Crossroads (Peri Jean Mace Ghost Thrillers Book 7)

by Catie Rhodes

  Where I was and what I was doing ground into my conscience like beach sand on a hot day. The world around me sharpened, the way it does during a moment of clarity. The little girl my memaw raised wanted to get up and leave. The woman I’d grown into was too curious. I stayed where I was.

  Next to me, Cecil continued his story. “‘What’s so bad about winter nights?’ I asked her.” Cecil changed his voice from an old man’s weary brogue to a young boy’s excited tone. “See, I thought them pretty. I loved the sparkling stars and the sound of the coyotes howling.” Cecil held out his hands to the fire and then rubbed them together, the dry skin rasping. “Here’s what she told me.

  "In the middle of the eighteen hundreds, there was a huge cotton plantation through those woods right there. The man who owned it was, of course, very wealthy. He had everything he could want, including a beautiful daughter named Vivian.

  "Travel being what it was in those days, there weren’t many opportunities for this wealthy man and his family to socialize, to meet others of their ilk. This was a problem.

  "Vivian was reaching marriageable age, and the cotton planter knew he’d need to find her a proper husband before long. He sent out letters to his friends explaining the situation and asking them to put him into contact with an appropriate young man.”

  “Why couldn’t she just fall in love like a normal person?” The teenage boy spoke for the first time. His voice came out froggy, too low and too high at the same time. “Is it just a Texas thing?”

  “In those times and earlier, marriages were often arranged to profit both families. The notion of romantic love is a fairly new one.” Cecil didn’t miss a beat. I had to admire his ability to tell the story. He glanced at the parents, silently asking if they had questions, but they said nothing, their gazes focused on his face.

  “One day a young man showed up asking to court Vivian. He claimed to have been sent by one of the plantation owner’s trusted friends. The young man had all the right answers, knew all the right people in proper society. The plantation owner welcomed the young man into his home and introduced him to the beautiful Vivian.” Cecil paused and opened a bottled water at his feet. He took several long drinks. “That’s when things got weird. The plantation owner, a quiet religious man, began throwing decadent parties. Servants gossiped in town about the kind of debauchery they witnessed at these gatherings.”

  “Uh, sir?” C.J. raised one pale hand. “What kind of debauchery?”

  Cecil gave him a slow smile. “Whatever you can imagine, son.” The boy flushed and said no more. Cecil picked back up his story as though he’d never been interrupted. “They also said the young man who’d come to court Vivian was a brute. Other stories about him being some sort of sorcerer began to circulate. The servants, mostly freed slaves, quit their jobs out of fear of the man.”

  Cecil nudged me and motioned at the pile of deadwood next to the fire. I got up and put more branches on. He waited until I sat back down to continue his story. “Then, one day, someone in town realized they hadn’t heard from the plantation owner for quite some time. They rode out to check on the family. Soon as the carriage came into the yard, they heard the buzzing of flies in the house. They went inside, and blood was everywhere, but they never found any bodies.” Cecil paused and took in the shock on his audience’s face for several seconds. “The former servants, who lived very near the house, said they heard a carriage leaving late the night before. It was assumed the person leaving was the man who’d been staying with them.”

  “Did they find the bodies?” Jennifer Hollingsworth rubbed her arms.

  “Never did.” Cecil took another swallow of water.

  “Finn told us this was a ghost story.” Chris Hollingsworth made a face.

  “That’s next.” Cecil recapped the water and set it at his feet. “As I’ve said, the servants were mostly freed slaves. They had a land grant near the plantation house. Members of the settlement claimed to hear hoof beats on cold, clear nights. A few children disappeared. One child claimed that a man with eyes black as coals came to his window and tried to get him to come outside.”

  “Was it the man who killed the plantation owner and his family?” Chris Hollingsworth leaned forward, his interest rekindled.

  So this was the story Cecil had wanted to tell me back in the RV. I was sorry we’d interrupted him. Now I’d have to wait until the Hollingsworths were gone before he and I could discuss what he knew about my ordeal with the Coachman in Travis’s foot-cheese-scented bedroom.

