The Prophet

by Amanda Stevens

  On the other side of the room, another opening led into the dining room. A man with dreadlocks was seated at the table eating something from an earthenware bowl. Layla stood over his shoulder sipping a glass of red wine. Only, she didn’t look so much like Layla anymore. Gone was the tailored, sophisticated attire of Dr. Shaw’s assistant, and in its place, she’d donned a purple caftan with intricate embroidery at the neck and around the hem. She was barefoot, and her hair was unbound, spilling over her shoulders in a cascade of tight, wiry curls. She and the man were laughing, and even though I willed their gazes, neither of them paid me the slightest attention.

  The man from King Street sauntered into the room then, followed a moment later by Tom Gerrity who seemed to be on some urgent business. A metal box was tucked underneath one arm, and his eyes, even in the candlelight, looked overly bright. Both men disappeared into the dining room, and I didn’t see them again.

  More people strolled in while others left, not one glancing in my direction. I observed the endless parade for several minutes before it came to me that I could get up and drift out with them. I wasn’t bound in any way and no one had even noticed me. I could just float on out the front door and be on my merry way.

  When I tried to move, though, I experienced a curious boneless effect, and I realized that I was very much a prisoner even though no ropes or shackles constrained me. Why this didn’t cause me great panic, I had no idea. I seemed to be disturbingly accepting of the situation.

  I turned my gaze back to the candles, watching the flickering light for the longest time. I could smell eucalyptus and camphor and a tinge of something that might have been sulfur. I didn’t find the scent unpleasant, nor did it distress me.

  After a time, a hush fell over the room. All eyes turned toward the foyer where a newcomer had just come through the door. He stopped to chat with a woman in tight-fitting jeans, and as his voice drifted in through the arch, I felt a shudder go through me. The sound was deep and melodic. Utterly captivating.

  A moment later, he strode into the parlor, and I was taken aback by his appearance. He was very tall, six feet five, at least, with skin the color of polished mahogany. Despite the cooler weather, he wore linen slacks and that same loose shirt I’d seen before, but now I noticed the silver embellishment. The neck was open, and a medallion gleamed at his throat. I thought him unnaturally handsome. Godlike, I would almost say.

  He spoke to a few more people, and then the room seemed to clear as he came over and drew up a chair facing me. He sat leaning forward, elbows on knees, chin on folded hands, as he peered directly into my eyes. The effect was oddly calming.

  “You’re the one they call The Graveyard Queen.” His voice reminded me of the nightingale song, lyrical and infinitely mysterious.

  I nodded.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Darius Goodwine.”

  “So you’ve heard of me.”

  “You came to visit me last night.”

  He merely smiled.

  I glanced around the candlelit room. “Why am I here?”

  “I thought it time we had a proper introduction.”

  “Why?”

  “I understand you have an interest in something I possess.” He sat back in the chair, seemingly relaxed, but his gaze was very intense. His eyes were an odd shade of gold, I noticed. Almost like glowing topazes. The color was very striking against his dark skin.

  He glanced away as someone moved through the room, and for the first time, I noticed a deep scar beneath the jaw line where a crude blade had just missed his jugular. How I knew this, I had no idea. There was another scar on the back of his right hand, and I searched for more wounds because those marks made him seem a little less godlike to me.

  “What do you know about gray dust?” he asked me.

  “It stops the heart and people die.”

  His smile turned numinous, like that of a witch. “It does more than that,” he said softly.

  “It allows you to enter the spirit world without the crutch of hallucinations.”

  “Aw.” The topazes glittered. “Dr. Shaw has informed you well. Now I need to know who else you’ve talked to about this.”

  “No one else. Only Robert Fremont.”

  His brows soared. “The dead cop?”

  “Yes.” I had no idea why I mentioned Fremont’s name. That wasn’t at all like me. I never talked about the ghosts. But I seemed incapable of subterfuge at that moment, and I had to admit, I took a certain amount of satisfaction in the surprise that flashed in those golden eyes.

  “Do you mean you go out to the cemetery and talk to his corpse?”

  “No. I talk to his ghost.”

  “You can cross over?”

  “I don’t have to. He’s here. In the living world.”

  I could have sworn I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes before he leaned forward once again, trapping me with his gaze. “What does he want?”

  “He wants to know who killed him. He means to have justice before he moves on and I’m going to help him get it.”

  That seemed to amuse him. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “Did you think I would be frightened of you? That I would cower in your presence?”

  He waved a hand toward the mingling throng. “These people do.”

  “I’m not like them.”

  He took my chin in his hand and tilted my face to the light. “Then what are you? How is it that you’re able to converse so freely with the dead?”

  “I’m a caulbearer.”

  The eyes gleamed now, and I felt an electrical jolt pass from his body into mine. I wanted to shove his hand away, but I still couldn’t move. “You were born behind the veil. That makes you special. And very powerful.”

  What an odd thing to say to someone who couldn’t move her arms or legs.

  He waved a hand toward the group in the hallway. “You possess effortlessly what most people here seek artificially. I think I shall enjoy getting to know you.”

  “What if I don’t want to get to know you?”

