CRITICS RAVE FOR MELANIE JACKSON!
DIVINE MADNESS
“Jackson amazingly weaves the present-day world with her alternate reality.”
—RT BOOKreviews
“This tale isn’t your everyday, lighthearted romance. . . . Melanie Jackson takes an interesting approach to this tale, using historical figures with mysterious lives.”
—Romance Reviews Today
DIVINE FIRE
“Jackson pens a sumptuous modern gothic. . . . Fans of solid love stories . . . will enjoy Jackson’s tale, which readers will devour in one sitting, then wait hungrily for the next installment.”
—Booklist
“Once again, Jackson uses her truly awe-inspiring imagination to tell a story that’s fascinating from beginning to end.”
—Romantic Times
THE SAINT
“This visit to the ‘Wildside’ is wonderfully imaginative and action-packed. . . . [A] fascinating tale.”
—RT BOOKreviews
THE MASTER
“Readers who have come to expect wonderful things from Jackson will not be disappointed. Her ability to create a complicated world is astounding with this installment, which includes heartwarming moments, suspense and mystery sprinkled with humor. An excellent read.”
—RT BOOKreviews
MORE PRAISE FOR MELANIE JACKSON!
STILL LIFE
“The latest walk on the ‘Wildside’ is a wonderful romantic fantasy that adds new elements that brilliantly fit and enhance the existing Jackson mythos. . . . action-packed.”
—The Midwest Book Review
THE COURIER
“The author’s imagination and untouchable world-building continue to shine. . . . [An] outstanding and involved novel.”
—Romantic Times
OUTSIDERS
“Melanie Jackson is a talent to watch. She deftly combines romance with fantasy and paranormal elements to create a spellbinding adventure.”
—WritersWrite.com
TRAVELER
“Jackson often pushes the boundaries of paranormal romance, and this, the first of her Wildside series, is no exception.”
—Booklist
THE SELKIE
“Part fantasy, part dream and wholly bewitching, The Selkie . . . [blends] whimsy and folklore into a sensual tale of love and magic.”
—Romantic Times
DOMINION
“An unusual romance for those with a yen for something different.”
—Romantic Times
NIGHT VISITOR
“I recommend this as a very strong romance, with time travel, history and magic.”
—All About Romance
AN UNFORESEEN MOMENT
Rory did not answer her in words. Instead he cupped a palm beneath her chin and lowered his head.
For one moment, Chloe stared in confusion and then incredulity, but the moment his lips brushed over hers she relaxed and allowed the unexpected to happen. With a soft sigh, she closed her eyes and permitted her lips to experience the moment. Around her, the lilacs applauded softly as though pleased with her decision.
Rory didn’t invade her mouth, not even after she parted her lips. The kiss remained almost chaste. But for all its lightness and brevity, Chloe felt a strong magic all the way to her curling toes, and it was a moment after the kiss ended before she was able to refocus on the twilit garden.
“You Patrick men are dangerous,” she said softly, shaking her head.
Rory’s white teeth gleamed briefly.
“Not me, sugar, I’m absolutely harmless.”
Harmless? How he lied!
Other books by Melanie Jackson:
DIVINE MADNESS
THE SAINT
THE MASTER
DIVINE FIRE
STILL LIFE
THE COURIER
OUTSIDERS
TRAVELER
THE SELKIE
DOMINION
BELLE
AMARANTHA
NIGHT VISITOR
MANON
IONA
Melanie
Jackson
WRIT ON
WATER
Contents
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
Epilogue
AUTHOR’S NOTE
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2007 by Melanie Jackson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1712-7
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-0483-7
First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: March 2007
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.
WRIT ON WATER
THIS GRAVE CONTAINS
ALL THAT WAS MORTAL OF
A YOUNG ENGLISH POET WHO
ON HIS DEATH-BED
IN THE BITTERNESS OF HIS HEART
at the malicious power of his enemies
desired these words to be engraved
on his tombstone
"HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME
WAS WRIT IN WATER"
FEB 24, 1821
—A self-composed epitaph from the
tombstone of the poet John Keats, commissioned
by his friend Joseph Severn after his death
This book is for all of us who know
that our names are writ on water.
Dad,
Try this quiz. I scored 5—no, I won’t tell you how I got 5 points!—but think I should get extra credit for being named Chloe and spending the summer working in Virginia. Also, I almost got arrested at a protest march in college and I have lots and lots of parking tickets. Doesn’t that count?
I’ll write as soon as I arrive at Riverview. Don’t worry. I don’t plan on seeing Gran.
Love, Chloe
WHO SHOULD SING THE BLUES?
