Stormcrossed Magic Page 2

  Dylan climbed out of the passenger seat, battling with the hedge as he did so. “We could just call them.”

  “We might have to.” The sun penetrated over his sunglasses, and Ben shielded his eyes as he swung around, his eyes adjusting to the light. “I feel like a twit, to be honest. I know we’re close.”

  “It’s an old estate, right?”

  “Something like that. The woman said she’d been renovating it, but the grounds were unkempt.” The heat was making the air shimmer, but as Ben turned, he saw a chimney and the curve of a roof to his left, just visible above a high wall and a mass of trees. “There it is! Well, I think it is. We need a left turn.”

  Trying to avoid touching the hot metal with his hands, he slid off the roof, batted away some flies, and clambered back behind the wheel. Within minutes they had rounded the corner of the winding lane, and Dylan spotted a turn off, just as they were virtually past it. “Down there!”

  Ben wrestled the van down the rutted track, branches whacking the vehicle as they progressed. The hedges were a mixture of hawthorn and blackthorn, effectively blocking anything else from view until they rounded another corner. Ben gasped as he pulled to a halt. “Holy shit! It’s a bloody mess!”

  “That might be a slight exaggeration,” Dylan said, peering at the rambling building ahead of them. “It’s certainly interesting. So that’s Stormcrossed Manor.”

  “Looks ominous, right?”

  “Very. It’s sort of gloomy.”

  Despite the bright day and the cloudless blue skies, the house seemed draped in shadows. It was a long, two-storied building with a low-pitched roof, constructed of differing styles. A higgledy-piggledy mass of chimneys staggered across the skyline, and old nests were visible on the top of some of them. Trees crowded in on either side, and the windows seemed to absorb all light, offering a blank, shuttered front as if to repel all newcomers.

  Dylan shuffled in his seat, reaching for his camera. “Let me grab some first impressions before we get any closer. It’s nothing like Reuben’s place, is it?”

  “No. But that’s because Reuben’s place has been looked after over the years. This seems abandoned.” He looked uneasily at Dylan. “I’m not sure we should be filming before we introduce ourselves. I want to make a good first impression.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  Ben waited, feeling uneasy as he recalled the conversation he’d had with a woman called Rosa. She’d phoned him a couple of days before, saying she wanted their opinion on the old family house, but beyond that hadn’t been forthcoming.

  “Are you sure we haven’t been invited here for a ritual sacrifice?” Dylan asked as he stopped filming. “It looks like a murder house. They could bury us on the grounds and no one would ever find us.”

  “It does have that look about it, doesn’t it? At least Cassie knows we’re here.” He flashed a grin at Dylan. “If she ever finds the place. Or misses us at all.” Cassie had been put out at not coming to Stormcrossed Manor, but she was covering the office and taking phone calls. It wasn’t as if they’d relegated her to office duties; they’d drawn lots, and Cassie had pulled the short straw. “We’ll take her some cake as a peace offering. Are you done?”

  Dylan nodded. “Yep. Let’s see what secrets this place holds.”

  Alex finished serving an early customer with coffee, watching them head to The Wayward Son’s small courtyard that was currently bathed in sunshine, and put their breakfast order through to the kitchen.

  It was promising to be another hot day, and once the lunchtime crowd hit, it would be very busy. Marie, one of his regular bar staff, was teasing Zee as she restocked the condiments on the side tables, and he was taking it all in good humour. Alex shook his head as he watched them, glad that he could count on both of them to look after his holiday staff.

  He grabbed a cloth to wipe over the bar, and then took a deep breath as his vision swam. Not again. He probably needed to drink more water. Then pain shot through his head, and he leaned on the counter for support. Shit. He knew exactly what that meant. Before it got any worse, he ducked into the staff room behind the bar. Glad that the room was empty, he sank onto a chair, taking deep breaths in an effort to quell waves of nausea. However, Alex’s vision darkened, and with a horrible certainty he knew this wasn’t brought on by dehydration.

  Pain rocketed through his skull again, so severe that his vision completely blackened and he fell forward. A wild, keening cry blocked out all other sounds, and the scent of rotting flesh swept over him before he passed out.