  “Nobody knows.” Cecil leaned so far forward he had to put his elbows on his bony legs. “But the men and women in the community were scared, and they had no means to move away. They took shifts, waiting to hear the hoof beats. One night, on a clear night just like this one, they heard the carriage coming.”

  “What did they do?” The teenager, C.J., watched Cecil as though he had the answers to the world.

  “They sent one of their strong young men into the darkness to surprise whoever was driving the carriage.” Cecil lowered his voice. “But he never came back, and they never found his body.” Cecil leaned forward, still speaking in a low voice, his audience hanging on every word. “Time passed, and this area became more populated. People quit talking about a ghostly carriage that might come and carry you off in the night. But every once in a while, people still talk about hearing a carriage in the darkness and about kids who go missing. My grandma sure believed in all of it. She’d say, ‘You kids best stop your nonsense. The Coachman’ll come for you tonight.’ Wait a minute.” Cecil cocked his head to the side. “What is that?”

  In the distance, barely audible, was the clop, clop of horse hoofs on a dirt road. Jennifer Hollingsworth gasped and spun around in her lawn chair, almost capsizing it.

  “What on earth?” Cecil stood and peered into the darkness. “Is that a light?”

  I stood, Zora tightening her grip around my neck to stay with me, and searched Cecil’s face for any sign this was part of his show. Surprise—hell, shock—slackened his features. My heart sped up. My great-uncle could act, but not that well.

  Cecil clutched his chest. He’d told me at our first meeting about his heart problems. Oh, no. Is he going to keel over right here in front of these strangers? Ohshitohshitohshit.

  I gripped Cecil’s arm with my free hand and stared into the woods. A dim, flickering light wavered, rocking back and forth the way it might if attached to a moving horse-drawn carriage. Underbrush cracked and snapped as the light drew closer.

  The temperature, already chilly, plummeted, and hard wind whipped through the trees, scattering branches and dead leaves in its wake. The black opal's temperature rose in response to supernatural phenomena. For once, the heat, my only source, felt good. The light came closer and, with it, the sound of a horse snorting.

  “No. Go away,” Cecil muttered under his breath. It hit me that he saw ghosts too, just like I did. Maybe he and I were the only ones seeing the show. I glanced at the Hollingsworths. Mouths open, eyes bugged out, there was no question the Hollingsworths saw exactly what Cecil and I saw. My mouth went dry.

  “I see it!” Jadine gripped my arm. “Do you see it?”

  I gaped at her. How did a blind woman with precognition see a ghost carriage? But it was obvious, from the wonder on her face, that she saw something.

  The carriage entered the glow of the campfire, and I got my first real glimpse of it. I bit back a scream and clutched Zora closer, more for my comfort than hers.

  The horses pulling the carriage were mostly bone with only patches of fur clinging here and there. Boiling red eyes glowed in their empty skulls. Their snorts, which came from lungless chests, came out in white vapor, which curled and danced before spreading and disappearing. A shadowy figure hunched over the reins.

  One of the Hollingsworths—I couldn’t tell which one—let out a high-edged shriek.

  “I see it,” Jadine said again from behind me. “Aren’t the horses beautiful?”

  I star
ed at the skeletons, then at her. No, I didn’t think they were beautiful.

  The carriage came closer. Cecil put himself in front of Jadine and me, both arms out. “Spirits leave this place now. Go back wherever you came from. I command it.” His voice echoed in the still night, the campfire crackling accompaniment.

  The carriage stopped. “Peri Jean Mace. Come now and bring the child.” The shadow’s hissed words sounded like wind through pine needles, only times one thousand. Behind it, I thought I heard something, voices chanting, but I couldn’t concentrate on them. This thing knew my name. How?

  “Spirit, leave now. I command you.” I yelled the words with as much force as I could. I sounded as weak as nursing home coffee.

  Jadine moved past me, faster and more confident than I thought her capable because of her disability. She walked toward the carriage, hand out.

  “No,” Cecil shouted, reaching for her.

