The Rising: A Badlands Novel

by Morgan Brice

  “Uh huh. You’re not usually slow on the uptake,” Miss Eppie replied. “Come on over to the shop at closing. I’ll have tea ready. Don’t be surprised if Gabriella is here, too. I know you called both of us.”

  Simon chuckled. “Guilty as charged. I’ll be there. And…thanks.”

  Miss Eppie gave a huff. “Don’t thank me yet, Sebastian. Pulling your butt out of the fire is becoming a regular occurrence.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t you apologize! Nothing wrong with asking for help. You just need to learn to ask sooner, that’s all. Now, I’ll see you at six. Don’t be late. We have work to do.”

  Simon ended the call and slipped his phone back in his pocket, trying and failing to rid himself of a vague feeling of guilt, like he’d been caught cutting class. Pete glanced at him and chuckled at his expression.

  “You’re so busted.”

  Simon flipped him off, but he had to grin. “Yeah. I just take my lumps because she’s right—and she and Gabriella together are a force of nature. I’d even bet on them against the storm.”

  The rest of the day passed unremarkably. Simon had a radio on, tuned to the weather forecast, which grew increasingly dire. The number of pedestrians on the boardwalk had slowed to a trickle, with a cold wind and spitting rain. Hours passed without someone entering the shop, even to browse. Simon finally sent Pete home early, since there was nothing left to do. Maybe tomorrow, if the weather still looked bad, they’d fill those sandbags.

  He closed up for the night, checked the alarm, the wardings, and the security camera, and headed over to Miss Eppie’s store. Her shop didn’t need the visibility of a boardwalk address. People who needed her found her. The sign outside the modest storefront proclaimed: “Lowcountry Roots.” Simon could feel a shiver of magic as he crossed the threshold, aware of the warding Miss Eppie had placed there.

  Inside, the store appeared to be an offbeat gift shop, with a selection of handmade crafts including sweetgrass baskets and woven shawls. The case beneath the counter held boxes of different colored powders, bottles of Four Thieves vinegar, and gnarled clumps of High John the Conqueror root.

  Those in the know understood that everything in the store had a connection to hoodoo, and was either an ingredient for a root work spell or had been blessed by Miss Eppie herself. The air smelled of sage and cinnamon. Simon felt the positive magic like a warm blanket, making him feel safe.

  Miss Eppie bustled up to the counter from the back room. “Sebastian. I’m glad you’re here. Gabriella is on her way. Come into the kitchen. I have tea.” Miss Eppie might be in her seventies, but she moved with cat-like grace and preferred jewel tone colors that brought out the golden undertones in her dark skin. Today she wore a deep blue silk scarf over an emerald blouse with practical black jeans and ankle boots. Gold hoop earrings set off her short hair. The semi-precious gems in her rings and bracelets were all known for their protective magic.

  Simon followed her to the dated but clean kitchenette that held a table and chairs, small refrigerator, microwave, sink, and coffee maker. A pitcher of iced tea and three glasses sat in the middle of the table.

  “Sit. Have something to drink. I can feel your tension.” Miss Eppie might not be a mind-reader, but her hoodoo and years of experience made her a sharp observer.

  Simon poured a glass for her and for himself. “Thanks. I like the new baskets up front, by the way.” The sweet tea was brewed strong and sugary enough to make his fillings ache.

  “They are nice, aren’t they?” she replied, clearly waiting for Gabriella to come so she could lock up. “A friend of mine down in Charleston—another root woman named Mrs. Teller—sent those up. She does good work. And they’ve all got a bit of her magic in them.”

  Gabriella Hernandez showed up a few minutes later, a slightly built woman in a crimson twin-set over dark slacks who looked like she had just come from a business meeting. She defied the stereotype of a caftan-clad bruja, and she took a thoroughly modern approach to her magic. “Simon. Eppie.” She greeted with a nod. Where Eppie reminded Simon of a grandmother, Gabriella seemed more like a strict librarian.

  “Come on in and have a seat. I’ll lock up,” Miss Eppie said, shooing Gabriella into the kitchen. She returned and took her place beside Simon, then focused her gaze on him.

