Cradle to Grave: The Grave Chronicles, #1

By Ciara Graves

From cradle to grave Juliette Sanders has her life planned out. Penn State to the Supreme Court. No surprise she's got this plan. RBG is her hero, after all. 

 

So why is it that a letter from a grandmother she has never met—never even knew she existed—has flipped everything upside down. Vivienne Montreuil's letter is an invitation to visit her at the Montreuil Magnolia House near New Orleans, Louisiana. 

How exciting, amirite?

 

Except that there's this thing that Juliette's family does. Magic. And supposedly Juliette can do magic. Say what? No way, no how. And yet…Now Juliette knows about her biological mother—and father, a renowned necromancer—and she decides to visit the Crescent City Academy of Magics, you know, just to see what it's all about. She's not giving up on Penn State. She's not abandoning her wish to follow RBG's footsteps. 

 

She'll just stay at Crescent City for a couple of weeks. That's all. And she's got a great—temporary—roommate, Naomi, who's willing to show her the ropes. How did things get so complicated when she runs into a hot wolf shifter named Jackson Walsh?

 

She's not staying at Crescent City. No, she's not. It's not in the plans. No. No. No. Except…

 

Maybe it is. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: CiaGra
• Release date: Feb 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393631323

Book preview

Chapter 1

The sun was streaming through the windows, and my cat was nestled on the pillows beside me. For the first time ever, I wasn’t awakened by the screeching of an alarm clock or my dad banging on my door, telling me it was time to get ready for school. I smiled up at the ceiling, relishing the feeling of being a high school graduate. The day was mine to do with as I pleased.

There would be no more rushing from class to class. No more term papers or pop quizzes. And no more having to duck my head and hope I wasn’t noticed by the school’s cool kid clique. The jocks and the mean girls ruled the school with an iron fist and made life hell for those of us who weren’t rich or cool enough to be invited to join their little social cult.

There would be no more of that. Ever. I took a moment to enjoy the feeling. Smiling to myself and feeling great, I stretched languidly and gave the old tabby a scratch behind the ears and a kiss on the top of his head.

Good morning, I said, and he meowed at me lazily. Isn’t it a beautiful day?

I slipped out of bed and grabbed my phone, disconnecting the charger and seeing what emails or text messages I’d received while I’d been asleep. I frowned when I saw that I had received neither.

We don’t seem to be very popular, Buttons, I groaned.

He looked back at me with a look that said, speak for yourself, then began to fastidiously groom his paws. With a sigh, I pulled up my Spotify playlists and set one of them playing through the Bluetooth speakers that sat high up on the bookshelves, well away from the paws of mischievous felines.

As Dua Lipa sang about the end of a bad relationship, I walked into the bathroom and started the shower. I stood amid the billowing clouds of steam with hot water raining down over me. I washed my hair and sang along with a Lady Gaga tune about a traumatic breakup. By the time I climbed out of the shower and toweled off, Halsey was singing about a really terrible, co-dependent, abusive relationship. I made a mental note to make some new playlists.

It all combined to kind of validate my decision to dance around the whole mine field of high school romances. Not that I had many options, but even if I had, I would have skipped it anyway. High school relationships inevitably led to emotional disasters that left scars on you for the rest of your life.

No, thank you. I chose to keep my head down and focus on my academics and athletics instead, which paid off very nicely. I carried a solid GPA and had SAT scores good enough to earn me a full-ride academic scholarship to Penn State. And while I may not have been a superstar on the soccer field or volleyball court, I did earn invites to try out for both teams.

I pulled on a pair of yoga pants and an oversized hoodie, and a thick pair of socks, then shut off my music and headed downstairs. Singing loudly to myself, I danced my way into the kitchen and stopped short, my heart lurching in my chest. My cheeks flared with the heat of embarrassment of being caught singing and dancing around like an idiot since I can’t do either very well.

Dad, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work? I asked, trying to retain some shred of dignity.

My dad looked up at me, his face pale and drawn, an inscrutable expression on his face. The last time he looked at me like that was the day he’d told me that my mom had been killed in a car accident. Seeing him look at me like that again sent a wave of the darkest fear washing through me.

On legs that were shaking so bad I thought I might collapse, I crossed to the table and took the seat across from him. His hands were folded in front of him, and I could see the envelope beneath them. My dad looked at me, and I could see the fear in his eyes, and it turned the blood in my veins to ice. My father wasn’t afraid of anything.

What’s going on? What’s in the envelope? I asked.

He licked his lips and looked down at it, a frown pulling the corners of his mouth down. He was silent, and with each moment that passed, my own fear was growing exponentially. He finally looked up at me.

