. He looks familiar, but I don’t recognize him immediately.

Good morning, Gabriella, he says. His voice is low and mellow, one that no doubt can easily sway a jury. Remember me?

And suddenly I know who he is. Jarrod Landry. He’s the man who’d been a virtual stranger to me, supposedly a friend of Charles, who’d come here the night before our wedding and urged me not to marry Charles.

It was a bizarre incident, and I don’t understand to this day why he did it. I didn’t know him well; Jarrod had commissioned me by phone to create a monument for his recently deceased aunt, but I never met him until the unveiling of the piece. A friend of his from college, Charles Colquitt, had been at the ceremony, and Jarrod introduced us. The rest, as they say, is history. We saw little of Jarrod during our whirlwind courtship, so I was shocked when he unexpectedly showed up at my doorstep and accused his friend of having some rather nasty character traits in an effort to dissuade me from the marriage.

After that terrible night, which ended in my asking him to leave, he disappeared from our lives. I was just as glad. It would have been awkward to be in his presence after that. Especially after his warnings had proven true.

What are you doing here? I ask icily. His visit bodes no good.

He places his briefcase on the dry earth at the foot of the front steps. I do not invite him onto the verandah despite the heat of the day.

"I heard what happened to Charles. I came to see if