A strong, unpleasant smell stopped me in my tracks. “Gad. Did someone leave the garbage out in the sun?” I muttered. We moved on, trying not to breathe.
The house was long and narrow, with four rooms each right in front of the other so that you had to go through one to get to the others. That’s why the style is called ‘shotgun’, since you if all the doors were open, you could shoot a shotgun from the front door out the back without hitting anything. Legend has it that spirits like shotgun-style houses, since they can easily pass through them. Maybe that’s why High John picked it, or maybe the rent was cheap. High John’s back yard was even more of a mess than the front yard, and I began to wonder if he had picked up and left town. It didn’t look like anyone had been around for a while.
Teag rapped at the door. No one answered. He put his hand under the bottom of his t-shirt and used the cloth to try the doorknob. It was old and cheap, and it turned with a snap. He pushed it open, and we both almost lost our lunch. The stench was overwhelming. I had a feeling that High John had bigger problems than his garbage. I was right.
We found his body in the hallway. Charleston heat doesn’t do good things for a corpse. It was bloated and covered with flies, and from the maggots I glimpsed, I knew he hadn’t died recently. The body was surrounded with ritual paraphernalia. There was a t-shaped black candle with writing carved into what was left of its half-burned trunk. I saw opened bags of powders and an overturned bottle of something that looked like vinegar. Bits of broken mirror glinted in the dying light. I wanted to throw up, but when I tightened my grip on the sweetgrass basket, it calmed me and helped me to not toss my cookies.
“Watch where you step,” I said, remembering Mrs. Teller’s warning. Not to mention that we didn’t need to leave footprints where there was a dead body.
“Let’s get out of here,” Teag said, and we backed out. I was expecting to find the police waiting at our car, or at least nosy neighbors, but to my relief, no one tried to stop us.
When we were well clear of the area, Teag pulled into a parking lot and we both sat and shivered for a moment. “Yikes,” I said, still queasy from the smell and what we’d seen.
“That doesn’t begin to cover it,” Teag replied. “Off-hand, I’d say High John could have died not long after the Stedmans.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I countered. “If he’s dead, and she’s dead, and Stedman is dead, who cast the curse?”
“Do you think Marjorie did it?” he asked, putting the car into gear and heading onto the road again.
I grimaced. “I don’t want to think so,” I replied, thinking back over our meeting. I shook my head. “No. I really don’t. Even though she inherits. I don’t think she’s the one.”
Teag glanced my way. “Then who? And why kill the conjure doctor? Unless someone didn’t want there to be a witness for murdering the Stedmans.”
My head hurt. “We need to pull Sorren in on this. Maybe Mrs. Teller, too. We’re no closer to un-cursing the humidor, and there are three dead people. Let’s go back to my place, and I’ll call Sorren again. I left a message for him earlier, but he hasn’t returned my call.”
The sun set on our way back from High John’s house. As it turned out, Sorren was waiting for us. I own what Charlestonians call a ‘single house’, which has the narrow end facing the street so that the front door comes onto my porch (we call it a ‘piazza’) instead of into the house. The piazza faces a small walled garden. I bought the house at a steep discount from my parents when they moved, or I could never have afforded it. Sorren and Mrs. Teller were sitting on the porch swing, chatting and laughing like old friends.
“How did it go?” Sorren asked, rising as we entered the porch.
I shook my head. “I’ll tell you once we’re inside and I’ve poured us all some bourbon.”
Baxter, my little Maltese dog, began barking up a storm when I put the key in the lock. But when he saw Sorren, he immediately sat down and stared at us with a befuddled look of goofy admiration.
“You glamored him again, didn’t you?” I said drily. Sorren bent over to scratch Baxter behind the ears.
“I keep telling you it won’t hurt him,” Sorren replied. My boss may be a nearly six hundred year-old vampire, but he keeps up with the times. His blond hair was cut in the latest style, and his t-shirt and jeans had a trendy-gothic vibe that was rather ironic on him. He says that vampires who can’t change with the times don’t survive long. At this rate, he might make it to one thousand.