This is a letter from your grandmother. On your mom’s side, he said quietly.

I cocked my head and looked at him, not understanding his reaction. Why do you look so freaked out about a letter from Gram?

It’s not Gram, he said. It’s your—biological grandmother. Vivienne.

The words hit me like a baseball bat, and I suddenly felt like I couldn’t breathe. From an early age, I knew I was adopted shortly after I was born. My parents didn’t keep anything from me and said that when I got older if I wanted to seek out my biological family, they would support and help me. Honestly, I never felt the need. I never felt like there was some gaping hole inside of me.

My parents were wonderful people, and I loved them like they were my biological parents, and they loved me like I was their biological daughter. That was all that mattered to me. They were the only family I ever knew, and I was content. I never felt like I was missing out on something just because I hadn’t been born to them.

My biological grandmother, I said, trying to get used to the feeling of the words in my mouth.

All my life, the only grandparent I ever had was Gram Elizabeth—my dad’s mother. The others had all passed on either before I was adopted or while I was still very young.

Wh-what does she want? I asked.

His frown deepened as he slid the letter over to me. With a hand that was trembling wildly, I picked up the envelope and looked at the neat, flowing script, noting that the return address was from a place named Mont Trevigne in Louisiana. I never really thought about it and considered myself a native of Baltimore, born and bred, so it struck me as odd for some reason to know that I had family in Louisiana. With some French heritage, to judge by the last name.

Vivienne Montreuil, I murmured.

My dad looked worried as I pulled the letter out and unfolded it. The page was filled with that same flowing but still very precise script that appeared on the envelope. I scanned the words once and then again, absorbing every sentence I was reading. After reading it a third time, I set it down in front of me and looked up.

Did you read it? I asked.

He shook his head. Wasn’t addressed to me. I just know if that woman’s writing, it can’t be for anything good.

It was interesting to know that although I’d never met any of my biological family that my dad had apparently developed some very strong feelings about them.

Why do you say that? I thought you didn’t really know them?

His frown seemed to turn into a scowl, and when he spoke, he sounded defensive. I don’t. But after not hearing a peep from them for eighteen years, why is she popping up all of a sudden? Why now?

I touched the sapphire pendant on the necklace that I’d worn my whole life—a nervous habit I developed somewhere along the line. The necklace and pendant were a gift from my biological mother. She made my parents promise not just to give it to me on my tenth birthday, but to make sure I wore it. I remembered them telling me the story when they gave it to me, as promised when I turned ten. I wasn’t sophisticated enough at the time to really understand it, but now that I was a bit older, I could see how strange a request it was.

But at the time, my parents were so desperate for a child, they probably would have agreed to most anything. And because they were who they were, they kept their word. That was one thing they had instilled in me from a very young age—no matter what, you always keep your word. They taught me that we are only as good as our reputation, and those reputations are built on our ability to keep our promises.

He sighed heavily and scrubbed his face with his hands. I watched him closely, and though I wouldn’t bet my life on it, I got the idea that there was more to the story that he wasn’t telling me. It seemed like he knew more about them than he was letting on. But, I could see he was on edge and didn’t want to push him about it. Not just yet. There might come a time when I want more answers from him, but I would cross that bridge whenever I came to it.

What does she want? he asked.

She wants me to come down to Louisiana and spend some time with her.

My dad’s jaw clenched so tightly, I was surprised he didn’t crack his teeth. His hands balled into fists on top of the table, and his face was flushed. And that’s when it hit me. A small, reassuring smile on my lips, I reached out and took his hand. He looked at me, and I could see he was struggling to let go of the emotions coursing through him.

You know that no matter what, you’re always going to be my dad, right? Nothing—and nobody—are ever going to change that.

His smile was soft but uncertain. Yeah, I know. I just…

He let his words trail off, his thought unfinished. But he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, seeming to be gathering his wits about him. He took my hand, his grip firm, his smile growing more confident as he rubbed the back of my knuckles with his thumb.

Ignore me. I’m just being silly and insecure, he said. I think you should go. Meet her. See what she’s all about.

You do? I asked, genuinely surprised.

He nodded. Like it or not, they’re a part of you. They’re your family—

Sort of. But not really, I replied. You’re my family. Gram Elizabeth is my family. And even though she’s gone, Mom is still my family.

And so is Vivienne Montreuil.

They gave me up, Dad.

He shrugged. Vivienne didn’t. And I’m sure your biological mother had her reasons. I think it’d be good for you to know your roots. Where you came from.