  “Stay out of this, grandson of Samantha.” The carriage driver’s voice had real force now. It raised a hand and flicked its fingers at Cecil. Cecil flew backward and landed on his butt with a yelp of pain. I set Zora down and gave her a light push toward Danielle the pickpocket. Then I hurried to help Cecil.

  “Don’t let it take Jadine,” he said, his voice tight with pain.

  I ran after Jadine and caught her a few feet from the open carriage door. I hooked one arm around her waist and stopped her moving forward. The moon came out from behind a cloud and shone right down on the driver. The Coachman still wore his Victorian garb. He smiled at me and held out one bony arm. Fear beat at my throat and came out of my mouth in a scream so loud it hurt.

  “Come now, Peri Jean Mace, and I’ll spare this woman.” The glow of the campfire flickered over the Coachman’s features. Bright, glowing black eyes stared out at me. I never would have thought black eyes could have so much light in them, but these did.

  Those glowing black eyes latched onto mine. I stood in thrall, unable to detach myself from the pull of his gaze. I wanted to go with him, even though I knew it meant death. Horror stuttered in my chest. My power, the gift Priscilla Herrera passed on to me, spilled out of my nose. It stretched between the Coachman and me in a thin, glowing stream. My strength went with it. I staggered.

  Jadine, sensing my weakening, tried to move forward. I did the only thing I could think to do. I let my legs fold and sat down on the ground, pulling Jadine onto my lap.

  Footsteps came from behind me. I thought it was one of the others come to help us. Then Zora, her chubby toddler legs pumping, came around my side. I swung out one arm, but she danced away from me, one clumsy hand reaching for the carriage.

  “I make the horsey new again,” she babbled.

  The Coachman flashed forward, fast as a snake striking, and grabbed her. She wailed and tried to pull away.

  "No!" I loosened my grip on Jadine and threw myself at the baby. My hand brushed her ankle, and I clamped my fingers down on the soft skin, ignoring the little girl’s pained yelp, and held on for all I was worth.

  The Coachman turned his attention to me, malevolent light blazing from his eyes, and tried to push himself into me. The desire to go to him, to let him have his way with me, came back with a vengeance.

  I drew on the black opal and the mantle at the same time, feeling that weird, lizardy part of me awake. The world around me sharpened. The caw of Orev and the beat of his wings came from somewhere not too far away. He’d carry this spirit away. I’d seen him do it before.

  I pulled harder on the mantle’s power, needing all of the energy I could get. It rushed through me, humming as it went. Then the rise of power stopped. My pulse beat a painful rhythm behind my eyes. The feeling of being crammed too full throbbed in my head. That damn scar tissue. Had to be.

  The rustle of Orev’s wings drew closer. I drew deep inside myself and scraped together what magic I could. The effort created an agonizing tattoo of lights behind my eyes. The bridge of my nose ached like it was getting ready to explode in a rush of bone shards and brains.

  My knees wobbled. I struggled to hold myself upright. I tried to pull on my magic and got nothing but a blank, rushing sound. Too late, I realized my mistake. The Coachman had tired me out just like a boxer in a ring. He had drained away all my magical energy and used it to power whatever mischief he had planned. Well, he could eat the shit right out of my ass. I would fight him until one of us was dead.

  “You might as well be dead, Peri Jean Mace.” The Coachman’s laughter echoed in my head. He flicked his fingers at me. I blew backward like a piece of paper caught in the wind. He yanked Zora into the carriage.

  It took off, rattling and popping again. I pushed myself to my feet and staggered after it. Cecil shouted something at my back, but I didn’t have time for him. I chased the carriage, head throbbing so bad I could barely see straight. The carriage reached to the edge of the clearing where we’d had the campfire and vanished.

  Orev flapped into the clearing, but it was too late. I dropped to my knees and put my face in my hands.

  7

  A HALF HOUR LATER, THE HOLLINGSWORTHS’ RV blasted out of the park. The engine screamed as whoever was driving gunned it, getting as far away from us and our drama as they could.