  “All right. You called and said there was a situation. Fill us in.”

  The women listened, occasionally interrupting for clarification, as Simon told his story. He left nothing out, starting with his terrifying visions of the Gallows Nine and the men aboard the black ship, to the cryptic messages from the hanged men and the hostile ghosts of Socastee Manor. The few details he omitted were those the police had asked not to be revealed about the Platz murder.

  “That’s quite a lot,” Gabriella said when Simon finished. She tapped a manicured nail against the glass tumbler as she thought. “And you think that somehow, everything is connected?”

  Simon let out a long breath. “I do, but I can’t prove it. I’m just afraid that it’s all coming to a head, and the storm is part of that.”

  “Storms can magnify power, and increase the energy of spirits,” Eppie remarked.

  “Do you think someone—or something—has called the storm?” Simon asked.

  “No one can fully control the weather,” Gabriella replied. “A weather witch can affect a very small area, to protect it or make a storm more violent. It’s a rare type of magic. But there have been stories about people and creatures and objects that could influence storms.”

  “Not just stories,” Eppie said. “True tales. Right here in these waters. I remember when I was a girl, hearing an old story about a man with a cursed set of bagpipes who sank a smuggling ship off the coast of Bermuda.”

  Her comment sent a chill down Simon’s spine, and he thought of his vision of the black ship. “Do you know anything more about the man in that story?”

  Eppie gave him a look as if she could guess his thoughts. “He was a water witch who became a privateer, working for a patron in Charleston. They said he stole cursed and haunted cargo and got rid of it where it couldn’t hurt anyone again.”

  That triggered another memory, and Simon promised himself to make a phone call when their meeting was over.

  “Would this have been back around the time of the Gallows Nine?” Simon pressed.

  Miss Eppie nodded. “Probably. What are you thinking, Sebastian?”

  “The rough water churned up the wreck of the Annabelle, the ship sailed by the Gallows Nine. People knew it went down off the coast, but no one had been able to find it before. I met one of the lead divers who’s exploring the wreck. I’m just wondering whether that has anything to do with the rest of this mess.”

  “There’s no such thing as coincidence,” Gabriella said. “The question is, can you find the link?”

  “We’ve got two sets of murders,” Simon said and refilled his glass. “The men who are being driven to hang themselves, and Jacob Platz’s killing out at the manor.”

  “Socastee Manor is a bad place,” Miss Eppie said, and her fingers went to the mojo bag that was always in a pocket. “Been unlucky for a long, long time. I wish you’d have asked me before you promised that man you’d help un-haunt it. Some places are stained deep.”

  “What’s so bad about it?” Simon asked. “I read up on the Dunwoods—at least, what I could find online.”

  Miss Eppie gave a snort. “Like you’d find the whole truth there. The man who settled that plantation, back before the Revolution, got the land from the king. Only it wasn’t the king’s to give—there were native people already living there. So the first Dunwood had to drive them off and steal their land, and people died.”

  She paused to sip her tea. “It didn’t get better from there. Dunwood had slaves—of course he did. Working a rice plantation was a death sentence from malaria. At first, the Dunwoods didn’t do well. Then all of a sudden, everything turned around, and they became rich. People I know whose ancesto
rs worked that land say Jamie Dunwood made a deal with the devil. The slaves knew about the dark magic, but they didn’t dare tell anyone. Then later there were rumors Dunwood had a hand in the smuggling trade. Wouldn’t surprise me. His descendants weren’t any better.” She leaned forward. “That house should stay abandoned. That land is cursed, and the energy will just get worse with more people around.”

  “The developer isn’t going to walk away from the project,” Simon said, shaking his head. “Trevor—the general contractor—is afraid someone on his crews will get hurt badly. I can’t just walk away if I could help. Maybe I can’t un-curse the land, but if I can get rid of the vengeful ghost, at least nobody else will die.”