  He laughed. “You won’t have a choice. I’ll come to you in your dreams. There isn’t a root or a charm or a mojo bag that can stop me. Neither can John Devlin, though I have no doubt he’ll try.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Somewhere behind me, I heard the screech of tires and the roar of a powerful engine. I was still staring up into the trees, searching for the nightingale that had now gone silent. Not until a hand fell upon my shoulder did I break free from whatever spell had bound me.

  “Amelia?”

  I turned at the sound of Devlin’s voice, my breath catching at the sight of him. He was dressed all in black as usual, and I could see the glow of the streetlamp in his hair and in his eyes. He seemed so much a part of the night that I could scarcely picture him in sunlight. I wanted to lift my hand to his chest, feel the beat of his heart beneath my palm to assure myself he was real, but the effort was still too great. I had no will to do anything more strenuous than to stand there listening for that phantom songbird.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked nonchalantly.

  The breeze ruffled his hair as he stared down at me. “You called me.”

  “I did?” My gaze dropped to the phone I clutched in my hand. “When?”

  “A few minutes ago. I got here as quickly as I could.” He scanned the street, eyes alert for trouble. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, still in that airy, detached voice. “I don’t even remember calling you.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders, turning me so that he could search my face in the lamplight. I stared up into his eyes, and my pulse quickened. He seemed very mystical to me at that moment. As dark and hazy as a dream.

  “You’re shivering,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”

  He took my arm and tried to guide me to his car, but those few steps to the curb were too much for me. I was still caught in the boneless stupor that had held
me prisoner in the blue Victorian house.

  Come to think of it, how had I gotten back here?

  “What’s the matter?” Devlin asked.

  “I feel very strange and my legs don’t seem to work.”

  Another sweep of my face and then he scooped me up and carried me to his car, depositing me on the front seat as though I weighed no more than a bundle of twigs. Romantic visions danced in my head. I clung to his jacket, drinking in the scent of him, the feel of him. His nearness was like a drug, but perhaps I was still swimming in the backwash of that glittering blue powder.

  He fastened my seat belt, then went around and slid behind the wheel.

  The interior of his car smelled like leather and the barest hint of his cologne. I drew a long breath, shivering again, though not from the cold. My head dropped back against the seat, and I turned to him with a languid sigh. “It’s warm in here.”

  “Good.” He adjusted the vents so that the heated air cocooned me.

  I couldn’t stop staring at him. His face was in shadows, but I had no trouble tracing the masculine contours of his profile. I had the strongest desire to reach out and take his hand, lift it to my cold cheek, but I had no way of knowing whether he had been afflicted by the same starry-eyed spell. Best not to make a fool of myself, especially when I was already feeling so off-kilter.

  “What about my car?” I asked. “I’m parked in the lot at the wharf.”

  “Give me your keys. I’ll have someone pick it up later.”

  I fished around in my pocket until I produced them. “I’ll need the door key. Although there’s a spare underneath a paving stone in the garden.”

  “I’ll remember that if I ever need to break in.”

  “You won’t find it unless you dig up my whole yard.”

  I turned to gaze out the window. Now that the lethargy was waning, my stomach felt a little queasy. The motion of the car didn’t help.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked as he turned onto Queen Street. “You seem disoriented.”

  “I don’t know. I was there one moment, someplace else the next, then back again. It’s all very confusing.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I heard worry in his voice.

  “I think so. Except…I don’t feel very well at the moment. Your car is so nice. I hope I’m not sick in it.”

  “Is that a possibility?”

  I swallowed hard. “A distinct one, I’m afraid.”

  “Should I pull over?”

  “Can you just lower the window a little? Some fresh air might help.”

  He cracked the window, and I turned my face into the chilly wind. The cold revived me, and I thought the nausea had passed, but the moment he slowed and pulled into my driveway, another wave washed over me.

  I all but fell out of the car in my haste and stumbled up the porch steps, breaking into a cold sweat as I waited for Devlin to unlock the front door. Angus met us in the hallway, but I brushed him aside as I rushed to the bathroom, both dog and man at my heels. Somehow I managed to pull myself together long enough to wave them away.

  “What can I do?” Devlin asked solicitously. “You want a cold cloth for your head?”

  “No, just get out! Please,” I added weakly.

  I held back for as long as I could, even somehow managing to turn on the water in the sink to drown out the sound of my retching. Then I was sick for a very long time. I remembered reading online that the plants consumed in certain African initiation ceremonies caused extreme nausea, purging the body of negativity so that it could more readily accept the hallucinations.

  Had I been drugged? I wondered. How else to explain the sickness? How else to explain my visit with Darius Goodwine?

  After it was over, I washed out my mouth and brushed my teeth. Then I took a quick shower and pulled on my fluffy robe, which was not at all sexy but warm and snuggly. Just what I needed at that moment. Then I padded out into the hallway and went in search of Devlin.

  I found him in my office reading the book Dr. Shaw had loaned me. Angus was stretched out at his feet, and I thought that despite everything that had happened, despite the ghosts that undoubtedly lurked in my garden, this was a very homey scene. Devlin with my dog. Me in my cozy bathrobe. But I refused to indulge in any more romantic fantasies. That awful nausea had brought me back to earth with an unpleasant jolt.

