“Thank you again for using Trifles and Folly for your uncle’s estate,” I began. “We were going through the boxes, and we came across something interesting. We wondered if you might know more about it.”
On cue, Teag held out the box with the uniform button. Sullivan examined it, and then shrugged. “I’m sorry, but there was just so much in the house, I don’t remember things like individual buttons.” Despite her words, she kept turning the button this way and that in the light.
“Did your uncle keep any records of where he found the items in his collections?” I pressed.
She gave a weary chuckle. “He picked up a lot at flea markets, and he scavenged other people’s estate sales. When he was younger, he walked battlefields, poked through abandoned houses, and meandered through the woods near where the armies had fought.” She paused. “But for all that, he was almost obsessive about noting down what he got and where he got it. Usually he jotted a note on a scrap of paper and put it with the item. I passed everything to the museum that went along with the items they wanted.”
“Did your uncle leave any journals or diaries, something that might have recorded his ramblings?” I tried to keep my tone light, but my inner sense told me we were onto something, and that Sullivan held the key.
Sullivan looked uncomfortable. “He kept a journal throughout his adult life,” she said. “Stuffed them full of newspaper clippings, photos, even letters. I haven’t looked through them, and I don’t know if I’ll even try.” She sighed. “We weren’t very close. My uncle kept mostly to himself and had a rather sour disposition. He’d probably come back to haunt me if he knew I’d donated his belongings to a museum rather than holding out for top market price.”
Her comment sent a chill down my spine. Hoarders and misers were the most likely to retain an otherworldly attachment to their worldly goods. “I know I’m asking a great deal, but would you be willing to lend me the journals, just for a little while? We try to know the provenance of all the pieces we sell at Trifles and Folly, and something as trivial as where a button was found or purchased means so much to our clients.”
“My uncle’s life revolved around acquiring items for his collections,” Sullivan said. “I’m guessing you’ll find little more than a journal of his shopping trips, but good luck hunting.” Sullivan looked at turns guilty and relieved. I could guess why. She probably felt a bit guilty turning over a man’s private papers to a total stranger. At the same time, I wondered if, subconsciously, Sullivan picked up a disquieting resonance from the old man’s things.
“I’ll go get the journals,” she offered, and jumped up. Teag went to help, and a few minutes later he emerged with two mid-sized cartons.
“One more question, Ms. Michaels,” I said. “Would you mind if we went back into the house, just to see if there’s anything we missed, like a button or two?”
“I can’t imagine that you’ll find anything but you’re welcome to go. Just drop the key off when you’re finished.”
Teag put the boxes into the trunk of his car, and we started back to the shop. “You’ve got a feeling about those journals, I can see it in your face.”
“The button is a clue, but by itself, it’s not dark,” I replied. “But the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that something Edward Allendale brought home with him for his collections turned into a nasty surprise.”
“There are an awful lot of journals. It’s going to take forever to go through them all.”
“I have a hunch that the button will narrow it down for me.”
“Which is why I don’t think you should do it alone.” Teag might be a couple years younger than me, but he acts more like the big brother I never had. “Let’s take them back to the shop, order in pizza and a six pack while we wait for Sorren, and work our way through the journals.”
I tried not to look as relieved as I felt, but I knew Teag was wise to me. “Okay, twist my arm,” I laughed. “But are you sure you don’t have something better to do?”
“I could footnote my dissertation,” Teag replied dryly. “Other than that, no.”
Within the hour we had journals spread across my office. Good ol’ Edward had been a compulsive journal writer, and the slim tomes stretched all the way back to the 1930s. We ate, and as the afternoon shadows lengthened, we tackled the stack of books after setting them out in chronological order.
“Where does your hunch tell you to start?” Teag asked.
“The early years,” I answered without having to think about it. “I’ll take the oldest ones. He’s got more than seventy years’ worth of books; more than enough for both of us.”
I cheated, and didn’t start with the oldest volume, but instead I turned my senses inward, and waited to be led. Eyes closed, my hand came to rest on two of the journals. The leather bindings were scuffed and cracked, and the pages had yellowed. Inside, scrawled in a young man’s handwriting, entries had been inked with a fountain pen.