  “I agree with Eppie,” Gabriella said, giving Simon a disapproving look. “But if you’re not going to quit, take these.” She pulled several charms made of shell and bone, feathers and seeds, from her purse and pushed them across the table to Simon. “They’ll help protect you, but they won’t hold off everything. Just remember—storms can make all kinds of bad things rise from where they’ve been buried.”

  Simon stopped at the store on the way back to the bungalow. He’d felt bad all day that he and Vic had argued, and he wanted to make up for it. A quick run through the Piggly Wiggly netted him two steaks, bagged salad, and fresh rolls. On impulse, he also grabbed a bouquet of red carnations, Vic’s favorites.

  When he got to the blue bungalow, Vic wasn’t back yet. Simon hurried inside, heated the broiler, and set out candles and the flowers. He’d just finished fixing the salad when he heard Vic’s key in the door.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” Simon called, giving the table a quick glance to make sure everything was as it should be.

  He heard Vic toss his keys in the bowl near the front door and hang up his coat. His footsteps stopped in the doorway. “What’s all this?”

  “An apology,” Simon said. “I shouldn’t have gotten testy with you for trying to keep me safe.”

  Vic took him in his arms and kissed him, and Simon felt some of the day’s tension melt. “Like you said, we’re still figuring things out. We’ve got time.”

  “The steaks are ready,” Simon said, reluctantly pulling away. “I thought we’d eat and then make an early night of it.” His smile left no doubt that sleeping wasn’t on his mind.

  “I like the way you think.”

  The steaks turned out even better than Simon had hoped, since he preferred grilling to broiling, but the foul weather outside made that impossible. They kept the conversation light as they ate, and Simon promised himself he’d catch Vic up on everything he’d learned later, when they’d had time to decompress.

  Just as they finished up the dishes and were heading toward the living room, Vic’s phone chirped, with the tone Simon knew meant the MBPD. Vic met his gaze apologetically and took the call. His face fell as he listened, then nodded.

  “Yeah. Okay. I’m on my way.” He slipped his phone into his pocket and swore under his breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for Simon and pulling him in by the hips until they were standing toe to toe. “That was Hargrove. There’s been another hanging. I’ve got to go in.”

  Simon nodded and brushed Vic’s cheek with the back of his hand. “That’s okay. Go do what you need to do. I’ll be here.” Simon leaned in for a kiss, silently begging Vic to be careful, and promising what he could look forward to when he came home.

  6

  VIC

  The dark, cold rainy night made Vic’s mood more foul as he and Ross headed for the site of the latest death. He reminded himself that despite the interruption to his romantic evening, he was still having a much better time than the victim.

  That thought didn’t do much to lift his spirits.

  “Hargrove said to handle this one with kid gloves,” Ross warned. “Wealthy family, old money—the kind that can play havoc if they don’t feel like they’re being given special treatment.”

  “Fuck,” Vic muttered. “Just what we need. You got any details?”

  The windshield wipers slapped a beat as they drove down rain-soaked roads that reflected the Grand Strand’s neon signage like a distorted rainbow.

  “Corey Baucom, age forty-five, dentist. Married, no kids. I guess from what Hargrove said, the family used to be a big deal around here at one point, but everyone moved away or died off except Corey. Still, having the name come up in the system triggered Hargrove’s ‘special handling’ warning, so I guess they used to have some pull.”

  “Who found him?”

  “The wife,” Ross replied. “That’s pretty much all I know. Forensics is on the way, and so is the coroner. They’ll probably beat us.”

  “How does Sheila take it, when you get called out?” Vic asked as they sat at one of the many stoplights on Kings Highway. He tried to sound off-handed, but he knew he hadn’t imagined a trace of disappointment in Simon’s eyes, despite the way he tried to make it seem like no big deal.

  “It took some getting used to,” Ross admitted. “I think that being married to a cop is a lot like being married to someone in the military—probably another reason we get so many ex-soldiers. You either get used to it, or you don’t. The people who can’t handle it don’t stick around. The ones who do have made their peace with it.”

  “We’re trying to use our words,” Vic said. “It’s hard.”

  Ross gave a snort. “Ya think? I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable with the touchy-feely stuff, but talking about it beats fighting about it.”

