Nevermore...
Eager to start their life together, historian Vickie Preston and Special Agent Griffin Pryce take a detour en route to their new home in Virginia and stop for a visit in Baltimore. But their romantic weekend is interrupted when a popular author is found dead in the basement of an Edgar Allan Poe–themed restaurant. Because of the mysterious circumstances surrounding the corpse, the FBI’s Krewe of Hunters paranormal team is invited to investigate. As more bizarre deaths occur, Vickie and Griffin are drawn into a case that has disturbing echoes of Poe’s great works, bringing the horrors of his fiction to life.
The restaurant is headquarters to scholars and fans, and any of them could be a merciless killer. Except there’s also something reaching out from beyond the grave. The late, great Edgar Allan Poe himself is appearing to Vickie in dreams and visions with cryptic information about the murders. Unless they can uncover whose twisted mind is orchestrating the dramatic re-creations, Vickie and Griffin’s future as a couple might never begin...
Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
Heather Graham
“Graham is a master at world building and her latest is a thrilling, dark, and deadly tale of romantic suspense.”
—Booklist, starred review, on Haunted Destiny
“Intricate, fast-paced, and intense, this riveting thriller blends romance and suspense in perfect combination and keeps readers guessing and the tension taut until the very end.”
—Library Journal on Flawless
“Graham is the queen of romantic suspense, and her latest is proof that she deserves the title. What makes this story more fun than most is the relationship between Kieran Finnegan, who wants nothing more than family harmony and a functioning restaurant, and FBI agent Craig Fraiser, who wants justice. Sparks fly, and it’s electric.”
—RT Book Reviews on Flawless
“The Krewe is back! Graham excels at weaving history, finding the proper balance between past and present and keeping a story fresh and authentic, with Haunted Destiny being no exception. The chaos and camaraderie of the characters are captured with vivid detail, and the identity of the killer will keep you guessing until the very end.”
—RT Book Reviews on Haunted Destiny
“Riveting mystery...interesting history, sweet romance with a second chance at love.”
—Fresh Fiction on Darkest Journey
“Graham stands at the top of the romantic suspense category.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An incredible storyteller.”
—Los Angeles Daily News
Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
DARK RITES
DYING BREATH
A PERFECT OBSESSION
DARKEST JOURNEY
DEADLY FATE
HAUNTED DESTINY
FLAWLESS
THE HIDDEN
THE FORGOTTEN
THE SILENCED
THE DEAD PLAY ON
THE BETRAYED
THE HEXED
THE CURSED
WAKING THE DEAD
THE NIGHT IS FOREVER
THE NIGHT IS ALIVE
THE NIGHT IS WATCHING
LET THE DEAD SLEEP
THE UNINVITED
THE UNSPOKEN
THE UNHOLY
THE UNSEEN
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 Graham’s next novel
A DANGEROUS GAME
available soon from MIRA Books.
For my oldest son, Jason Pozzessere,
and for Kari Stewart, a true delight to have in our lives.
Also for her folks, Kelly and Gail Stewart—
simply wonderful people.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Griffin Pryce—special agent with the FBI’s Krewe of Hunters
Victoria (Vickie) Preston—historian and author
The Krewe of Hunters
Adam Harrison—head of the Krewe of Hunters
Jackson Crow—field director, Krewe of Hunters
Angela Hawkins—special agent, married to Jackson Crow
In Baltimore
Franklin Verne—popular bestselling author
Monica Verne—his widow
Myron Hatfield—Baltimore medical examiner
Carl Morris—detective, Baltimore Police
At the Black Bird restaurant
Gary Frampton—restaurant owner
Alice Frampton—his daughter, hostess at the restaurant
Lacey Shaw—gift shop manager
Liza Harcourt—president of the Blackbird society, a Poe appreciation group
Brent Whaley—writer, member of the Blackbird society
Alistair Malcolm—Poe expert, member of the Blackbird society
Jon Skye—waiter
At Frampton Manor
Hattie Long and Sven Moller—housekeeper and caretaker
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Prologue
In Dreams
It was dark, and it was night, and she was following along a strange wooded path.
Vickie Preston fought against it; good things never started this way.
But she wasn’t in deep woods. She was not far from some kind of a city—she could see light through the trees.
The light seemed strange. It wasn’t the contemporary, bright luminescence of electricity that shined with such fervor that it was easily seen from space. This was different. Soft light. As if it came from candles or...gas. Gas lamps.