Part 1
For every “no” in this section, give yourself 1 point. For every “yes,” subtract 1 point.
Do you know how many pairs of shoes you own?
Yes
No
Yes, but I had to think about it
Do you have a subscription to Town & Country, a credit card, or an Audubon Field Guide?
Yes
No
Do you own golf clubs, Thomas Kincaid prints, or The Bee Gees’ Greatest Hits?
Yes
&n
bsp; No
Does your state of residence have the death penalty?
Yes
No
Do you live in Salt Lake City, Bangor, Duluth, or anywhere in California or Hawaii?
Yes
No
Are you a member of PETA, a country club, or the Republican Party?
Yes
No
Part 2
For every “yes” in this section, give yourself 1 point. For every “no,” subtract 1 point.
Do you play a musical instrument?
Yes
No
(If you play harpsichord, bagpipes, zither, cello, castanets or the glockenspiel, subtract 5 points)
Do you own a suit?
Yes
No
(You may give yourself 5 points if the suit is from two or more decades ago and stolen from the man you killed in Memphis. If it’s Armani, you must subtract 5 points)
Do you have any physical infirmities that would lend themselves to a stage name (i.e. Two-Fingers or One-Eye)?
Yes
No
(A list of acceptable infirmity names would not include hypoglycemia, dyslexia, impacted bowels, rosacea or tennis elbow. If you thought any of these were appropriate, subtract 1 point)
Have you ever been in jail?
Yes
No
(If it was for embezzlement, breach of fiduciary duty, or income tax evasion you get 0 points. If it involved murder, robbery, adultery, or auto theft give yourself an extra 2 points for each one. If you had sexual relations while in jail, add 3 points. If they were involuntary, add 5 points)
Do you drink alcoholic beverages every day?
Yes
(If you prefer single-malt whiskies, brand-name bourbons, Napoleon brandy, Calvados, Drambuie, Amaretto or any liqueurs add 0 points. If you make your own in the backyard add 2 points)
Have you ever consumed squeeze?
Yes
No
(Give yourself an extra 5 points if you make your own)
Are you named after a president?
Yes
No
(If it’s Bush or Reagan, add no points. If it’s Zachary (Taylor), Rutherford (Hayes), Chester (Arthur), Grover (Cleveland), or Calvin (Coolidge), add 2 points. If you are female, add 5 points)
If your total points are:
20
to
36
you should sing the blues
11
to
19
you could sing the blues above the Mason-Dixon Line
0
to
10
you shouldn’t sing the blues anywhere except your shower
-17
to
0
singing the blues would be blasphemy
Note: If you were able to accurately tally your score on this test then you need to subtract another 2 points from your total.
Whatsoever thy hand findest to do, do it with thy
might; for there is no work, no device, no knowledge,
no wisdom in the grave whither thou goest.
—Ecclesiastes
Prologue
Summer, 1998
Gran was a real witch. She was also a bitch much of the time and liked to play with her granddaughter’s head. That was why Chloe wasn’t real sure about how to interpret her current dream.
This one was bad, though. Interpret it any way she could, it kept coming out nasty. Walking in a garden was usually relaxing, but not in this shadowy place where her mind had taken to wandering. Beds of bloodred Adonis flowers had become feral. The blooms lost all sense of their formerly neat borders until they overgrew most of the stony path that led to the rusted iron gates; their falling petals were like clots of gore coagulating on the stony ground—evil’s secret garden.
Beyond the metal portal where Chloe stood, there were more overgrown gravel walks that zigzagged across the cemetery in random fashion, resembling nothing so much as a crazy floral quilt that had its various beds stitched to each other with thorny cane stocks and creeping vines. This was not so unusual in her line of work, but here was not some delightful, secret plot where children played. The odor wasn’t verdant, not what one would expect of a flower patch; it was rank and musty, tinged with a nastier smell than mere rotting vegetation.
Her goal, the Patrick family monument—what people in her trade would call a real resurrection-defier, made of darkest, hardest granite—brooded at the heart of the boscage. It seemed very far away from the gate where she stood, but that was what she had come to photograph, so she would have to find a way past the carnivorous foliage.
She looked up once to see if there were some marker that might tell her that she was in the wrong place, that she needn’t go on, but the old iron rose arrow-straight to its arched sign: patrick. Mental sirens went off, but only in the distance, and their tone was stale, muted. It wasn’t that she thought her senses were crying wolf, but she had been living in a state of almost perpetual worry since accepting this assignment and her nerves were dull.
Unhappily, she put a hand on one of the gates. They were cold to the touch, frozen even, but unlike something made of ice, they opened easily. Chloe looked for a moment at her chilled fingers. They were striped with rusty red and dusted over with gray lichen.