  Newton’s mouth settled into a grim, hard line as he surveyed the two dead bodies sprawled on the floor in front of him. This was the last thing he needed. It was the last thing any of them needed, with the holidays in full swing and Cornwall teeming with visitors. This would create panic.

  “When’s the doctor getting here?” he asked Detective Sergeant Moore, who stood a few feet away, his sharp eyes travelling around the small courtyard.

  “Shouldn’t be long, now, Guv.”

  “Good. These two are already smelling ripe.” Detective Sergeant Kendall was standing next to him, silently taking everything in. “First impressions?” he asked her.

  “There are no obvious signs of trauma, except for their horrible, bloodshot eyes, but that could be a medical condition.”

  “Both of them dying at the same time of the same medical condition?” Moore asked, sceptical. “That’s too weird.”

  She looked up, eyes wide. “I know, but there are no obvious marks on their bodies. I guess it could be poison.”

  “And what else do you think is unusual?” Newton pressed.

  Kendall looked down at them again. “The woman’s hands are clasped around her ears, and she’s curled up in a foetal position.”

  “Which suggests what?”

  “She heard something horrible?”

  “Perhaps. Which probably means this is another bloody paranormal death,” Newton complained.

  He had arrived on the scene only a few minutes earlier, after receiving a call from Moore. Newton had been tied up in a meeting with his superior officer, Detective Superintendent Trevena, updating him on the latest paranormal activities in the area. Trevena normally left him well alone, glad to wash his hands of paranormal issues, but the events with the Cornwall Coven, and the number of deaths and publicity they had caused, had unfortunately meant he was more than usually interested in Newton’s activities, and that was annoying. He had hoped that with recently quieter few weeks, his interest would wane, but it hadn’t. Now, with these potentially paranormal deaths, his interest was likely to increase.

  The bodies were those of a middle-aged couple. It looked as if they had been seated around an outdoor table. Glasses of half-drunk wine were still on the table, but one of the chairs had been upended, and both bodies were on the ground.

  “So, this is a holiday home?” Newton asked, his gaze traveling around the small garden surrounded by hedges and flowering plants, the quaint old cottage behind them.

  “Yep,” Moore confirmed. “The owner was dropping by with some fresh bread and eggs when he found them.”

  “Fresh bread and eggs? Nice!”

  “It’s part of the deal, apparently,” Kendall explained, eager to help. “Homemade bread, jams, clotted cream, and eggs are part of the rental fee. It’s a nice, local touch.”

  “I guess it is. And he found them like this?”

  Moore nodded. “Retreated to the front path to wait for us to arrive.”

  Newton remembered seeing him before he entered the house. He was sitting on a bench in the front garden, looking shell-shocked. The DC who had arrived first was standing next to him. Newton had swept past them in his eagerness to get inside, but now he asked Moore, “Have you interviewed him yet?”

  He shook his head. “No. I wanted to see in here first.” Moore nodded at Kendall. “We’ve checked the entrances. There’s no sign of a break in, and the garden is secure. Well, unless someone got over the he
dge, but it’s high.”

  “And there’s no sign of battered branches or breaks in the hedge,” Kendall put in.

  “What’s beyond the garden?” Newton asked.

  “Not sure yet,” Moore said. “But the owner will know.”

  The sound of a door slamming interrupted their conversation, and they all looked round as Arthur Davidson, the Medical Examiner, arrived. He frowned as he reached the patio doors, nodding at them and sniffing the air. “Hmm. This heat really doesn’t help.” Flies had already settled on the bodies, refusing to move even when Davidson crouched down to examine them. “Visitors, I presume?”

  Newton nodded. “We’ll get their details now. Could it be natural? A massive heart attack, perhaps?”

  “Both of them at the same time, and with those bloodshot eyes? Unlikely. Grasping at straws, Newton?”

  “Hoping not to ruin my day, more like.”

