Free Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) by R.C. Matthews Page A

what?”
    “Whether they’re friendly or hostile.”
    His head snapped up, and he regarded her thoughtfully. She wasn’t jesting. How often had Grace dealt with hostile spirits in the past, and how in the devil did she manage to ward them off? She was nothing more than a slip of a girl, the top of her head reaching his shoulders.
    “But first I need to explore the mansion. Find where they linger. Get a sense for their strength. And then I’ll consult Brother Anselm on the best approach.”
    Satisfied with her response, he directed his attention at the food on his plate. “You had best eat now, Grace. Maribeth has the patience of a gnat and will be pestering us within the quarter hour.”
    She lowered her face with a brief nod of acknowledgment. True to his prediction, Maribeth pushed through the dining-room door before Grace could finish the last bite of her toast.
    “Are you ready to begin the tour? I cannot wait a moment longer.”
    Devlin laid his napkin on his plate and stood, bearing down on the child. “How many times must I—”
    “I’m ready,” Grace called out. She stood and pushed her chair back in toward the table. “Must you go on like that, Captain? The child is excited. Even I can
see
that.”
    Devlin stopped dead in his tracks. He had stewed over their last exchange the entire meal, annoyed with himself for being such a cad, and he’d nearly taken it out on Maribeth.
    Grace wore a smug look on her face, fully recovered and back to her mischievous self. She held out her hand. “Will you lead the way, Maribeth?”
    The girl looked to Devlin for approval and then raced to Grace’s side when he gave a curt nod.
    “Do not run,” he ordered, his warning falling on deaf ears. “If you’re tugging, then you’re going too fast.”
    A fit of giggles and screams filled the air as Maribeth led her charge to the parlor. Devlin raced after them, regretting the moment of weakness that made him issue the invitation to Maribeth in the first place.
    He skidded to a stop at the parlor door, prepared to tan Maribeth’s little hide, but became distracted by the sight before him. Grace heaved deep breaths, and her cheeks were flushed with color. But more than that, she wore a smile filled with unadulterated joy. He stood transfixed.
    “Is that you, Captain?” Grace asked through ragged breaths. “We beat you. Didn’t we, Maribeth?”
    “Yes,” the girl said with her hands planted on her hips in a sassy stance. “But why do you call him Captain? His name is Devlin.”
    Grace raised an eyebrow in her direction. “It’s a matter of respect. He has earned the title, so he deserves to be addressed as such.”
    Maribeth shrugged and plopped down on a chair, swinging her feet. “What do we do now?” She suddenly sat up straight, and the glee shining in her eyes sparked a flame of worry in Devlin’s gut. “Do you have a talking board?”
    Her question startled him into action, and he strode to Grace’s side, where he might assist her in navigating the room. “Where do you learn about such things, Poppet? I swear your knowledge scares the wits out of me sometimes.”
    Grace giggled and began walking the perimeter of the room with his aid, touching things along the way. “Talking boards … such nonsense. Mediums with a genuine gift of sight do not require fanciful tools—or should I say
tricks
of the trade.”
    Grace’s fingers paused over a handcrafted pipe sitting on the fireplace mantel. Devlin’s gaze was glued to her every move, as was Maribeth’s.
    “The previous owner loved this pipe,” Grace said, turning it over in her hands. “He placed it in the same spot exactly after his evening smoke.”
    She spoke with such confidence that the hairs on Devlin’s neck prickled in a most unusual manner.
    “How do you know that?” he asked.
    Biting her bottom lip, she paused to consider his question. “Ghosts’ memories are like footprints on the things they held dear. Sometimes those memories come