The oak and the ash and the bonnie ivy tree, a voice whispered. But that was wrong! This wasn’t a pretty, romantic place. She had grown used to working in necropoles, but this cemetery was . . . different. Primeval almost. Forgotten except for the ghost.
She wiped her hands on her dress, leaving streaks behind.
Cold blows the wind to my true love, said the voice in her head, and gently drops the rain, I never had but one sweetheart, and in greenwood she lies slain . . . Yes, that was closer. This looked like the spot for an unquiet grave.
Chloe turned, raised her camera to photograph the wrought-iron gates that guarded the cemetery, this last resting place of the Patricks. She had a reflected glimpse in the viewfinder of something white, something drained of life like the fleshless bone left by a sky burial—only not so innocently naked as a skeleton. These denuded sticks had been shrink-wrapped in a gray skin, and they were not part of the stone monument behind her. No, it seemed for an instant that something living was peering at her vulnerable back from behind a crumbling stone tomb. It moved toward her with the dry creak of old twigs stressed to the point of breaking.
Chloe let the camera fall, the sudden weight of the narrow strap cutting her neck. With muscles so tight they nearly popped off their moorings to her bones, she forced herself to turn and look to the left where she had seen movement. She didn’t know what she would do if she actually saw something. She was supposed to photograph the monument—it was very important. She wasn’t supposed to run away, and she would be punished if she failed.
But nothing was there, of course. Just some inquisitive daddy longlegs spiders who had crawled out onto the scabrous tombstones to observe her coming. She wasn’t afraid of daddy longlegs, though she did wonder why there were so many spiders in this place of the dead. There was no sustenance to be had from the lichen-encrusted tombs. Spiders needed live prey. Yet . . . She looked down. There was a sudden promenade of stinging ants marching from the path down into the maze. They were carrying bits of crumbled white things toward the mausoleum.
So, there was something alive in the cemetery for the large spiders to eat after all. That should reassure her quaking nerves, which were telling her to run away from this assignment before it was too late.
Reluctant, yet having no choice but to go on, she again laid a hand on the heavy gate and pulled it shut behind her. The heavily brambled track was the only way to get to the mausoleum, but if she stayed to the center of it, surely she would be safe from the thorns and spiders. She walked slowly, feeling the path before her with cautious feet. The trail was long and curving, forcing her to review the Patrick dead as she made the hike—
or at least their occasional tombstones. There was no wind, but the occasional stray vine reached out onto the walk and tore at her skirt as she forced her way into the maze.
As she drew closer to the mausoleum, she could see that the family building was covered in cobwebs so dense with dust they looked like grimy cheesecloth. A particularly large curtain of filthy silk hung over the open door. It swayed in and out with the earth’s respirations coming at intervals from the passage beyond. She knew it for what it was—the stone grave’s mouth and esophagus, which took in the bodies that were offered up it. No one had come for a long time, and its belly felt empty with just the naked bones of the long dead rattling around inside.
Her ligaments were tight with tension, ungainly and slow. As though she were a puppet, controlled by some unseen hand, Chloe walked the serpentine way toward the shrouded monument; left foot, right foot, one reluctant jerking step after another, a puppet pulled along by its master. It seemed to her that there was rustling under the ground, as if her clumsy passage stirred up things that were unhappy with their homes in the earth, things that wanted to rise up and follow her back out to the world where they had once lived. She didn’t want to wake the Patrick dead, but her feet were awkward and heavy as she staggered deeper and deeper into the maze, and she knew that her footsteps called the ghosts like a knock upon the mausoleum door.
Suddenly she could hear the choking gurgle of water. Little liquid tendrils began creeping over the earth, weaving their way toward her. They were an ugly rusty red, like the ground was bleeding; the low ground near this rising river would soon grow too soggy to walk upon. Chloe looked about quickly, dreading the water’s approach. Conveniently, a mat of cypress roots and carnivorous green creepers grew along the surface of the soil, stopping right at her feet. She stepped up onto the thorny mat. If she stayed on top of the vines, stepping from hummock to hummock so that she didn’t touch the naked, sucking ground with her feet or tattered skirt, she would be fine. She could go on.
Reluctantly, Chloe resumed her walk. Soon she arrived at the dead heart of the cemetery—-the mausoleum—and she circled the monument slowly, ready to take the much-needed pictures with her new digital camera. This house of the elite dead was withdrawn from its stone neighbors, facing away from them either in shame or disdain. The way was open, and she was able to wander to the back where she was supposed to see the statue, the funerary monument she had been sent to photograph.