June 14, 1939 Spent the day down along the river. I know General Beauregard’s troops marched through here, or close to this spot. The man who owns this land says it’s been in his family since the war years, but no one ever did much with it. He thought there were a few skirmishes hereabouts. Wouldn’t I love to find something they left behind!
I read on, caught up in the old entries. I had braced myself for negative impressions from the journals, but from this volume, I sensed only curiosity and enthusiasm. As soon as I picked up the next journal, the feeling changed. There was a darkness to the journal’s resonance. Something had changed Edward Allendale between 1939 and 1940. I had a feeling our button had something to do with that shift.
I flipped through it, scanning the dates. Then I realized something. The first half of the book still had the positive feel of the first journal, but toward the middle, a heaviness hung over the pages. I flipped back and forth, trying to find out where the feeling shifted, and this passage caught my attention.
July 17, 1940. I just don’t seem to be able to leave off walking along the river. I think there’s something here to find, almost like I’m supposed to find it. I can barely sleep at night, thinking about when I can come back and poke around some more.
On the next page, it felt as if a dark curtain descended. I knew I’d found what I was looking for.
July 18, 1940. I saw a little cave I’d never noticed before. It was shallow and filled with rocks, but I found bits of an old uniform, mostly gone to mold except for a button, a gold coin, some yellowed bones and a skull. I’m certain one of our boys in gray made this his last resting place. I left the bones, but I took the button, the coin and the skull. I’ll figure out who to tell about it. Maybe they’ll give old Johnny Reb a memorial parade, and pin a medal on me for finding him.
“But you didn’t tell anyone, did you Edward,” I murmured. I riffled through the pages of the journal, and two yellowed letters fell out. I bent down, curious.
“That’s odd,” I said. “These letters are much older than the journal.” I looked to where the journal had opened, and read another entry.
September 5, 1940. I think I may have figured out who the Johnny Reb was in that cave. Mr. Johnson at the Historical Society has been letting me go over the lists of the missing and dead from the battles fought near where I found the skull. I could narrow it down some from the type of button, and today I think I found my man. Some of the dead soldiers’ families bequeathed items to the Historical Society. Mr. Johnson let me go through those, too. When I found the letters, I knew it had to be the man whose bones I found. His name was Jonah Macaulay. I kept the letters for safekeeping, and I’ll give them back to Mr. Johnson along with the skull and other things once I can figure out how to get old Jonah his final rest.
“Find something?” Teag asked.
I showed him the entry, glad to get the book out of my hands. The darkness that found Edward Allendale had started closing in around me. “It changed him,” I said. “Before he found those things in the cave, he was just a y
oung guy looking for treasure. But the sense of him shifts from the time he found that grave.”
“So Edward stole the letters, huh?” Teag said when he finished reading.
I nodded. “I think he was used to bending the rules, and maybe by this point, the items he found were already getting a hold over him.”
I fingered the old parchment, but by themselves, the letters had no special resonance. Carefully, I unfolded the yellowed paper. Bold pen strokes told me that the handwriting probably belonged to a man, and the signature confirmed it. “Jonah Macaulay,” I murmured.
“So what’s in those letters?” Teag’s eyes shone with the love of the hunt.
I struggled to make out the faded lines. “They were written by Jonah to Elsabeth Bradley, and it appears they were engaged,” I said, working my way through the cramped paragraphs.
“My dear Elsabeth,” I read aloud. “The sentiment of your gift pleases me, but I am concerned when you speak of its origins. I know that your people come from New Orleans, and many things are done differently there than in Charleston, but I would be a bit more comfortable with the gift of a small cross or even a medallion of one of the saints, like those the Catholic soldiers carry. Nevertheless, I know the intent of your heart, and you may be assured I will carry your token with me into battle, as did the knights of old.”
“She gave him something as a good luck charm,” Teag said, staring at the button. “And it made old Jonah uncomfortable.”