I flicked on the lights and led us into the living room, where I sloshed some bourbon into two rocks glasses, then turned to see if my guests wanted any. Sorren and Mrs. Teller shook their heads, although I had a feeling Mrs. Teller noticed that my hand was shaking as I poured.
“He’s dead,” Teag said as he took his glass and sat down. “High John. Been that way for a while. Looked like he died in the middle of doing a spell.”
“Tell me exactly what you saw,” Mrs. Teller said, leaning forward. “It’s important.” She listened intently as we told her everything we could remember about the house and grounds. When we were finished, she looked at Sorren and shook her head.
“We got trouble,” Mrs. Teller said.
“I know,” I replied, trying not to sound testy as I sipped the bourbon and leaned back into the couch, trying to un-see that awful scene. “Three dead people and no idea whodunit.”
Mrs. Teller gave a soft, mirthless laugh. “Oh no, child. We know. The problem is, the killing isn’t over yet because it wasn’t done right.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Meaning what?”
“I did a little asking around, after you left the market house,” Mrs. Teller said. “I know people. And they said that High John had let slip he had a big job comin’, so he could pay his bills and his poker debts, too. Someone saw him in the dark down near Whitepoint Gardens, talking with a high-class lady. Now, they’re all dead.” She shook her head. “He got careless.”
“I’m totally lost,” Teag said.
“When I got Cassidy’s voice mail, I put some Alliance resources to work looking into that humidor and the cigars,” Sorren said. “The trail leads right to Caroline Stedman. But the humidor was magically neutral. Illegal, yes, but not dangerous. And before you ask, the cigars weren’t poisoned—at least not when they left Havana.”
He paused. “What’s especially damning is the fact that the day before Peyton Stedman’s birthday, the day before he received the Humidor—which was cursed by then—Caroline Stedman made a visit to Magnolia Cemetery.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Premonition? Buying a plot for hubby?”
Sorren shook his head. “Neither. She went in, walked to a remote corner of the cemetery, appeared to bury something small, and left.”
“How did you know to have someone following Caroline Stedman before there was a murder?” Teag asked.
Sorren chuckled. “I didn’t. The Alliance has watchers on all the cemeteries. As it turns out, he didn’t contact me about Mrs. Stedman. He wanted to let me know we have a wraith on the loose.”
“There have always been stories about Magnolia Cemetery being haunted,” I said. “Confederate soldiers and little ghost girls, that sort of thing. What’s so special about a wraith?”
“Wraiths aren’t just ghosts,” Sorren said. “They’re malicious spirits that have been brought back for a purpose, bound to the will of someone good with dark magic. They aren’t as strong as a demon, but they can cause some real trouble—especially if whoever called them loses control.”
“Or dies without banishing them?” Teag asked.
Sorren nodded. “From what you’ve said, it’s likely High John got careless, and the wraith got past his protections. Wraiths don’t like being forced to a mortal’s will. I’m not surprised that it killed him.”
“Now that High John’s dead, won’t the wraith just go back to where it came from?” I asked.
Mrs. Teller shook her head. “It’s not that s
imple. This wraith was called to do killing, and killing is what it does. Cut loose, it needs energy to continue on in our world, and it gets that energy from death.”
“So more killing, unless we stop it,” I replied. Something I’d heard didn’t quite connect. “Why did Caroline Stedman go to visit a wraith?”
Mrs. Teller laughed. “She didn’t. High John, he would have given her a coffin box to bury. That was part of the spell, along with that black cross candle you saw.”
“Coffin box?” Teag asked.
“Coffin boxes are conjure tools,” Mrs. Teller replied. “Black box with broken mirrors inside and a piece of paper with a curse written on it by the root worker, cursing someone to the grave. Person who wants someone dead takes that box to the cemetery, and buries it so the spirits take hold and make it so.”
“In order to banish the wraith, we’ve got to get rid of the coffin box, and work some conjure of our own,” Sorren said. “Wraiths are stubborn. It’s not going to go away without a fight.”
“What about all the paraphernalia we saw at High John’s house?” Teag asked, taking a sip of his bourbon. “Won’t that need to be destroyed, too?”
