by Lyla Payne
“Odette only knows ’bout the Gullah practice.”
I struggle not to roll my eyes. The distinction is important to her, but for me, not so much. At the moment. “Okay, is there a connection between snakes and Gullah?”
Her chin dips, milky eyes raking my face. “All living things connected. Gullah, and voodoo, tap the life force. All’s connected.”
The information settles, too generic to be helpful. Frustration balls in my gut, a heavy thing that has me stuffing my praline back into the bag, uneaten. “Life is a push and pull between dark and light, though, right? Are there people who practice these sorts of traditions who fight on one side or the other?”
“Don’ wanna fight, girl. Don’ need ta.” She polishes off her ice cream and downs half her lemonade in one gulp. “But when sumthin’ bad’s about town, sure. S’our duty.”
“Something bad… Like the curse on my family?”
That gives her pause. Odette even stops eating for a moment. Slowly, she nods, her gaze off on the horizon. “Mebbe. Could be.”
A glance at my phone gets me to my feet. Beau’s going to be released within the hour and it’s going to take me half that long to get to the hospital. Odette’s staring up at me with slightly more interest than usual. I shrug. “Thanks for the information. And the company.”
“Anytime, girl. I feel sumpthin’ brewin’ round you. Could be good. Could be bad.” She frowns. “Could be worse than that.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel optimistic, you know that?” I start to walk away, then pause, wondering if she’d answer one more thing since she seems to be in such an amenable mood.
“Ask it.”
It sends a chill down my spine, the way she seems to read my mind, but I can’t let it stop me from being brave. Not with so much on the line. “You said all living things are connected. What about dead things? Or dead people?”
She tries to hide the fear in her eyes but she’s not quite fast enough. I don’t know whether she thinks I’m talking about zombies or something equally terrifying—if those exist—but it’s clear that something scares her. Which is new information.
“Don’ go messin’ with tha dead, girl. Good way ta git dead yourself.”
“I’m not talking about anything weird. Just…could the dead come back and help? If there was a fight with something dark, like you said.”
That turns her tense shoulders loose, dropping them back into place. Her fear turns to curiosity. “You worried ole Odette gonna haunt you?”
“More than you know, but I wasn’t talking about you.” I pause, then remember she’s a homeless woman who weaves grass on the street and talks about spirits. So what if she thinks I’m weird. “I almost got bitten by a snake last night. One that doesn’t belong on this side of the Atlantic. A dead woman—a ghost—showed up and tried to steer me away from it. Then she closed her eyes and waved her hands and the thing died.”
Odette watches me for so long it starts to feel as though we’ve floated into another dimension. The noise from the street, the chatter from the market, swirls into a murmur that sounds faraway. It’s as though she’s frozen my face and my eyes, the way the ghost of the woman had last night when I’d tried to call out, in an attempt to see right through my skeleton.
Her lips press together before they part again, her head tipped to the side. “I believe ya. Don’ mean you ain’t crazy, ’course, but if that happened like ya say…she might be tha answer.”
“What answer?” I whisper, my lips cold, my heart pounding.
“To how to break tha curse, ya daft girl. Ain’t that whatcha been comin’ here to learn how ta do?”
My heart rate returns to normal by the time the bright sterile halls of Saint Francis Hospital greet me, the scent of antiseptic grabbing at my skin and clothes. The thoughts pinging off the inside of my skull are a different story altogether. It’s going to be days before they calm down enough to parse out and nail down into sense.
Could we break the curse? Could the mystery woman at Drayton Hall be the answer? She knew about the snake—a creature I have to wonder whether Mrs. LaBadie either planted herself or used voodoo mind control to get into place—and kept me from stumbling into it. She killed the damn thing with her mind, too, and from another dimension. If there’s even the smallest chance that she’s strong enough, even from beyond the grave, to help me and Amelia obliterate this curse, to set us free, I have to try to find her.
The fact that none of my ghosts talk to me—or really communicate more than the most simple of requests—balls my hands in frustration. Then Daria’s face pops into my head, purple hair and all. Maybe she could help. If I explain what’s at stake, ask her to teach me how to make this whole undead relationship work both ways, it might be worth a shot. I would stand on top of the Presbyterian church and shout through a megaphone that I see ghosts if it meant helping Millie. Saving Jack. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to turn things around for all of us.
The door to Beau’s room stands open. His naked back greets me, corded muscles rippling as he raises both arms and slips his undershirt over his head.
“Hey.” I hurry over, guilt climbing into my throat at being gone so long. “Do you need a hand?”
He gives me a rueful smile. “My leg’s swollen, not my arms. Come here.”
He folds me in his strong arms, pressing my cheek into his chest. A faint scent of his aftershave and cologne cling to the threads of his shirt even after hours out by the river and a day in the hospital. I breathe deeply, tightening my grip. There are a couple of things we need to talk about, and he knows about at least one of them—probably why he’s holding me so snug—but it can wait.
He’s okay. We’re alive, we’re going back to Heron Creek, and in light of that damn snakebite, our frantic drive to the hospital, and not knowing whether he might die, him being scared to tell me about Brick and Birdie’s involvement in Millie’s case just doesn’t seem as all-important as it probably would have two days ago.