I unfolded the second letter, and noticed immediately that the writing was different. Smaller, graceful, meticulous penmanship hinted that the writer of this letter was female. “That’s interesting,” I said. “There’s a note in pencil on the outside of this letter, saying it was found with the kit bag of a missing soldier.”
I scanned down through the letter. “Here it is,” I said, feeling a thrill of triumph. “Darling Jonah. How I pray for this war to be over, and for you to return safely. I know you sent me back to my parents in New Orleans for my safety, but I now feel doubly parted from you. I cannot sleep for fear that something might befall you. I implored my maid to take me to the French Quarter, where a Creole woman sells amulets that bring good fortune. Please do not think me unchristian, but I fear my prayers alone may not be enough to bring you home again. The Creole promised me that if you keep this gold coin near your heart, you will not die. I beg of you, my love, do this for me. Ever yours, Elsabeth.”
“I learned long ago that the devil is in the details when it comes to contracts.” Sorren’s voice made me jump. He stood in the doorway, and I realized that we had been at the journals long enough for the sun to have set.
“You heard?” I asked, clearing journals off a chair for Sorren to have a seat. Sorren looked to be in his late twenties, but I knew he was older. He had dark blond hair, blue eyes flecked with gray, like the sea after a storm, and a slim, wiry build. Once upon a time, he had been a jewel thief in Antwerp, but that was before the Alliance had recruited him. Now, he put his talents to better use, keeping dangerous magical objects from falling into the wrong hands.
“I heard enough to make me suspect that perhaps Elsabeth should have been more careful with the way she phrased her request,” Sorren said. His gaze rested on the old letters.
“If you keep this gold coin near your heart, you will not die,” I murmured. I looked up, meeting Teag’s gaze. “Could an amulet keep Jonah’s spirit from crossing over?”
“Your phone message left a good bit out,” Sorren interrupted. “Perhaps you could recap a bit for me.” After all this time, his voice still held a trace of a Dutch accent.
Teag and I took turns filling Sorren in, ending with the discovery of the journal and the letters. Sorren listened quietly, but I could see the spark in his eyes that said he was mentally cross-referencing everything we told him against his considerable knowledge of magical lore.
“So Elsabeth asked a Voudon to make an amulet for her beloved,” Sorren said. “That kind of magic should not be dabbled in. It’s powerful, and the spirits that give the Voudon power, the Loas, do not make simple bargains.”
I moved around the room, letting my hand hover over the journals, decade by decade. “Something isolated Edward, filled him with despair. I can feel how it grew over the years. By the end, it consumed him.”
Sorren nodded. “Edward found Jonah’s skull – and the button and coin – in a cave. Caves are liminal space, thresholds between our world and other realities. That would have heightened the power of the spell on the coin, and lying there for more than a century would have strengthened it even further. Then Edward happens upon the bones and takes them home with him, to a home built on land reclaimed from the sea – another sort of liminal space. He brings it into a home that already had a history of haunting, so other spirits had found an easy passage from their world to ours.”
I shook my head as the horror of the situation became clear. “Jonah, or the coin, fed on Edward’s life energy, until Edward weakened and Jonah grew stronger.”
“I fear Jonah has been a tool of the coin’s curse for many years now,” Sorren replied. “If anything of Jonah still remains, it’s what left after the coin drew the power it needed to fulfill the spell.”
“We didn’t see a skull or a gold coin in the house,” Teag said. “But before the house passes on to another owner, we’re going to need to find them, or Edward won’t be the only victim.”
Sorren nodded. “The coin – or rather, the curse on the coin – is strongest in liminal space. So you’ll have to go in daylight, avoiding the threshold times.”
“Noon, midnight, dawn, sundown,” I replied. “And nighttime.”
“Exactly. And my magic makes me liminal space,” Sorren added quietly, meeting my gaze. Magic had kept Sorren alive long beyond a normal lifespan. “So I won’t be able to go with you on this one. My presence will only make the curse stronger.” He paused. “Don’t worry, Cassidy. Teag and I will still get the items to the Alliance. I just need you to find them.”
“How do we get it out of there?” I asked. “I don’t dare touch it, and I don’t want to put Teag in danger.”
