Cavendish's Legacy

My name is Ethan Blake.

Once, there was a title in front of that name—registered exorcist with the Vatican's Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Seven years ago, I lost that title in the basement of St. Joseph's Monastery, and I lost my partner along with it. Now there's no prefix in front of my name. If I had to put one, it'd probably be "that bastard with the biggest tab at Old Joe's Tavern."

Ella Cavendish pushed the door open while I was counting the coins in my drawer. Two in total: one quarter, one dime. Not even enough for a decent bottle of bourbon.

She brought in a gust of cold air and a scent of perfume that didn't belong anywhere near this rundown office. Black coat, brown hair, pale gray eyes. She glanced at the dusty cross and certificates on my wall, then slid an invitation across the desk.

"My grandfather died three days ago. I need someone to accompany me to the funeral."

"Then you've got the wrong guy. I'm not a bodyguard."

"You're not." She looked at the empty bottle beside my hand. "But you're three months behind on rent, you have no steady income, and—" she pushed a check toward me, "—you need this money."

One hundred thousand dollars.

I picked up the invitation. Thick paper, handmade cotton, the sender listed as Edward Cavendish. The date was two weeks ago.

"Your grandfather sent this two weeks ago," I said, "but you said he died three days ago."

"That's why I need an exorcist."

She placed another letter on the desk. Same paper, same handwriting, dated a week ago, addressed to her uncle Augustus. Last night, Augustus was found dead on his bedroom floor by a servant. His mouth was open, stuffed full of gold coins. My aunt Margaret found him—he was already cold.

Somewhere outside, a car horn blared. The radiator clanked once. I turned the invitation over; the back was blank.

"The will requires all heirs to be present," Ella said, "or the estate is forfeit. Twelve direct relatives, plus you. Thirteen."

Thirteen. I don't like that number.

"Do you believe this is supernatural?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. But the gold coins in my uncle's mouth were real. And my grandfather's obituary was real." She paused. "There's a golden scar on your wrist. That's the mark of a demonic pact. I have a friend working in the archives of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith—she looked you up for me. Ethan Blake, former exorcist, defrocked seven years ago after his partner's death."

I instinctively turned my left wrist inward. The golden scar was faintly visible under the fluorescent light.

Coins stuffed in a mouth. I'd seen similar cases in the archives—at least three. Not a single one had ever been solved, because the killer wasn't human. If what this girl was saying was true, then that hundred thousand wasn't a fee—it was hazard pay. But my life had been in debt for seven years. One more debt didn't matter.

I folded the check and put it in my pocket.

"What time tomorrow?"

As the car wound up the mountain road, the gray Atlantic churned beneath the cliffs. Waves crashed against the rock face with a dull, rhythmic thunder—one after another, so regular it didn't feel like nature, more like something breathing underwater.

Ella sat on the other side of the back seat, silent the whole way. The driver was an old man who never spoke a word, both hands gripping the wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead. When the car stopped at the manor gates, the engine stayed running, and he didn't get out. He just sat there, like an unpainted wax statue.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked.

Ella frowned at the old man. "I don't know. He wasn't like this before."

After we got out, the iron gates closed behind us automatically. The gray stone Gothic manor loomed beneath the overcast sky, ivy covering the entire east wing, the leaves already withered and brown. Up close, I could see a badly weathered Latin inscription embedded in the stone wall—the letters nearly illegible. The estate had been built on the site of an old monastery; some things couldn't be torn down, so they'd been left in place. The chimneys weren't smoking. Lights glowed in the windows, but they were dim—candles, not electric.

The wake was set up in the great hall. Black drapes, white wreaths, an oak coffin in the center. The lid wasn't nailed shut yet.

By the time we arrived, the others were already there.

Aunt Margaret was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Her makeup was smudged; she wore a black mourning dress at least one size too large, her eyeliner smeared into two dark smudges. Uncle Philip stood in the corner on the phone, voice low, but I caught "polls" and "estate distribution." His pocket square was perfectly folded, but there was a thin red mark on his collar—not a hickey, but a fingernail scratch, barely concealed by his tie knot.