She had, she thought, stumbled into a different time, a different place. She made a turn, and the darkness was gone, things changing suddenly in that way of dreams; she was in a city, and it was day, late afternoon perhaps, with evening on its way.
People were rushing about, here, there and everywhere.
“Vote! Fourth Ward polls!” someone called out.
> A woman with a big hoop skirt pushed by Vickie, dragging a man about by an ear. “Harold Finder! Voting is no excuse for my husband to show himself in public, drunk!” she said angrily.
Harold was twice his wife’s size, but Mrs. Finder seemed to have an exceptional hold on his ear!
They had just come from what appeared to be a tavern. Vickie looked about, wondering why no one noticed her. They were all dressed so differently; men in frock coats and waistcoats and cravats and women with their tightly corseted tops and great, billowing skirts. Granted, she was sleeping in a long white cotton gown, “puritanical,” or so Griffin had teased her.
No, no, oh, yuck! You know how I feel about our dear historical Puritans! she’d told him.
Vickie, like Griffin, had grown up in Boston. She’d become a historian and wrote nonfiction books. Despite trying to understand the very different times they had lived in, she just didn’t care much for the people who had first settled her area—they were completely intolerant.
Griffin could usually just shrug off the past; he’d been a cop when she’d first met him and he was an FBI agent now. The past mattered to him, but mostly when it helped solve crime in the present.
He’d been sleeping next to her, of course. They were on their way to Virginia from Boston, ready to start a new life. But they’d stopped in Baltimore, at a hotel... They’d laughed as they got ready for bed, he’d teased her about the nightgown...
She did not look like a Puritan!
Griffin had assured her that she wouldn’t wear the “puritanical” gown long, and she hadn’t, but then, freezing in the air-conditioning of their hotel, she’d put it back on...
She was glad, of course. Otherwise, she’d be walking stark naked around this unknown and bizarre place.
Where was she?
She turned to the doorway of the “polling place” where Harold and his wife had just departed. She could hear all manner of laughing and talking. It was definitely a tavern. Gunnar’s Place.
And there was nothing indicating Puritan Massachusetts here—she wasn’t in Massachusetts and these people certainly weren’t Puritans.
She walked in, wondering if women were welcome. It didn’t matter. No one seemed to notice her.
The place was smoky and dusty. Barmaids were hurrying about, handing out drinks. Men were being solicited for their votes.
There was a lone man seated on a wooden bench at a table, head hanging low. But when Vickie entered, he looked up, and he beckoned to her.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said impatiently. He stood, wavering.
He was a small man, just a little shorter than Vickie, maybe five-eight to her five-nine. His hair was dark and a curl hung over his forehead. His eyes seemed red-rimmed and sunken in his face, which was quite ashen, with a yellow pallor.
She knew him.
She’d seen his picture throughout her life; she’d loved his work. She’d loved that he’d been born in Boston—even if he had come to hate that city. There was a wonderful statue of him now, a life-size bronze figure of the writer, hurrying along with a briefcase and a raven.
She knew his face from so many pictures and images, a man haunted by demons in life, most of those demons brought about by his alcohol addiction. She’d always wondered if more knowledge during his age might have helped him; a really good therapist, a good program...
“I’m hallucinating you, you know. Delirium tremors,” he told her gravely. “But I have been waiting for you, Victoria.”
“I love your work!” Vickie said. She flushed. It was a dream, or a nightmare, and she was having a fangirl moment. She needed control and decorum.
“Yes, well, then, you are brighter than my insidious detractors,” he told her. “But here’s the thing. You must stop it. I am being used—my work, my memory. It was good—it was all good, until I came here, until I reached Baltimore. Then, they...were upon me.”
“They who?” she asked. “No one knows—it’s still a mystery.”
“They were upon me,” he repeated.
Vickie reached across the table and set her hand gently upon his. He was trembling, she realized, violently. “You’re not looking very well,” she said.
And he turned to give her a rueful smile. “No. I will not be here long, you see. But I’m glad that you made it, so glad that you’re here. It’s happening again. And you must do something. You must stop it. No one will see, because it’s much the same. Do you understand?”
“Not a word,” she assured him.
He looked across the room and seemed concerned; he stood suddenly and hurried toward the door. Vickie raced after him.
She didn’t see him at first. He was on the ground, slumped against the building. She tried to reach him, but there was already a man at his side, attempting to help him. She noted an address then, Lombard Street.
