Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls)

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2016 by R.C. Matthews.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance™

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-5072-0124-9

ISBN 13: 978-1-5072-0124-4

eISBN 10: 1-5072-0125-7

eISBN 13: 978-1-5072-0125-1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © Getty Images, © Period Images.

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• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-One
  
• Chapter Thirty-Two
  
• Chapter Thirty-Three
  
• Chapter Thirty-Four
  
• Epilogue
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• About the Author
  
• More from This Author
  
• Also Available
  

This book is dedicated to my father, who loves a story full of suspense and horror.

1865

Devil’s Cove Manor, England

As Josephine slithered between the humans littering the ballroom floor, a wicked grin curled up her lips. Their anguished cries vibrated like sweet music through her scales. Sliding her long tail back and forth, rhythmically, she bumped against their mangled forms, enhancing their pain. She rather enjoyed the cacophony of cries, a symphony of vanquished souls. But there was little time left to wallow in the beauty of it. The waning taste of her dark magic slipped over her forked tongue as she lapped at the air, and she knew its effects would soon wear off, finally allowing her victims to succumb to the darkness of death.

All but one.

Lord Marcus Deveraux would not fall peacefully into oblivion. He would feel the weight of her body as it wrapped about him, crushing him. He would hear his bones snap and stare into her red eyes as she squeezed his throat with her hands, taking his life. He deserved nothing less for his heinous deeds.

She raised herself high on her tail, above the carnage, swaying in each direction, allowing her tongue to guide her to her prey. Ebony hair fell in a waterfall of waves over her shoulders to the middle of her back, and she knew she must make a frightening sight, half-woman, half-serpent.

Marcus lay in a puddle of his own excrement and blood, a sonorous wheeze emitting from his chest. She coiled her tail around his body and lifted him toward her. His eyes flew open, and the terror encapsulated in his stare filled Josephine with a euphoric high.

“Before I escort you through the gates of Hell,” she said, leaning closer to ensure he heard every word, “know thissssss: Your dirty little secrets aren’t safe from me. Beatrice Mitchell warned you of the evil lurking on this land. You chose to ignore her, and now you’ll pay a dear price. Your friends and family are dead, save one helpless child. But fear not, Marcussssss, the day will come when Eveline is old enough to understand your crimes, and then I will collect the last of your debt.”

Saliva dribbled from his lips, and an intense gurgle erupted from his throat as a mouthful of blood gushed forth. She’d never beheld anything so glorious.

“No, please,” he rasped. “She’s innocent.”

Josephine grinned and squeezed the last breath from his lungs amid the splintering of his bones. He roared in agony, and more blood spewed from his lips, spraying over her bare breasts.

“Yesssss, I know,” she acknowledged, discarding his disfigured corpse.

Revenge the second time around would be oh so sweet.

1880

Devil’s Cove, England

Moonlight reflected off the inky water, rippling over the surface as
The Savior
dropped anchor in the harbor. The ship’s captain stood solemnly on the forecastle deck, flanked by his first and second mates. He surveyed the village with keen interest until his eyes settled on the dark silhouette of a mansion looming in the distance, its spires and turrets clawing eerily at the night sky. Blood strummed through his veins. He would even the score at last.

“Destiny lures me to the mansion,” the captain said, crossing his well-muscled arms over his chest. A smirk tugged at his lips as he turned to his first mate, Victor. “Will I crash into the rocky cliffs and perish or reap the rewards of my long-awaited revenge? What say you?”

Victor grunted and wiped away the moisture clinging to his forehead from the clammy summer night air. “Revenge will be yours, no doubt.”

The captain nodded, and they strode across the deck, boarding the longboat and giving the signal for his crew to lower it. Water lapped harshly against the hull of the ship, the sea as dark and restless as the three privateers huddled together. Their intense discussion came to an abrupt halt when the vessel crashed against the wooden dock of the wharf.

The captain’s head snapped up, and he skewered the oarsman with a glare. “Bloody hell, Bilge!”

“Sorry, Captain,” Bilge said with a toothy grin. “Eyesight ain’t what it used to be, especially in the dead o’ night.”

The captain leapt onto the dock, and his gaze met the curious stares of the riffraff loitering nearby. Men lingered, chatting in groups of three or four, eyeing his expensive clothing. The captain snorted. The scurvy dogs would turn tail the minute he flashed them a glimpse of the Colt Frontier Six-Shooter resting on his hip. Ignoring them, he turned to address his second mate, Hatchet. “Send Bilge back to the ship with instructions to return here in three hours.”