“Leave that to me,” Sorren replied. “I’ll have it taken care of.”
“What’s the plan?” I asked, finding that the bourbon had gone a long way toward steadying my hands and calming my fears. Good thing, because I had the feeling things were going to get worse before they got better.
“I need to gather some supplies,” Sorren said, standing. “I’ll be back in an hour, and then we’ll head over to the cemetery to settle things.” He headed out the door.
“I came prepared,” Mrs. Teller said. “I brought my hand with me, and things to make you all something for protection, too.”
“Hand?” I asked, totally lost.
She chuckled and drew out a small pouch of worn silk from inside the neckline of her shirt. “For one thing, I got my toby, my mojo bag. A hand is a spirit that agrees to keep company with a root worker, help out. Gives me guidance, helps me discern.” She patted the bag affectionately and slipped it back into its place. “And I got my demon bowl. We’ll need that, going against a wraith strong enough to do what this one’s done.”
She drew a sweetgrass basket out of her bag. It didn’t look like any of the pieces she sold at the market. This basket was more like a shallow bowl with a dark line woven in a spiral from the outer rim to the very center. “Help us hold and trap that thing,” she said, noticing my attention.
Mrs. Teller put the basket into her bag and drew out a ball of red yarn, a large needle and a packet of wax. “Before we go out, we’re gonna make both of you jack balls.” She looked up before we could ask. “Protection. Mojo bags are a commitment; gotta keep that spirit happy forever. Jack balls work different, but good.” She glanced at Teag. “With your Weaving, yours will be real strong.” Her gaze traveled to me. “Your magic’s in your touch, don’t deny it. That will make your ball strong, too.”
“First, I need a piece of hair from each of you, and some nail clippings.” I went to get the clippers from the bathroom. Then she held out the packet of wax. “Take a piece the size of a big marble. Roll it around in your hand until it gets warm and soft, then put your hair and clippings in it, and roll it some more.”
Next, she cut us each a long piece of red yarn and a shorter piece. “Now you wrap the ball up good, and leave a tail about a foot long.” She watched approvingly as we did as she told us. “Now you take this needle, and poke it through the middle of the ball, and out the other side. Then make a pass through the yarn with the short piece, so you have three tails. Then braid them together.”
“Like this?” Teag held his up after a few moments, and I was done a minute later.
“Good. Now it’s not ready yet,” Mrs. Teller said, fixing us with a serious look. “First, hold it up to your mouth and breathe on it. Just like that,” she said as I complied. “Then, spit on it, and rub it in. Now make the sign of the cross over it, and then add a drop of that bourbon you’re drinking. That’ll seal it.”
“What do we do with it?” Teag asked.
Mrs. Teller withdrew a blue-yarn jack ball from her pocket. She let it hang from the braided tail. “Twirl it clockwise to attract, counter-clockwise to repel. State your intent like a chant as you do it.”
“Like ‘wraith be gone’?” Teag asked.
Mrs. Teller fixed him with a glare. “This isn’t a joke. The stronger your intent, and the better you say it, the better the jack ball works.” She eyed our work one more time and nodded approvingly. “Keep those on you, in easy reach. And Cassidy? You keep that basket of mine with you, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Teag replied, chastened. I nodded. I knew humor was his way of handling nervousness. Going after a killer wraith in an old cemetery at night didn’t sound like a smart thing to do. Was that going to stop us? Not on your life.
We were done making and activating our jack balls by the time Sorren returned. “Ready?”
We weren’t, but we headed out anyway. Mrs. Teller drove with us in Teag’s Volvo, and Sorren said he would meet us there. I had a suspicion that with his vampire speed, he was planning to go on ahead and scout the area.
Magnolia Cemetery is a beautiful place in the daytime. Live oak trees, grown tall and gnarled over nearly two hundred years, spread their branches above the tombs, heavy with Spanish moss. The grounds used to be part of a big plantation, and the old house sits on the property. We wound our way around large Victorian monuments and elaborate tombstones. Some I recognized, like the Egyptian pyramid and the reclining figure of ‘Little Annie’, a child from a prominent family who had died very young. Lots of famous people are buried here. Some like it well enough that they don’t leave.