  Davidson settled back on his heels. “Impossible to say right now. Their bloodshot eyes could suggest strangulation, but their neck shows no obvious signs of trauma. I won’t speculate. Keep an open mind, and all that.” He looked up at Newton, raising an eyebrow. “We’ll analyse stomach contents in case of poison. I’ll run a tox report, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. First impressions suggest this is very odd indeed.”

  “So, what do you think?” Reuben Jackson grinned at Caspian Faversham, not in the slightest bit put off by his perplexed expression.

  “Do I look like the rowing type?” Caspian asked.

  “Well, yes actually. You have the build for it.”

  “Let me rephrase that. Do I look like the outdoors type?” He gestured down to his tailored suit. “I haven’t rowed in years.”

  “But you run and go to the gym, and besides, rowing is like riding a bike. You never forget. And,” Reuben added, his grin broadening, “that’s why we’re starting to practice now—well, when we have the whole team.”

  Despite Caspian’s reservations, Reuben could see that he was weakening. His lips twitched with amusement, and he wasn’t outright refusing. “But I live in Harecombe, not White Haven.”

  “Have you got your own gig team?”

  “Well, no…”

  “Exactly. And neither have we yet, so you may as well join ours.”

  For the last few weeks, Reuben had been obsessing about a new venture, triggered by a conversation with Nils, his Swedish friend who was the tattoo artist who owned Viking Ink. Nils loved being out on the water, and owned an old fishing boat that had seen better days, but over a pint, he’d suggested that maybe they should get a gig team together, purely because it sounded like fun. Gig racing was very popular in Cornwall, and there were many regattas held during the year.

  Nils had already bought a gig, and Reuben had brought Caspian to the old harbour shed to see it. It was upside down at present, being repaired and varnished, and they were surrounded by the smell of paint, varnish, and brine.

  Caspian folded his arms across his chest. “Six rowers in total, plus the cox, if I remember correctly. How many do you have so far?”

  “Me and Nils, Nils’s mate, Rory, maybe you, maybe Alex, and we need one more.”

  “Maybe Alex? Isn’t he keen?”

  “Says he hasn’t got enough time, which means we need two people because I don’t think I’ll change his mind.” Reuben wasn’t altogether surprised. Alex’s business demanded a lot of his time, unlike Greenlane Nurseries that Reuben owned, because his manager dealt with most of the day-to-day tasks. “But you said that you wanted to get away from your business more, and this is the perfect opportunity!”

  “I suppose I did say that.” Caspian ran his hand across his smooth, shaved chin, obviously perplexed. “How often would we need to practice?”

  Reuben shrugged. “We haven’t really thought it through. Maybe two or three times a week, initially. More pre-race. It will be fun! And if you hate it, you don’t have to do it again.” Reuben regarded Caspian hopefully, knowing it was just what Caspian needed. It would be a complete change from being CEO of Kernow Industries, and would hopefully take his mind off Avery. It was hard to feel sorry for Caspian because he had so much going for him, and yet, his confession weeks prior that he didn't have many friends had struck Reuben as horribly sad. However, that wasn’t strictly true. Gabe, Shadow, and the Nephilim were his friends—loyal ones, too.

  “All right,” Caspian said, relenting. “I’ll give it a go. But if I hate it, I’m out.”

  “You won’t, I promise. It’s purely brawn, us against the elements—no magic allowed. Besides, you run a shipping business. You should love everything sea-related.”

  Before Caspian could retort, Reuben’s phone rang, and he frowned when he saw the name. “Hey Zee, what’s—”

  Zee cut him off. “Thank the Gods I got you! I can’t get hold of Avery. Alex has had a weird, psychic episode. Can you get here?”

  Reuben was already moving to the door of the dockside shed, summoning Caspian with his free hand. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s awake again, but I don’t know if I’d say he’s okay. Briar is coming, though. Try and get hold of Avery, please?”

  “Sure. On our way.”

  The first thing that struck Dylan as they entered Stormcrossed Manor was the scent of must and things long forgotten. The hall was dark, the wallpaper faded and peeling in places, and the worn stone flags that lined the floor were uneven and needed a good scrub. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and dust lay thick in patches, as if someone had tried to clean it and then given up.