  I watched them go through a fog of guilt. This damn spell, the one Memaw chose to have put on me, kept me from saving Zora. I felt it happen, that sensation of being a suitcase stuffed too full of clothes and having some jerk try to cram more in. And that was when the Coachman had drained me. Memaw would have told me to quit whining about coulda, woulda, and shoulda. She’d have said to get off my ass and do something. And she’d have been right. The spell and what to do about it would have to wait.

  I dragged myself to my feet and went to stand a few feet away from Finn and Dillon, still trying to catch my breath. The young woman had her hands covering her face, and her screams echoed in the darkness. Finn stood behind her, mouth half open and eyes glazed, like he didn’t know what to do for his wife.

  Every muscle in my body ached. The Coachman came for me. He called me by name. Now he had Zora, a little baby who had no chance against a monster like him. The sense of loss went so deep I wanted to wallow in the dirt and yell right along with Dillon. But I didn’t deserve to. I had let my family and myself down.

  The entire membership of Cecil’s Sanctuary watched the show, wide-eyed and silent. There might have been a couple dozen of them, kids included. Both adults and kids glanced my way every once in a while and quickly turned away when I caught them.

  Kenny and a middle-aged woman stood apart from everyone, next to the log where Danielle still sat. They whispered among themselves but didn’t make an effort to join the rest of the group. Cecil sat apart as well, holding Zander in his lap. The little boy’s tear-streaked cheeks glowed in the dim light. He had his thumb in his mouth. A man about my age approached Kenny and motioned at me. They had a short talk.

  “Something like this can’t go unpunished. Let’s call tribunal tonight.” This came from the woman standing next to Kenny, probably his wife or girlfriend. She had a curtain of long hair. Her mean, thin-lipped mouth puckered like she’d just sucked on a toilet plunger.

  Dillon cut off mid-wail and glared at the woman. “To hell with tribunal and punishments, Anita. I want my baby back. Now.” Dillon stood and stalked around the dying campfire, shoulders tight, fists clenched. She whipped her brown hair over one shoulder and glared at me. “Can you get my Zora back?”

  “Or die trying.” My answer came faster than I intended. Was I willing to go to the ends of the earth for this kid? Zora’s face popped into my mind, telling me she remembered me from before, and my heart cramped. Before what? If I wanted to know, I had to find her. But I also had to find her to keep her from whatever fate the Coachman had in store. The vision Jadine showed me kept popping back into my head. The way the Coachman had sacrificed that baby made my stomach spin. No. That couldn’t happen to Zora.

  “Cecil, I hate to say this, but I told yo
u not to bring your niece in here.” Kenny had been first to the campfire after Zora’s abduction. He came on the scene and started barking orders like he owned the place and everybody in it. I already wanted to pull his nuts up over his head and staple them to his scalp. Cecil needed to do something about him.

  “It isn’t her fault.” Cecil shivered in his thin coat. The campfire had burned down to nothing but embers and a few stray flickers of light. He had to be cold by now. “She saved Jadine but couldn’t get to Zora in time.”

  Kenny rolled his eyes. I amended my plans for his nuts. I’d transplant them to the back of his neck. With a rusty knife.

  My cellphone buzzed with a text message. I took it out of my pocket. The message was from Wade Hill. Relief so deep it hurt rushed through me.

  The message said, You need me?

  I wanted Wade’s comforting presence, but it would take him at least four hours to get from Gaslight City to The Woodlands. That was too much to ask of a man who wasn’t even my lover. I tapped on my cellphone’s screen. No. You’re too far away.

  His message came back before mine finished sending. I’ll be there soon as I can.

  “Look at her. She doesn’t give a fuck.” Kenny gestured at me. “She’s sending a text message.” He came over and tried to snatch my cellphone from me. I shot to my feet and stood chest to chest with Kenny. We glared at each other.

  “You and your stringy hair and that scraggly beard need to shut it.” My power surged back, weak but there. I was ready to see if I had enough juice to scare the fuck out of Kenny. The campfire blew back into existence, roaring as though it was brand new.