I pull away, smiling as the relief pours through me, and I swipe his hair away from his forehead. “You’re looking fine.”
“Am I?” He wrinkles his nose. “I feel like I could use a shower.”
“Showers are overrated.”
He groans. “Stop trying to woo me to that particular dark side. I’ll be a two-a-day shower guy until the day I die. Or the day I leave a state with ninety-percent humidity the majority of the year.”
I laugh, handing him his button-down shirt and then helping him into his shorts, despite his protests that he’s not a child. “Good, because I have no idea how to take care of a child. Hell, I’m still learning how to take care of you. Do you suppose your mother has a manual she’d loan me?”
He sobers despite the fact that I was totally joking, the mention of his mother pulling a shroud over his good humor. If I let it, it would do the same to me but I’m not in the mood to angst over Cordelia Drayton. There’s plenty of time for that.
Beau grabs my hand, forcing me to go still. “I know Birdie told you about our family’s firm handling the Middletons’ case against Amelia.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.” There’s a catch in his voice that snags my heart.
My fingers untangle from his and thread through his thick, honey brown hair, and I press my forehead to his, locking our gazes. “Look. I wish that you would have told me as soon as you found out, but you don’t have anything to be sorry for, Beau. It’s not your job to apologize for your family…or for friendships that go back basically to the foundation of this country.”
His lips turn up, his smile defeated. “I didn’t figure it would take you too long to figure that out. Or remember it.”
“You can’t control your family’s history, and I am not irrational. For the record.”
“I know. I know you’re not.” He traps my palm against his cheek, hazel eyes searching mine. “I just… I guess I want things to be simple between us, that’s all. And my family… T
hey complicate things.”
“I’m not dating your family. I also don’t expect them to change allegiances just because you and I have been dating for a few months.” I give him a smile and pinch his cheek. “We’re going to be fine.”
Birdie’s incredulous voice when she found out he hadn’t told me about something else, something that happened with a girl named Lucy, replays in the back of my mind. I don’t let my smile waver. We all have secrets, rooms in our hearts that are locked and dusty. Not fit for visitors, even ones we love. I’m determined not to ask for admittance unless he wants to invite me, because there are corners in my own that are far too raw and jagged to have a light shined on them.
“I love you, Gracie Anne Harper.”
“I think we should have your melon checked before we get out of here.”
Beau laughs, a good one from his belly. It infects me and we snicker together until my cheeks hurt in the best way possible. And maybe that’s what love is—making each other hurt in as many good ways as bad ones. Regardless, by the time we get him into the car and we’re on the road back to Heron Creek, I’m starting to feel as though maybe I can believe my own words.
Maybe we really are going to be fine.
Chapter Nine
I spent half the morning relaying the details of Beau’s snakebite to Sean, then Jenna, then half the staff at Drayton Hall on my next day there—Thursday. I spent the morning at the library and left Amelia there after lunch so I could sneak out for a few hours. At the moment, Mr. Freedman remains in the dark about my new part-time gig. It’s not that he would care, necessarily, since he pretty much lets my cousin and me do what we want as long as someone’s manning the front desk when the occasional patron wanders in to escape the heat. Or death from boredom.
The only time he noticed we weren’t where we were supposed to be was the day the place was closed during story time. I learned an important lesson that day: never mess with mothers who are counting on a thirty-minute break once a week.
The staff gave up on me after the third time hearing the story of the escaped snake. I tried to make it more boring every time but their boss’s son getting bitten by an escaped African viper seems to be exciting no matter how it’s toned down.
I’m finally alone with my boxes of files now, and I kind of want to hug them. There are so many papers—pieces of correspondence, marriage licenses, death certificates, family trees etched in giant Bibles, et cetera—between Middletons and Draytons that part of me wonders whether Beau, Brick, and Birdie are all part of some secret society.
A grimace twists my lips. I haven’t told Millie about Mr. Drayton’s firm handling the case against her. The last thing she needs is to lose more hope, and there’s no question the development is less than encouraging. The Draytons’ power and influence combined with the Middletons’ money is a recipe for disaster, and unless we can figure out a way to shake the curse and get Amelia back on an even keel—or better yet, find some dirt on Jake’s parents—she’s going to lose custody of that baby.
Determination sets my jaw, my mind and heart and gut all rejecting that possibility. I stand up, making sure that the brittle, smudged pages are settled and safe behind airtight seals, and sneeze. Then I loose three more, leading me to make a mental note to ask Mrs. Drayton to have this place cleaned again, top to bottom. Once a week isn’t going to be enough, not with the way dust and dirt swirl in under the door and around the windows. It could ruin half these little treasures within weeks.
The air outside clears my plugged-up nose, the cooler air not nearly as stuffy as that inside the cabin I’ve taken over from Jenna. Not that she uses it, ever, if her empty desk and shelves are any indication.
I traipse over the grounds looking for the baby preservationist, avoiding a small tourist group listening attentively to a lecture on the origins of the gorgeous reflecting pond out front before they head inside the main house.