As she stood there while the one man tried to help, people continued to hurry along the street. Hawkers shouted out their wares—and their candidates. Drinks were promised for votes; there was laughter, there was a rush of music, someone playing a fiddle...
She tried to reach the fallen man, thankful that at least someone was helping him.
Across the bit of distance between them, he opened his eyes and looked at her.
“I have to go now,” he said.
“No...!”
“But I must. And you...”
“Yes?”
“You must pay attention.” He laughed softly. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
A loud cawing sound seemed to rip through the air.
He looked at her sadly and said, “Quoth the raven—nevermore!”
1
“There’s been an incident, a very bizarre incident,” Jackson Crow said.
His voice over the phone as he spoke to Griffin Pryce was steady—as always. Jackson had pretty much seen it all. As field director of a special unit of the FBI—unofficially known as the Krewe of Hunters—Jackson had just about seen it all, although he’d be the first to say they’d probably never “see it all.”
The “bizarre” was usually the reason the Krewe got called in.
“What’s the incident?”
“You’ve heard of Franklin Verne?” Jackson asked.
“The writer? Yes, of course. Kind of impossible not to have heard of him—he likes to do his own commercials. He’s known for action books with shades of horror, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
Griffin frowned, thinking about the night before. He’d actually heard mention of Franklin Verne’s name—he and Vickie had stopped for a damned good dinner and some excellent wine at a spectacular new Baltimore restaurant. Their waiter had mentioned that Franklin Verne was in the city and they were hoping to see him in the restaurant for a meal—and, of course, an endorsement!
“Griffin?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking that you’re about to tell me how he died, and since you’re on the phone with me, and you know we’re in Baltimore, I’m assuming he died in Baltimore?”
“Yes, last night. He was found in the wine cellar of the Black Bird, a new restaurant—”
“What?” Griffin said. He knew the restaurant—pretty well! It was, in fact, the posh place where he’d taken Vickie last night.
“The Black Bird,” Jackson repeated.
“We ate there last night.”
“Oh. Well, that’s convenient. You know right where it is.”
“I do. Fell’s Point, not far from where we’re staying. You know Vickie—we found a really great old historic hotel. Blackhawk Harbor House. In fact, I’m standing outside. It’s so wonderfully old and historic, though I can’t seem
to make a cell phone call from inside.” He glanced up at the building. It had been built as a hotel in the 1850s—built with concrete and care. It would probably withstand any storm. The hotel was handsome and elegant, and Griffin enjoyed it—but he still found it annoying when he couldn’t get a decent signal on his phone from his room.
“They sure weren’t expecting Franklin Verne at the restaurant,” he told Jackson. “They talked about the fact that they hoped that he would come in. His patronage would be great for business.”
“I imagine. Well, he was there—is there. Sadly, he’s dead. At the moment, they’re calling it an accidental death.”
“Okay. So. How did he die? Was it an accident, possibly...?”
“A combination of over-the-counter drugs and alcohol,” Jackson said. “That’s a preliminary—the ME, of course, will deny he suggested any true cause as of yet. You know how that works—they won’t know for certain what caused it until all the tests are back. I take it you haven’t seen any news yet?”
“Jackson, it is 7:30 a.m. This was our last weekend before settling in—me back from a long stint in Boston, and Vickie moving to a new state and an entirely new life. Hey, it was supposed to be free time. We were out late last night. Vickie is still sleeping.”
“Okay, you haven’t seen the news. Anyway, Franklin Verne used to be quite the wild man, drinking, getting rowdy with friends, playing the type of hard-core character that appears in most of his books. His wife, Monica, put a stop to it a few years back—when the doctors told her he wouldn’t make it to old age. But his body was found in a wine cellar. According to Monica, Franklin had been clean for two full years.”
“You know all this because...?” Griffin asked him.
“Because Franklin Verne gave generously to a lot of the same causes our own Adam Harrison holds so dear,” Jackson said.
Adam Harrison was their senior advisor—he was, in fact, the creator of the Krewe, and a man with a phenomenal ability to put the right people together with the right situation.
“Naturally,” Jackson continued, “he’s quite good friends with Monica, so... Well, there you have it. He’ll wrangle us an invitation into the investigation eventually—you know him and his abilities with local police.” Jackson hesitated a minute. “Even if we wind up having to tell Monica she lost her husband because he slipped back into addiction, she’ll have the truth of the situation. For the moment, I need you to go make nice with Detective Carl Morris.”