Praise for
HEATHER GRAHAM
“Mystery, sex, paranormal events. What’s not to love?”
—Kirkus Reviews on The Death Dealer
“[A] sinister tale sure to appeal to fans across multiple genre lines.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Death Dealer
“Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end.”
—Literary Times
“[A] solid trilogy opener…Dream messages and premonitions, ghostly sightings, capable detective work and fascinating characters blend to make a satisfying chiller.”
—Publishers Weekly on Deadly Night
“There are good reasons for Graham’s steady standing as a best-selling author. Here her perfect pacing keeps readers riveted as they learn fascinating tidbits of New Orleans history. The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing, and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”
—Booklist on Ghost Walk
“Graham peoples her novel with genuine, endearing characters.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Séance
“An incredible storyteller.”
—Los Angeles Daily News
Heather Graham
Unhallowed Ground
To the city of St. Augustine, and especially to Derek and Pablo-the-cat and our road trip.
To the carriage and tour companies—and everyone who’s fascinated by the unique legends of our nation’s oldest European-founded city.
It’s a remarkable place to visit.
Thanks, also, to the Inn on Charlotte, Victoria House, and Casa de Suenos (where they welcomed Pablo as well as the rest of us!)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Prologue
Then, during the War of Northern Aggression
St. Augustine, in northern Florida, was beautiful, especially by night. It was the image of everything graceful and lovely in the Deep South and, when seen by the gentle glow of the moon, as serene a place as one might ever hope to see. Spanish moss dripped from old oaks like the sweep of a gentle lace blanket, and a low ground fog swirled in a faint breeze that seemed to carry with it the whisper of a moan. The silver mist curled around the mournful beauty of the cemetery, caressing the cheeks of stone angels and cherubs standing atop newly dug graves, as well as those that had been there for centuries.
The moon that night had a haze promising rain the following day. The misty halo around the full orb cast an eerie glow over the earth, turning the cemetery into a magical vision with its praying virgins, weeping guardians and majestic display of marble statuary, all bathed in the pale and eerie light.
Two women came with a lantern, one with purpose, and one carefully picking her way around the gravestones and funerary art.
“This way,” Martha Tyler said, lifting her lantern higher.
“How much farther?” Susan Madison asked nervously as the moon slipped behind a cloud and the shadows deepened.
Martha paused to stare back at her, contempt in her eyes. “If you are afraid, there is no reason to go any farther at all.”
Well, of course, I’m afraid, Susan longed to shout. She hadn’t been afraid before; it had all seemed like a lark, and why not? Life was a mess right now, and maybe Martha did have some kind of wonderful power to make everything better.
But now she was afraid. The beauty was gone from the night.
Only death seemed to remain.
Yes, she was afraid. She was walking in a shadowy graveyard by night, hearing nothing but the rustle of the leaves and the moan of the wind in the branches, and she was a fool ever to have thought that this would be an adventure.
She had convinced herself that she had to play this game, had to skirt the edge of social and moral insanity. The news in her life was always terrible, all about the war, death, advancing armies, defeats.
There was no guarantee that Thomas Smithfield would be alive in a matter of months, much less have anything left of his home, finances or wits. A love ritual might well be useless.
“We’re here now, anyway,” Martha said.
“We’re here? Where is here?” Susan demanded, looking around. They had passed the MacTavish mausoleum, the giant sculpted dogs that guarded the eighteenth-century entrance to the section containing the graves of children, and even the oldest and most chipped and broken stones in the cemetery. They were standing by a small broken wall, where trees grew tall and broad, breaking through the stones of the dead, and the moss dripped almost to the ground. The earth itself didn’t seem as if it belonged in any place created by man at all. It was more like a pit of churned dirt and broken pottery.
“Right here,” Martha said, pointing. Her voice dropped to a whisper, so soft that Susan could barely hear it. “We’re outside hallowed ground here. This wall—or what’s left of it—marks the boundary beyond which they buried the indigents and the…the unhallowed.”
Susan felt a sudden chill. It was summer, and even the nights could be sweltering here in the humid lowlands, with only the occasional breeze off the ocean to alleviate the wet heat. But tonight she was suddenly cold with a bone-deep sensation that came from far more than just the temperature.
Of course she was cold, she told herself. Martha was
