Waking the Dead. Heather Graham
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They say a painting can have a life of its own…
In the case of Ghosts in the Mind by Henry Sebastian Hubert, that’s more than just an expression. This painting is reputed to come to life—and to bring death. The artist was a friend of Lord Byron and Mary Shelley, joining them in Switzerland during 1816, “the year without a summer.” That was when they all explored themes of horror and depravity in their art.…
Now, almost two hundred years later, the painting appears in New Orleans. Wherever it goes, death seems to follow.
Danielle Cafferty and Michael Quinn, occasional partners in solving crime, are quickly drawn into the case. They begin to make connections between that summer in Switzerland and this spring in Louisiana. Danni, the owner of an eccentric antiques shop, and Quinn, a private detective, have discovered that they have separate but complementary talents when it comes to investigating unusual situations.
Trying to blend their personal relationship with the professional lives they’ve stumbled into, they learn how much they need each other. Especially as they confront this work of art—and evil. The people in the portrait might be dead, but something seems to wake them and free them to commit bloody crimes. Cafferty and Quinn must discover what that is. And they have to destroy it—before it destroys them.
Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
THE NIGHT IS FOREVER
THE NIGHT IS ALIVE THE NIGHT IS WATCHING LET THE DEAD SLEEP THE UNSEEN THE UNHOLY THE UNSPOKEN THE UNINVITED 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
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Look for Heather Graham’s next novel
THE CURSED available soon from Harlequin MIRA
Waking the Dead
Heather Graham
In memory of my in-laws, Angelina Mero Pozzessere and
Alphonse Pozzessere, who first introduced me to Massachusetts, wonderful Italian food—and the historic and incredible city of Salem.
And to Dee Mero Law, George Law, Doreen Law Westermark,
John Westermark, Kenneth Law, Bill, Eileen and Eddie Staples, and “Auntie Tomato,” Gail Astrella. Thanks for the very strange, fun and quite incredible road trips to Salem!
Contents
Prologue
June 1816
The Shores of Lake Geneva, Switzerland
LIGHTNING FLASHED, CREATING a jagged streak in the angry purple darkness that had become the sky—day and night at once, or so it seemed.
Henry Sebastian Hubert hunched his shoulders against the strange chill that permeated the evening. The sky’s darkness was never-ending; the rain and the cold were foreboding. He’d heard that in America, there had been June snow in some of the northern states. Here, in Geneva, it always seemed dark, damp and wretchedly cold—but certainly no worse than it had been in England.
Another twisted arrow of light slashed across the eerie black sky, illuminating the lawn that stretched before the lake. Percy Shelley, Claire and Mary Godwin, and George, Lord Byron had arrived. Mary was calling herself Mary Shelley on this Continental jaunt but Shelley had a legal wife in England. Claire—well, Claire was Claire. He could hear her laughter as they approached, high-pitched and sounding rather forced.
The young woman tried so hard. She’d been Byron’s lover in London, and did not seem to understand that Byron sought nothing more permanent. But through Claire, Byron had met Shelley, and his admiration for Shelley was complete and enthusiastic. And among their foursome, Claire was the only one who spoke French decently, making her a definite asset.
Henry was enamored of them all. “There they come,” he said aloud. “The brilliant, the enchanted.”
Behind him, he heard a strange sound and turned. Raoul Messine, the butler who’d come with the castle, was also looking toward the water.
“You were about to speak?” Henry demanded.
“No, monsieur. It is not my place.”
Henry stared at him. Messine was thin as a stick; he had a pinched face and resembled a skeleton in black dress wear. He had served the late Lord Alain Guillaume and, Henry had been assured, was the finest servant to be found. Of course, Lord Guillaume had been a hedonist—and some said that Raoul Messine provided him with any pleasure his heart desired. Alain Guillaume had met with an early grave, drawing his sword against authorities who’d been sent to search for a missing servant. Afterward, Messine had properly interred his master in the castle’s crypt. Henry had rented the castle from the lord’s son, Herman, who had moved to London years before his father’s death and preferred to remain there. Apparently, the son had taken after his mother and had no interest