Avenged

By Lynn Carthage

“Deliciously creepy, atmospheric.” —Janet Butler Taylor, author of Into the Dim

Long ago I was a servant girl at the great manor house in the quiet English villageof Grenshire. My mistress, Madame Arnaud, proved cruel, and many died at her hands.To stop her, I tried to kill her.

I failed. And I lost everything.

But that was then. Now, Phoebe Irving's family has moved into the Arnaud Manor.Phoebe, her friend Miles, and I crossed paths and discovered a powerful connection.Together we might be strong enough to untangle an ancient prophecy hanging over thistroubled place where old, deep magic mingles with greed and revenge. We might save Phoebe's baby sister and other innocents. We might even save ourselves.

Praise for Haunted

“A vampiric ancestor, a selection of ghosts, an historic family estate, an unexpected twist...recommended.” —VOYA

“Remarkable...a twist you'll never see coming." —Michelle Gagnon, bestselling author of Don’t Look Now

“Carthage does a wonderful job of bringing her characters to life.” —RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars
 
“Spooky and fun...If you like American Horror Story, you will love Haunted.” —Danielle Paige, New York Times bestselling author of Dorothy Must Die

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kensington Books
• Release date: Mar 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781617736315

Lynn Carthage

Lynn Carthage is the pseudonym of an acclaimed fiction writer who has been a Yaddo fellow and a Bram Stoker Award finalist. She lives in California and teaches novel writing. Her website is www.lynncarthage.com.

Book preview

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The terror of being buried alive led, for some, to the quaint custom of installing bells above tombs, to be rung via a string leading directly into the coffin. What terror for the night watchman to hear the tolling across the fog-swept cemetery!

—Victorian Funerary Customs

The walls of the church are large river stones snugly fitted together. Arched windows hold stained glass with scenes so dusty they are difficult to discern now. To the side is the churchyard, with newer tombstones at the front, the etched names still sharp, the flowers in the metal vases fresh. They will run out of plots in another fifty years, I think.

At the back, where the grass gets more tufty and the stones tilt from settling in the ground, the older residents of the cemetery lie. I pick my way through, seeing surnames I remember, giving me a jolt. I hadn’t thought about these people for centuries. With some names, a face floats up in memory, distinct, even words they have said to me coming from their lips, and for others only the name remains as the basis of my recollection.

Do you know exactly where he is? Miles asks. I imagine he, too, is seeing names he knows, from long-dead relatives and friends of his grandparents.

Back here somewhere, I say vaguely. I had followed Austin for a while after I died, but it proved painful. I’m aware I will no doubt see Husband of . . . etched on his stone and learn the name of some woman who took my place. I feel like I have visited his gravesite before, but I’m not certain. It wasn’t a place of vigil for me. By the time Austin died, I would’ve long given up on the idea we could somehow be reunited. If I did visit, it would’ve been in a scourge of tears, and I might not have truly seen it.

Can you use intention to get there? Phoebe asks. It would make sense; all I have to do is picture the stone. I sigh and give an attempt. Valiantly, I try to see the grave I am not even sure I’ve visited.

But instantly, I feel my stomach swoop down, the sensation that accompanies intention.

Well done, Eleanor! says Miles, but it is Phoebe who has sense enough to give me a pitying look.

Here we are.

The tomb of my lover, whom I never got to love fully.

It’s a plain gray stone, on the small side, but there does appear to be an incredible amount of writing and embossing on it. Moss has covered the indents of the letters and symbols. Of all of us, only Phoebe might be able to pull it away from the stone, but she gamely tries without success. So I kneel before it and try to translate through the veil of clinging greenery.

His full name.

I hadn’t thought about his surname in so many years. It might’ve become mine had the world gone my way.

He, Austin Fairecloth, and me his wife, Eleanor Fairecloth.

His birth and death dates. These numbers are hard to see, so small, and sixes look like eights look like nines. I give up on that.

With patience, I try to figure out the words that mark his passing. Dear son and hopeful heir to the promises of the old . . .

"Does that last word say reign?" Phoebe asks hopefully.

I think so.

I’m mystified. If he was important in the same way that we’re important, I say slowly, why did he die?

You’re one hundred percent sure he died permanently? Miles asks.

I look at him earnestly. If there were the slightest chance that Austin still roamed this world in the merest shadow of a manner, I would know it.

I’m so used to thinking of us as an enchanted trio. How do we add a fourth? Phoebe says.

I nod. There are so many ancient precedents for a rule of three.

Maybe he would’ve only been heir by being allied with you, Miles suggests.

Magical marriage, I say. The sealing together of our separate powers.

Did he seem like he had powers when he was alive? Phoebe asks.

I pause. Not that I recall. His family, though, as I’ve told you . . . they were deeply knowledgeable about the old wisdom here, the pagan past of Grenshire.

"Maybe they wanted him to be powerful, their only son, so they invented their own mythology over his being an heir somehow?" she