  “Simon is better at it than I am,” Vic replied. “I know what I want to say, it just doesn’t come out right.”

  “Simon is a word guy. I mean, he writes books and gives speeches. You shoot things and hit people. It’s a different way of communicating.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb here. With me and Sheila, only one of us got brought up with all that macho bullshit. Girls get pushed to be the relationship fixers, be good listeners…talk it out. It’s not fair that they get told they’re responsible for the whole thing, but it’s the culture, you know? I’m guessing that when it’s two guys, and you both got brought up with the whole ‘strong and silent, hide your feelings, never let ’em see you cry’ BS, there’s a little more unlearning to do, on both sides.”

  Vic raised an eyebrow. “That was actually rather profound. And…yes. Probably doesn’t help that I’m in a macho job, from a family of cops. Being in academia might not have been quite as rough on Simon, at least in making him feel like he has to be a superhero.”

  “But we’re not superheroes. This job breaks us, eventually,” Ross replied. “And I think the guys who can’t talk it out break faster and harder. At least that’s what the counselor said.”

  “I don’t know how to stop worrying,” Vic admitted. “Simon doesn’t like guns. And he’s not trained to be a fighter. I can’t be there all the time. And the kinds of things he goes up against—even that Kevlar vest won’t protect him.”

  “He’s a badass in his own way,” Ross replied. “He took down the Slitter, remember? And that monster-thing at Christmas. He’s got his own mad skills. Did you ever think that he might worry about you, because you don’t have his magic woo-woo?”

  No, he hadn’t, Vic realized. “But like you said—I shoot things.”

  “Uh huh. But the stuff you two team up to fight now, you can’t necessarily shoot, right?”

  “No. At least, not with regular bullets.” Vic really hadn’t thought about it from Simon’s viewpoint before. Vic might be learning to accept Simon’s psychic abilities, but Simon had leaped into a relationship with someone who was essentially defenseless against supernatural threats.

  “So cut him some slack,” Ross replied. “He knows lots about the stuff that goes bump in the night—it makes sense that he worries because you don’t. And you know just how bad human beings can be to each other, so you worry about him. I think that’s kinda how it’s supposed to work.”

  “Thank y
ou, Dr. Phil.” Vic’s tone took the sting out of his words.

  “Wait ‘til you get my bill.”

  They pulled up to a closed iron gate and buzzed for admission. The metal grate swung back, allowing them onto a winding entrance road. Spotlights lit a clubhouse that looked like it belonged in the Greek Isles, and off to one side sprawled a pristine golf course. Tennis courts ranged on the other side, along with an outdoor pool. A sign at the cross street indicated the marina was to the right.

  “Dr. Baucom must have been doing all right as a dentist,” Vic observed. “Unless he inherited a boatload of money.”

  “I think he’d need more than just a boatload,” Ross agreed. “A container ship-full? ‘Cause in place like this, it’s not just the house you gotta pay for—everything comes with extra fees. It’s a racket.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  “Sheila’s sister, Shelly, married a cardiologist,” Ross said. “Some nurses marry doctors, others marry cops. I lucked out with Sheila. Shelly traded up.”

  They pulled up in front of a house with Spanish-style architecture and a half dozen police cars in front. If the neighbors were gawking, the cold rainy night meant they rubbernecked from inside their houses. Hargrove was already on the scene as Ross and Vic flashed their badges at the patrolmen who were stationed at the end of the driveway.

  “Glad you’re here,” Hargrove said. “Forensics is in there already, and so is the coroner. I asked them to preserve the scene until you got here so you could see for yourselves. And I’d like you to talk to the wife.”

  “Check the dead man’s clothing for dried brine,” Vic said quietly, in a voice only Hargrove could hear.

  Hargrove gave him a look, then nodded. “Where’s Simon?”

  Vic cleared his throat. “He’s had a rough couple of days with the ghosts from that old manor. I’m guessing the scene looks the same as the others, and Simon doesn’t have to be on site to connect with the spirit, if it’ll talk to him.” He pitched his voice so that no one else would pick up on what he said.