The Awakening. Amanda Stevens

again about his despondency.

      “Like forming the Order of the Coffin and the Claw,” I said. “And the Congé.”

      “Any number of closed and exclusive societies—the latter, of course, being far more sinister than the former.”

      I leaned forward, searching his careworn face and feeling faintly alarmed by the sallowness of his skin and the dark circles beneath his eyes. He had the look of a distraught man, but perhaps his mood really was attributable to the gloomy weather. Still, his attire seemed more threadbare than usual and his thick cap of white hair wasn’t as sleekly groomed as I’d come to expect. He had turned to the garden, watching the rain in glum fascination until I softly called him back.

      He stirred and offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. My mind keeps wandering but it has nothing to do with the company. You were saying?”

      “I asked if you’d found out anything more about the Congé.”

      “I’ve pulled back on my research. One of my sources became concerned that the inquiries had been noticed, and it seemed prudent to keep a low profile, at least for the time being. What I do know is that the Congé, with the exception of a very small and fervent faction, went dormant for a long period of time. As of late, there’s been resurgence. A powerful reawakening, I’m told. Old connections have been reestablished, while new members have been recruited. The Congé remain rooted in the occult, but they are also deeply embedded in the mainstream—business, government, finance. Like the Order of the Coffin and the Claw, they favor their own and eschew the unknown. Their primary motivation is to protect and maintain the status quo. But the Congé take it one step further. They fancy themselves kingmakers with a divine mandate. They use the fears and superstitions bred by these turbulent times to satiate their lust for power.”

      “Who’s behind the resurgence?”

      His mouth tightened as he set aside his teacup with a clatter. “My sources either don’t know or won’t say, but I wonder if Jonathan Devlin might not be at the heart of it all.”

      I stared at him in shock. “Why would you think that?”

      “It’s nothing more than speculation, but the Devlin name features prominently on the list I told you about weeks ago.”

      “The membership list?”

      He nodded as he twisted his pinkie ring, the snake-and-talon insignia all too familiar to me by now. “Think about what we know of their recruitment. They conscript from exclusive groups like the Order of the Coffin and the Claw, and there is no doubt whatsoever that the Devlins have had a long and intimate history with the Order.”

      “As do you,” I pointed out. “You’ve never actually admitted your association, but you wear their emblem just as Devlin does.”

      “You’re referring to my ring,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “I believe I once told you that I picked it up at a flea market.”

      “That is what you said.”

      “Even if I had once been affiliated with the Order, someone with my background and interests would never have been allowed into the exalted inner circle. And after my unseemly dismissal from Emerson University, I would have been further marginalized if not outright ostracized.”

      “Is that what happened?”

      He stared down at the ring. “If such a thing had happened, someone with my disposition, stripped of my reputation and power, might take a perverse pleasure in finding the venerated emblem at a lowly flea market. I might enjoy wearing said token, not out of vanity or misplaced loyalty, but as a poke in the eye at the elites. After all, they do like to keep their symbols unsullied.”

      “I can see how that would be satisfying,” I said, not knowing whether or not I believed him. Claws were notoriously wily. “So the Congé recruits only from this exalted inner circle? Is that how they’ve remained under the radar for so long? Most of the Order wouldn’t even be aware of them then.”

      “Correct. As I’ve said before, the elite chosen from the elite. The Devlin name carries the weight of aristocracy and tradition, perhaps more than any other of the old families. They’ve managed to remain virtually untainted through the generations, despite John’s marriage to Mariama Goodwine. My guess is, Jonathan Devlin knows he isn’t long for this world so he’s putting his affairs in order and cementing his legacy.”

      “And he expects John to take over when he’s gone?”

      “He is the grandson and heir apparent. The only other living Devlin so far as I know. That in itself adds cachet.”

      Once the conversation turned to Devlin, I found myself back on the Battery staring up at that third-story balcony. The intensity of his stare lingered in the prickle at my nape and in the sudden thud of my heart.

      “I’ve always been very fond of John,” Dr. Shaw said with a sigh. “I believe that, unlike his grandfather, he is at heart an honorable man. But if I’m allowed to speak plainly, the more distance you put between yourself and the Devlins, the better off you’ll be.”

      “That is plainly spoken,” I said.

      “I’ve never made any secret of my disdain for Jonathan Devlin. He is a cold, ruthless man who destroys anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in his path.”

      “That’s a very bold statement. I wasn’t aware you knew him that well.”

      His gaze hardened. “We haven’t traveled in the same circle for years, but my opinion hasn’t changed. And if I’m right about his connection to the Congé, he is also very dangerous. As I said, you should stay far away from that family.”

      “So it would seem,” I murmured, still taken aback by the sharpness in his tone. I’d never seen Dr. Shaw like this, even during the time he’d been under the influence of a diabolical assistant. He didn’t seem drugged or dazed today, but he was clearly preoccupied and not a little perturbed.

      We both fell silent, lost in our own chaotic thoughts. Then Dr. Shaw let out another heavy sigh. “I’ve said enough about Jonathan Devlin. He is not a fit subject for such a gray day. We should get back to the subject of Woodbine.”

      “Because a cemetery is such a cheerful topic,” I said with a smile.

      “For us it is.”

      “Yes.” I was happy enough to comply. For some reason, Dr. Shaw’s animosity toward Devlin’s grandfather made me uneasy, even though he was right to worry. Any member of the Congé, let alone the leader, could be lethal to someone like me and perhaps to Dr. Shaw, as well. “Here’s something that might interest you,” I said. “Woodbine has a ghost.”

      Dr. Shaw lifted a snowy brow. “Only one?”

      “I’ve seen just the one, though I have a feeling the cemetery is a very haunted place. All those buried secrets.” I shivered. “This ghost is the spirit of a little girl. And she appears to be a very angry entity.”

      “Do you know why?”

      “I don’t even know who she was. The only clue I have is an unnamed grave hidden within a copse of willow trees. The memorial is carved in the shape of a crib and the nameplate has only birth and death dates. The ghost seems to have a connection to this grave and I thought at first she was the spirit of the child buried there. But the infant died at the age of two and the ghost girl appears to have been ten or so when she passed.”

      “Sisters?”

      “That was my second thought. The ghost child came to my house last night and almost broke a window. I didn’t see her, but I sensed her out in the garden. She manifests with the smell of honeysuckle and a strange, haunting melody that I can sometimes hear in the wind chimes.”

      “Intriguing.”

      “Very. Before she appeared last night, I had a dream about her. The caretaker called her a bad seed.”

      “Do