I frowned. This wasn’t what I expected at all. Though he’d never spoken ill of them, I always figured he thought I’d be better off never knowing my roots. It’s certainly what I’d thought for my entire life. I had everything I needed and could ever want right here in Baltimore. Well… except for Penn State. But even then, it’s only a two-and-half-hour drive from there to here.

But, as I looked at the letter sitting in front of me, scrutinizing that neat and almost calligraphic penmanship, I couldn’t help but feel the embers of curiosity stirring inside of me. My parents always told me that my inquisitiveness was a good thing. That my curiosity about the world around us was a strength and that it was something that would take me far in life.

So, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t somewhat curious about my roots. Louisiana French. To be honest, it piqued my interest quite a bit.

So, what do you think? Dad asked. Take a little time and see what’s what? I mean, what else are you going to do with your summer?

Get ready for fall term?

He laughed and squeezed my hand again. You’ll have plenty of time for that. I think it’s important for you to go see your grandmother.

I again realized that he was pushing me toward my grandmother because there were things he wasn’t telling me. Things he thought only my bio-grandma could. And if I were honest, I’d say that only made me even more curious. I gave him a nod and a smile.

Okay. I’ll go check her out and see what she’s all about, I told him. I’ll go explore my roots.

He laughed but seemed like he was trying to be more okay with it than he actually was. For me, it deepened the mystery around all of this. To have a grandmother I’ve never met, never even knew the name of, contact me out of the blue like that, wanting to spend time with me was strange. But true to my nature, my curiosity had gotten the better of me—though, I hated to think that it was hurting my dad in any way.

Just be sure you call me regularly, he said. Just to check in and tell me how things are going down there.

I will. I promise.

He got to his feet and pulled me to mine, wrapping me up in a tight embrace. His massive body dwarfed mine, and I felt entirely enveloped by him. But I felt safe. I felt loved.

I love you, kiddo, he said.

I love you too, Dad. And please don’t say that like you’re never going to see me again.

He laughed softly but didn’t say anything else—adding a layer of worry to the curiosity gripping me.

Chapter 2

The drive from Baltimore to Orleans Parish, where Mont Trevigne was located, took just under eighteen hours. I’d considered flying down, but I figured that being on summer break, I’d have myself an adventure. It stressed my dad out that I was driving instead of flying, but I got to see a little more of the country, which was nice since I’d never been out of Baltimore before. Thank God for phones that could give us step-by-step directions.

I slowed down and took the marked exit my phone instructed me to, then drove for another ten minutes before coming to my turnoff. I passed between a pair of tall brick columns that each bore a plaque announcing the name of the property.

Magnolia Falls.

The narrow, paved road I was on was bordered by Magnolia trees, their ancient boughs crisscrossed overhead, forming a tunnel, and were draped with thick Spanish moss. It was beautiful and yet eerie, all at the same time.

The quarter-mile road led me to a circular drive that had a fountain statue carved to look like a rearing horse in the center. But it was the house—or rather, the antebellum mansion—that drew my immediate intention.

Wow, I muttered to myself. I guess this is what they mean when they call something stately.

Four large white columns dominated the front of the house, and there were wide wraparound porches on both the ground and second floors. White shutters bordered every window and had white trim framed the dark roof. The house was built of red brick with copious amounts of black wrought iron, giving it a distinctive French Quarter flair.

I pulled my Rav4 to a stop in front of the walk that led to a white staircase with wrought iron railings that took you to the front porch. And on the porch stood a tall, regal-looking woman. She was wearing a Crescent City pantsuit with a cream-colored blouse beneath the jacket. She stood with her back ramrod straight, her hands clasped at her waist, looking down at me imperiously.

I got out of my car and felt a finger made of ice slide down my spine. I shuddered. There was something ominous about her. Clearing my throat, I decided to get my things later and get the awkward introduction out of the way first. I didn’t come all the way down to Louisiana just to turn around because my grandmother was a spooky old lady. Stiffening my spine, I walked around my car and up the steps to where she stood.

From further away, she looked older than she did up close. Her skin was pale and flawless; not a single wrinkle marred her face. She had the same jet-black hair that was on top of my head, though hers was shot through with gray and pulled into a tight bun, while mine flowed loose and free and fell just below my shoulders. Our eyes were also the same shade of green and sparkled like polished emeralds. She had to be in her sixties, but she looked twenty years younger than that.

I stood before the older woman—my grandmother—looking into her eyes. Without a word passing between us, I knew she was judging me. She was weighing me and taking my measure. I felt like I was being dissected, and I didn’t care for it at all. Not one bit.

H-hi, I said, kicking myself for how meek I sounded.

Tsk, tsk, tsk, she