  The woman who had let them in, Rosa Davies, looked almost apologetic as she led them past open doorways that fed into dimly lit rooms, finally stopping in the old-fashioned kitchen that stretched across the back of the house. Here the light flooded in, illuminating old cupboards and work surfaces, and tatty-looking vinyl on the floor. But it was at least clean. Dylan, for all of his lack of domesticity, was thankful that his and Ben’s flat was nothing like this place. It looked like it hadn’t been updated for years.

  Rosa had been silent as she led them to the kitchen, but now she sighed, as if relieved to be out of the rest of the house, and urged them into seats, thrusting a plate of digestive biscuits at them. “Sorry,” she started, “when we agreed to move in here, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. The whole thing is a nightmare.”

  Dylan wasn’t sure if he should agree, therefore admitting the place was a wreck, or just smile politely. Fortunately, Ben answered. “It has a lot of charm—good bones, as they say. Lots of hard work is needed first, though.”

  Rosa put the kettle on and prepared cups before sinking into a seat in a patch of sunlight, and Dylan could see how tired she was. She looked to be in her forties, with streaks of grey in her fair brown hair, tied up in a messy knot on her head. The light revealed a smear of dirt across her cheek and the faint lines around her eyes. She laughed. “You’re very kind. A lot of hard work doesn’t even come close.” She closed her eyes briefly and sighed again. “But it’s not the dirt that worries me, it’s the odd feeling that descends here at night.”

  “Perhaps before we dive in, you should give us a bit of background,” Dylan suggested, opening his notebook. “Context is everything. Ben said you didn’t reveal much on the phone.”

  “No, I didn’t. I thought you might turn me down if I did. I wanted to get you here first.”

  Ben shrugged. “Our job is to be open-minded. It’s what we do.”

  She smiled and swallowed. “Let me get the tea first.” She stood and quickly poured hot water into the teapot while Ben and Dylan exchanged curious glances, then carried it over to the table where it steamed in the sunlight. “We moved in about a month ago. Me, my twelve-year-old son, Max, and my six-year-old daughter, Beth. My grandmother owns the house. It’s been in our family for generations, but as you can see,” she spread her hands wide, “it’s seen better days. I feel guilty, actually. We’ve been living in north Wales for years, and I haven’t visited since I was a girl.
However, I’ve recently split from my husband—rather acrimoniously—and I wanted to get away. My mother,” she rushed on, as if speed would give her courage, “said that Gran was struggling on her own, so coming here seemed like the perfect solution. Except…” She trailed off, obviously overwhelmed, tears pricking at her eyes.

  Unusually chivalrous, Ben rushed in. “It’s not what you expected.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Where is your grandmother?”

  “There’s a wing to the left,” she gestured vaguely around to the side. “She lives in there, and it’s barely more habitable than here.”

  Dylan peered out of the window, able to see a grey stone wing off to the side, most of it covered in Virginia creeper, which was why he hadn’t spotted it straight away. The place was curiously quiet, though. “Where are your kids?”

  “Max will be exploring the garden, and my daughter is with her Great-grandmother, Tamsyn.” A frown creased Rosa’s face, and her fingers rubbed the mug her now cooling tea was in. Dylan thought she was going to add something, but she didn’t, instead taking a deep breath in and out. “Anyway, that’s why we’re here. I’m now trying to clean the place and restore some sort of order. We’ve moved in for the foreseeable future. Tammy is far more fragile than I realised. In body, I should add.” Her eyes darkened. “In spirit, she’s as strong as ever.”

  There was tension in this house. Dylan could feel it. Something beyond the shadows, decay, and dirt. Something that lurked beyond the sunshine that fell in the cobbled yard beyond the kitchen window. A restless spirit, perhaps?

  “So, what’s worrying you, Rosa?” Dylan asked, his voice gentle.

  Her fingers played with the mug for a few more seconds before she looked up at them. “I hear things at night. Odd bangs in the house that I try to believe are just the house settling. I thought I’d get used to it, but it’s getting worse! When I phoned you, it was just the bangs and thumps I was hearing, but after Saturday, it got worse.” She swallowed, clearly summoning her courage. “I now hear screams on the wind.”