Before dark, Magnolia Cemetery was full of tourists, history buffs, and folks out for a stroll. While I knew we weren’t entirely alone, I knew we were the only living beings inside the cemetery walls. Inside the gates, it was quieter than it should have been. Summer in Charleston is full of the singing of tree frogs, the buzz of cicadas, and the hoots of owls. Now, all I could hear was the wind rustling in the leaves. I made sure not to touch any of the grave stones. I didn’t need to know more tragic stories than the three deaths we were trying to avenge.
“Over there,” Sorren said in a low voice, pointing to a corner of the graveyard. I knew that we were being watched, and I was equally certain that the spirits were wondering why we had come. Mrs. Teller had briefed us in the car on the way over, so I knew the plan, but in my experience, plans went out the window as soon as the fighting started. I had the jack ball handy in a pocket, and I was wearing my agate necklace. The basket Mrs. Teller had given me was nestled in my arm, although I would have gladly traded it for one of those ghost-vacuums like in the movies. No such luck. It appeared we were going to do this the hard way.
We followed Sorren to a lonely corner of the grounds. Magnolia Cemetery has been around long enough to be full of monuments and tomb stones, but this corner was mostly empty. I saw Mrs. Teller close her eyes and begin to murmur as she let her jack ball swing back and forth like a divination pendant. It seemed to pull her, and she followed it like a dowsing rod until she stood over a place where the ground had been turned up not long ago.
“Here,” she said, and took out a container of salt from her bag. She walked counter-clockwise around the disturbed dirt, and then placed two black candles and two white candles at the four quarters of the circle. Then she drew out a bottle of Four Thieves vinegar and sprinkled it around within the circle. Finally, she took out a mixture of herbs, roots, and other ingredients she had put together and sifted it over the grass and dirt. She was chanting quietly the whole time, one hand stroking her mojo bag, the other moving her jack ball in slow, counter-clockwise circles. She had her demon bowl ready.
Mrs. Teller swore that her magic could defeat the wraith, if we could keep the wraith from attacking her before she finished. Sorren, Teag, and I took
up places on the outside of the salt circle, our backs to Mrs. Teller, facing the dark and quiet cemetery.
We were armed. Sorren had an iron sword—not great against corporeal foes, but a powerful weapon against evil spirits, and something a vampire could wield without harm. He and Teag both had mirrors, good for driving back or trapping certain types of spirits. Aside from that, Sorren had the strength and speed of an immortal, and he was hard to kill. Teag had one of his martial arts staffs, and old birch rod that was almost as tall as he was. It was scarred from battle and covered with protective carvings. Tonight, he wore an obsidian ring and an agimat, a Philippine amulet that was a gift from one of his teachers.
Both Teag and I had filled our pockets with salt, and we each had black tourmaline stones with us to keep negative energy at bay. I had an obsidian knife that Sorren had given me, smooth and old and sharp. Around my left wrist, I wore a bracelet of brass bells, and I had an unbreakable metal mirror on a leather strap around my neck. And I had Mrs. Teller’s basket that still jiggled with the things I had put in it on my way back from market and never took out. It didn’t seem like much, out here in the quiet dark.
I felt like I was in one of those stand-offs in the old Westerns, like the shootout at the OK Corral. Sorren had told me that wraiths fed on energy, even the energy of other ghosts, so maybe that explained why the spirits that usually made themselves known were holding back. Crap. We were going up against something that even scared ghosts.
And then I saw it. I was expecting something in a black hooded robe with no face, like in the movies. The real thing is a lot worse. The shape was the same, but it rippled like maggots on roadkill, opaque like thick smoke, an absence of light instead of a solid form. It stank like a corpse left out in the sun. Tendrils descended from a hood-like ‘head’, twitching like ghostly tentacles. I had faced a vampire’s ghost, and it drew life energy from the living, but the wraith was like its own life-sucking black hole, withering the grass around it, blotting out the stars behind it, and I swear it made the air harder to breathe.
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