“Agreed,” Sorren replied. “Give me a couple of hours. I need to pay a visit to an old friend.”
Sorren left the shop, and Teag and I passed the time cleaning up the pile of journals and unloading a few of the boxes I could assure contained nothing except ‘mundanes’. Before long, we heard a knock on the door and rushed to let Sorren in.
“I went to see a friend of mine, one who knows something about Voudon. Mama Nadedge,” he said.
“Why didn’t you take us with you?” I asked, intrigued and a little put out at being left behind.
Sorren chuckled. “Mama Nadedge died many years ago, Cassidy. Her spirit lingers, if one knows where to look. I asked her guidance, and this is what she gave me.” He withdrew a piece of paper marked with a complicated, stylized pattern of crossed lines, stars and a heart, something I recognized as a veve, a Voudon symbol.
“I took these to a jeweler I know, someone willing to stay open late for a good cause,” Sorren said. “He made these for you and Teag.” Sorren reached into his pocket and withdrew two silver disks engraved with the same pattern as the paper, each on their own silver chain.
“I know enough about Voudon to know each spirit, or Loa, has its own veve. Whose is this?”
Sorren smiled. “Very good, Cassidy. This is the veve for Maman Brigitte. She’s the spirit who reclaims the souls of the dead and helps them cross over. Believers say she’s powerful, and she appears as either a bride or a veiled old woman. She is very near the top of the Loa hierarchy, which means that whatever spirit placed the curse on Jonah’s coin is less powerful than Maman Brigitte.”
“At least, we hope so,” I muttered under my breath, taking the amulet and slipping it over my head.
* * *
The next day, when we reached the Allendale house, I let Teag go on ahead to unlock the door and turn on the lights. I lagged be
hind, turning my senses inward, listening for the button’s owner. There was a presence here. I followed Teag to the attic.
“Teag, let me hold your jacket, please,” I said.
I was hoping that having the button close to me would heighten my senses. It did. As soon as I held Teag’s jacket, the connection with the button grew stronger. As Teag began to wander around, looking at the attic walls for hiding places, I let my senses focus on the box, let it draw me toward one particular corner.
Against one wall was a large, empty armoire. I stood in front of it, wondering why the button had steered me here.
“I emptied that myself,” Teag said, coming up behind me. “We went through it completely. There aren’t any hidden compartments, no extra drawers.” He shook his head. “We left it here because frankly, no one could figure out how to get it down the stairs.”
I looked down toward the floor. “Casters,” I said, pointing. “It can be moved. Did you look behind it?”
Teag shook his head. “It was pretty clear no one had moved it for decades, and it’s flush against the wall. Never occurred to me.”
I went to one side and put my shoulder against the armoire. “Come on. Let’s see what’s behind it.” Teag joined me, and we started to push. The heavy wooden armoire didn’t want to roll, but finally, the casters creaked and we inched the heavy box down the wall.
“There!” I said, and pointed. The wall behind the armoire was filthy, covered in dust and a shroud of old cobwebs. Down where the wall met the floor a piece of wood covered a hole in wall, and above it, a thin dark crack separated two wide boards.
Teag pulled out a pair of work gloves from his messenger bag, along with a screwdriver. He knelt next to the opening, and began to pry at the wood. I could hardly think straight, because the sensations from the button in my pocket had gone off the charts.
The attic walls melted away, and once again I saw the sunlit battlefield I had glimpsed before through the eyes of the button’s owner.
Fear coursed through me, making my heart pound. All around me, I heard the sharp crack of rifles and in the distance, the steady, deadly pounding of cannons that shook the ground beneath my feet. The uniform I wore was gray, or had been once. Now, it was faded from the sun, stained where it had been splashed with the blood of other men, brown from the red clay dirt. Just as I raised my rifle to my shoulder, I heard another loud crack, closer this time, and staggered backwards as if someone had shoved me. My own shot went wild, with the rifle barrel pointed toward the sky as I nearly fell. When I put my hand down to my side, my fingers came away stained with blood.
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