I find Jenna out on the steps leading up to the rear balcony, a shiny laptop perched on her tanned knees. It looks out of place. She looks out of place—this compact Asian girl with a shiny ponytail and work boots typing away a mile a minute. Behind me is the huge lawn that gives way to the trees and the Ashley River, and the spot where Beau could have easily lost his life the other night.
“Hey.”
“Hey, sugar pie.” She replies without looking up, her focus impressive. “I only have a few minutes before I’m due on the tour.”
“What do you do on the tours?” It’s not what I came out here to ask her, but I’m curious. Given her love for the property, Jenna has the potential to be a bang-up ambassador, except for the fact that she gives off the vibe that she’s much better with boards, nails, and power tools than people.
And not everyone likes to be called sugar pie by someone who can’t even buy her own drinks.
“I go in a couple times a day and talk about the difference between preservation and restoration. And I show them my master’s thesis project.”
“What’s your thesis project?”
Jenna raises a slender eyebrow, gaze still trained on her laptop screen. “You sure got a lot of questions today.”
“Turnabout’s fair play, right? I wasted my whole first hour today talking about what happened the other night.”
She sighs, finally squinting up at me. The sun’s at my back, hot through my black shirt. “It’s a computer program that shows what a restoration here would look like if the Draytons wanted to do it.”
Jenna motions to the space on the steps next to her and I sit, intrigued. She pulls up a video, and it begins with the way Drayton Hall looks now—peeling paint, marks on the walls, creaking floors. Slowly, with what looks like architect schematics laid over the existing structure, the program returns this old house to its former glory, layer by layer.
It’s amazing, truly, to see it without having to disturb those years of true history.
“Wow. You came up with this on your own?” I don’t say at your age because I get the feeling that she hears that a lot. Too often. “It’s really unique.”
“Thanks.” She’s trying to act nonchalant but pride practically shines through her skin. Well deserved, too. Not only has she proven her ability to be in charge here, but the girl is going to get into any PhD program she wants and then land any job at any preservation site after that. If the Draytons are dumb enough to let her go.
“So, remember what I asked you the other day? About the ghosts?”
“Of course. Most exciting thing anyone’s asked me around here in ages.” She grins. “No one else wants to talk about them. Like they’re Bloody Mary or Beetlejuice or something.”
“I was wondering about something specific. Whether there are any stories about people seeing the ghosts of slaves. A woman.”
Jenna thinks for half a second, then snaps her fingers. “Heavyset? Turban?”
I nod, excitement swirling in my chest. “Yes. Do you know who she is?”
“No. I mean, people have seen her, but to be honest, most of the staff here know more about the history of the house and the area than anything else. Only a few of the tour guides are even experts on the Draytons.” She gives me a pointed look. “I’d dig back into those files of yours. There are extensive lists of the slaves who lived on the grounds and what their main duties were. If it helps, the ghost you’re talking about is almost always seen in and around the house. She was probably a servant, not a field slave.”
“That does help. Thanks.”
Jenna’s ears perk at the sound of people shuffling up the back staircase, which is still mostly intact after three hundred years. “That’s my cue. I’ll see you around. Unless…do you want to grab lunch the next time you’re here? Or dinner?”
I don’t hesitate. One cannot, after all, have too many friends. “That sounds nice.”
She grins, then slaps her computer closed and starts up the steps. I head back toward the office, sending Mrs. Drayton an e-mail about getting the place cleaned and sealed up befo
re we lose half the documents she’s going to want displayed.
My phone rings as I step back into the office trailer and my stomach sinks, sure it’s Beau’s mother already responding to my rather impertinent request. It’s a Charleston number but not one I recognize, which doesn’t do much to alleviate my jumpiness. “Hello?”
“Do you want to go on a walk with me tonight?” The female voice is familiar but impossible to place.
“Who is this?”
The sigh heaved through the phone is so exhausted it’s as though I might have killed her. “Daria, of course.”
That makes sense. “And by walk you mean…?”
“A walk. For a client.” Now she’s talking like she thinks my brain has evaporated since the last time we spoke.
“Oh. Well…” I grasp at straws, wishing I had plans tonight but I don’t. Amelia and I were going to get a frozen pizza and watch the Braves. I guess this might be a good way to ask the strange medium for help with my ghostly communication problems but it also feels like something else. Something intentional as far as my growing interest in the world of talking to spirits. “I guess. What time?”
“Around ten. I like to wait until it’s dark.”
“Of course you do.” I make a concentrated effort to relax my grip on the phone, telling myself to calm down. “Where?”
“Meet me at my office around nine thirty. I’ll go over the case with you, as well as the ground rules.”
“See you then.”
Daria hangs up without signing off. As nervous as it makes me to delve deeper into this whole paranormal world, it seems like the logical next step. I need to know more about my abilities, if that’s what they are, in order to do the best I can for the people who need my help.
People. Ghosts. Whatever.
And if she can help me figure out how to find and have a chat with this slave woman, if that’s what she is, so much the better. If she ever shows up again. Maybe she’s only going to pop up when I’m about to die, which makes it hard to hope I see her again, period.