“Aye,” Hatchet said. “Watch the bloke with the dagger at ten o’clock.”

He didn’t bat an eye at the warning but smirked as Victor jumped onto the dock and donned a broad grin, brushing past him to swagger straight toward the nearest group of men. Upon his approach, they began to fan out in an unspoken dance, forming a circle around him while reaching for their weapons.

“Good evening, mate,” Victor said, coming face to face with a bald-headed chap the size of an ox. “Do you know where Captain Devlin Limmerick might find transport in town?”

The men halted and glanced at the captain, wide-eyed, before drawing back and offering apologies, nodding their heads respectfully.

“Heard they call him the Devil,” whispered one of the men, rubbing his hand along his neck. He dared another stealthy look, then swallowed hard and headed toward town, never looking back.

“Well?” Victor asked, lifting his brow.

The ox cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Best to speak with the bartender at The Black Serpent on Main Street. Henry always has a man waiting to do his bidding for the right price. It isn’t far,” the man said, gesturing in the direction of the tavern. “Just down the road a bit.”

The men scattered, clearing a path. With a nod of thanks, Devlin led the way toward town with long, confident strides. The cobbled streets were nearly deserted, but he followed the boisterous cries emitting from an establishment on the far end of the street. He stopped in front of The Black Serpent and eyed the sign hanging above the massive oak door. An intricately carved half-woman, half-serpent with lustrous, black hair beckoned customers to join the frivolities within.

Victor cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes on the sign.

“What’s wrong?” Devlin asked. “Afraid the black serpent lies in wait within?”

Victor grinned and shook his head. “For a moment, I thought the sign looked familiar. But I must be mistaken,” he said, reaching for the wrought-iron handle and yanking the door open. A blast of warm air rife with the scent of fish and chips accosted them as the men stepped over the threshold. A mixture of upper and lower class citizens filled the tables and booths. Devlin ignored the gawking stares penetrating his back as he strode to the long, oak bar. He leaned casually against it while Victor motioned to the bartender.

A stout man with thick, bushy eyebrows ambled toward them, wiping his hands on a towel before tossing it across his shoulder. After eyeing Devlin and Hatchet, the bartender’s steady gaze turned deliberately to Victor’s. “What’ll you have?”

“Three ales,” Victor said, gripping the edge of the bar. “And the name of a coachman for hire.”

The bartender grabbed three mugs and poured the dark brown liquid. “At this late hour? It’ll cost you. What’s your destination?”

Leaning into the bar, Victor said, “Captain Limmerick requires a coach to escort him to his new residence, Devil’s Cove Manor.”

The bartender blanched and stared at Devlin with wide, buggy eyes before making the sign of the cross over his chest. “Good Lord, man, don’t you know the place is haunted by the devil himself?” He lowered his voice and glanced at the neighboring patrons. “Nobody has entered the manor in years, you crazy fools. You’ll not find a coachman willing to take you there—not in the dead of night, not ever.”

So, his reputation was surpassed by that of his newly acquired mansion. It was all Devlin could do to hold back a chuckle.

Victor’s jaw clenched, and he slapped a gold sovereign on the bar. “You sure about that, mate? There’s more where this came from for anyone willing to hire on and clear out the cobwebs.”

“Can’t spend it if I’m six feet under, now can I?” asked the bartender. “Keep your coins! I’m not a bloody idiot.”

Devlin’s shoulders tensed, and he bit back a reprimand. He hadn’t survived years of torture only to be deterred from his goals by a blithering fool who wet his knickers over toothless rumors.

The bartender’s outburst gained the attention of the other patrons sitting at the bar, and Devlin used it to his advantage. He accepted a mug of ale and grinned, soothed by the fact that he’d never met a man who didn’t fold when his courage was questioned.

“I beg to disagree with you, Henry,” Devlin said boldly, taking a long draw of the brew. He wiped the foam from his top lip and stared down his nose at the bartender. “Anyone who believes in haunted houses is an idiot.”

But the man would not be swayed. “Better a live idiot than a dead one, I say.”

Hatchet snorted and plucked the gold sovereign off the bar, holding it high in the air between his finger and thumb. He waved his hand to gain everyone’s attention and bellowed, “Who’s brave enough to escort Captain Limmerick to Devil’s Cove Manor?”

The room fell silent. Men and women alike shifted in their seats, avoiding eye contact with Hatchet and each other. Devlin searched the crowd, but there wasn’t a single soul bold enough to seize the offer. Cowards, the lot of them.