Cousin Leo leaned against the wall scrolling on his phone, limited-edition sneakers, wearing the particular boredom of the wealthy. Cousin Liana clacked across the stone floor in heels, complaining about the poor signal. Cousin Oliver wore a watch worth six months' rent for me; his first words upon entering were, "This place doesn't even have a charging port?"

The butler stood by the door, his lips moving soundlessly as he counted twice. Then he nodded and said to Philip: "All twelve heirs are present. Plus this gentleman—thirteen." The main door swung shut. The latch fell into place with a sound that was longer and heavier than normal, as if something deep in the doorframe was sucking the iron bolt in.

"Alright, everyone's here," Philip said, hanging up and clapping his hands together. "Who's presiding?"

No one answered.

"Who sent the invitations?" Liana suddenly spoke up, holding up her phone. "I only got mine this morning. Leo, when did you get yours?"

"Yesterday."

"Three weeks ago for me." Margaret was still dabbing at her eyes.

Philip frowned. "Impossible. I got mine the day before yesterday. How could Dad have sent letters three weeks ago? He was already—"

He didn't finish the word "dead." But everyone heard it take shape in the air.

"Then who sent them?" Liana's voice went sharp. "It couldn't have been—"

She didn't finish either. Everyone turned to look at the same place—the coffin in the center of the hall.

In the corner, an old servant was placing fresh candles in their holders. His hands were steady, his face expressionless.

"You." Philip called to him. "Who was caring for my father before he passed?"

The old servant looked up. His eyes were gray-blue, the same color as the manor's stone walls.

"The master was always healthy, sir."

Philip froze. "What?"

"The master was in good health. He ate on time, walked, read every day. He was never bedridden, never took medication."

"What are you talking about? My father is dead! The obituary has been published!"

The old servant shook his head, turned back, and continued placing candles. His movements didn't change, like a program running.

The silence stretched for ten seconds. Leo let out a short, cold laugh.

"Shit. This has to be a prank."

He strode to the coffin, gripped the edge, and looked inside. Then his expression froze.

"It's empty."

The coffin was empty. There was a shallow indentation in the white satin lining, showing that someone had lain there. But now there was nothing inside. No body, no skeleton, not even a single strand of hair.

Philip rushed over and shoved the lid aside. It crashed to the floor with a thunderous boom.

"Who the hell did this?!"

No one answered.

Then came the sound of a cane. Thud. Thud. Thud. From the direction of the second-floor stairs—slow, steady, one step at a time.

Grandfather Edward Cavendish walked down the staircase. His silver hair was perfectly combed, black suit, dark blue tie. Leaning on a cane, his steps steady, a gentle smile on his face.

"You never visit me," he said as he walked, his voice calm and clear. "Every one of you was just waiting for me to die, waiting for the inheritance. But send out a funeral invitation, and you all come back faster than the next. Afraid of missing your share."

He stopped at the turn of the stairs, looking down at his frozen descendants below.

"So I decided to fake my death once. To see who still gives a damn about this old man."

The silence shattered. Margaret let out a near-sobbing laugh. "Dad, this is too—"

"Too real?"

The tension broke. Some laughed sheepishly, others started grumbling about the old joker. Servants seemed to appear from nowhere, clearing away the funeral flowers. Philip laughed dryly and patted his grandfather on the shoulder, telling him not to pull that kind of prank again.

I didn't laugh.

The flames in the fireplace all shrank half an inch at once. A sour ache spread through my back molar—the tooth that had cracked seven years ago, in the basement of St. Joseph's Monastery. Every time I got close to something that shouldn't exist in this world, it would ache faintly.

I looked at the stone wall behind my grandfather. Candlelight cast his shadow across the rough stone. It was a shadow, darker and denser than everyone else's in the room, and while the candle flames flickered, it didn't move.

At the top of that shadow, there were two curved protrusions.

My grandfather's gaze passed through the crowd and landed on me. He looked at me for two seconds, his lips moving slightly.

"You must be the friend Ella brought along. What's your name?"

"Ethan."

"Ethan." He repeated it, as if tasting a dish he hadn't had in a long time. "Welcome to Cavendish Manor."

He turned, spread his arms wide, and announced to everyone: "Since you're all here, stay for dinner. Tonight, we won't talk about funerals—just family matters."