  Devlin laid aside the book and stood when I came in. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, much better. Thank you.”

  “I made tea,” he said. “I thought it might help settle your stomach.”

  He passed through the doorway, and I turned to watch him move about my kitchen. When he handed me a cup, I clung with both hands, sipping slowly so that the warmth could seep down into my bones.

  We went back into my office, and I sat down at my desk while he took his place on the chaise. He picked up the book, idly thumbing through it, then set it aside again.

  “I’m still puzzled by tonight,” he said. “And I’m still very worried about you.”

  “I’m fine now. The tea helped.”

  “I could tell the moment I heard your voice on the phone that something was wrong,” he said. “You sounded so strange. I wasn’t even sure it was you.”

  “But you came, anyway, in spite of the fact that you told me not to contact you. You’re not angry?”

  “I’m not angry.” He gave me a look, direct and intense. “And of course I came.”

  I took another sip of my tea, buying a moment or two until I could breathe evenly again. “What did I say?”

  “You told me where you were and asked if I would come get you.” He studied me for a moment longer, his eyes unblinking, and I set the cup down with a rattle. I’d forgotten how forceful his gaze could be, how that singular focus could unnerve me as no other. “You’re not going to tell me it wasn’t you on the phone,” he said.

  “The phone was in my hand. I just don’t remember making the call.”

  “Did you have too much to drink tonight?”

  “Did I seem drunk to you?”

  “Since I’ve never seen you inebriated, I can’t speak to that with any authority,” he said. “But no, you didn’t seem drunk. If anything, I’d say you were drugged.”

  “That’s what I think, too. I just don’t know when it could have happened. I met Temple and Ethan for dinner, and as I walked back to my car from the restaurant, I saw two men on the sidewalk. I’m pretty sure one of them had followed me before. He came to the cemetery this morning pretending to be a reporter. I think the other man was Darius Goodwine.”

  Everything seemed to go deathly still inside my office. Devlin’s expression, bemused a second ago, was now stone cold. “How do you know Darius Goodwine?”

  “I don’t. But I’ve heard his name. Dr. Shaw must have mentioned it.”

  Devlin sat there scowling while I talked. He didn’t move or interrupt, but I could tell that he was listening intently. He leaned forward, almost crouching, like a panther ready to spring. I’d thought of him that way before, but tonight his power and grace caught me newly by surprise. I felt an uptick in my pulse and took a deep breath to steady myself.

  “He blew something into the air,” I said. “Some sort of powder, I think. Maybe I absorbed it through my skin and it knocked me out. The next thing I remember is waking up in a strange room. I’d never been there before, but I knew that I was in a house on America Street. An old blue Victorian. There were a lot of people inside, including Dr. Shaw’s assistant, Layla, and Tom Gerrity.”

  Devlin’s gaze had moved to the back window, but now his head whipped around. “Gerrity? What was he doing there?”

  “I don’t know, but I followed him to that same house yesterday after I left the Institute.”

  “Why on earth would you follow Tom Gerrity?”

  The explanation was a little tricky, considering my arrangement with Robert Fremont’s ghost. “It’s a long story and it has to do with Dr. Shaw. Gerrity and I happ
ened to be leaving the Institute at the same time and I found myself behind him. So I followed him. It was an impulse.”

  Devlin stared at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. Clearly, he couldn’t fathom such an action from me. “Do you have these impulses often?”

  “I seem to lately. Anyway, Gerrity parked and went inside the house. While I waited for him to come out, I saw a man on the third-story balcony staring down at me. He was very tall, very thin. I’d never seen him before, but I somehow knew he was Darius Goodwine. I never got a good look at him until I found myself in that house tonight. He was the only one who talked to me. The others didn’t even seem to notice me.”

  Devlin’s voice held a peculiar edge that I couldn’t interpret. “What did he say to you?”

  “He asked what I knew about gray dust.”

  “What do you know about gray dust?”

  Was that suspicion I heard now?

  “Only what Dr. Shaw told me.”

  Another flicker of doubt. “Go on.”

  “Darius and I talked for a few minutes and then the next thing I remember is being back on the street, looking up into the trees. And then you were there.”

  “You must have been dreaming or hallucinating,” Devlin said. “You couldn’t have been in a house on America Street.”

  “Why not, if they drugged me? They could have taken me there and brought me back.”

  “That’s impossible. There wasn’t enough time. It took me less than five minutes to get to you after you called.”

  He must have driven like the wind, I thought, and the notion of his urgency was exhilarating. “But if it was just a dream or a hallucination, how could I remember details like the bare lightbulb swaying overhead or the purple caftan Layla wore or the smell of camphor and eucalyptus and all those candles? How would I know that Darius Goodwine has a scar on his throat and another on the back of his hand? He wears an amulet around his neck and his eyes are the color of topaz.”

  Devlin got up abruptly and paced to the window, head bowed in thought. “You said you saw him the day you followed Tom Gerrity.”

  “From a distance. I never spoke to him. Not until tonight.”