“If it were up to her I’d be wearing a paper sack.”
His eyes ran over my bare shoulders, my tattoos. “Yes, well, given the circumstances of our acquaintance, your brand of beauty seems fitting.” He held his arm out to escort me up the steps. “Shall we?”
We walked through the large double doors and the room seemed to pause for all eyes to catch a fleeting glance at the new arrival. A moment later the murmuring in the room resumed. The house was spectacular: mile-high rooms with molded ceilings, dark pine floors covered with Persian rugs, floor-to-ceiling columns separating the rooms. From what I could see, there wasn’t a room without a chandelier or a wall without a fine painting. Some of the walls themselves were the canvas. And then there were the colors. The rooms were painted in the most beautiful shades of soft blues, greens, and creams. The quintessential palette for such a grand home.
“This isn’t your house by any chance, is it?” I asked. That Bentley out there was proof of his ability to swing a pad like this.
He laughed quietly. “I’m afraid this is too much house for me, Miss Bishop. But it is beautiful, isn’t it?”
I nodded and continued to look around. For a ball, the crowd was surprisingly small. Maybe forty or fifty people dressed to the nines. “I thought there’d be more people here tonight,” I commented.
“The Crossroads Society is an intimate group. We usually open the ball up to outsiders, but in light of recent events we decided to make it members only this year.”
“I’m not a member, Mr. Cooper.”
“Not yet, but I think after tonight you might reconsider that invitation.”
I was about to delve deeper into that foregone conclusion of his when someone touched my shoulder.
“Miss Bishop. I am delighted that you decided to attend.” Davina McCabe was standing behind me when I turned around. She’d gone from a frail old woman to a sharply dressed Southern socialite wearing a flaming red sheath dress that trailed on the floor behind her. Her hair was different, too. Gone was the granny bun, replaced with a sleek chin-length bob. “How’s that grandson of mine? Has he recovered?”
“I think he’ll live. And please call me Katie.”
She glanced at Cooper, and I got the feeling she was wondering how much I knew.
He took my arm and walked me into the great room. From there he proceeded to introduce me around to just about everyone in the place. Most of them were complete strangers, but I did recognize a few people from the local news.
“Let me introduce you to Agnes Freemont.” He led me to a woman standing with her back to us. She turned around and I immediately recognized her from a local bakery a few blocks south of the shop.
“I know you,” I said. “You work at Le Petit Gateau bakery, right?”
She shot me a wide smile. “Actually, I own it.”
“Ah, of course. I own—”
“MagicInk,” she said, finishing my sentence. “I know who you are, Miss Bishop.” She motioned around the room. “We all know who you are.”
The voice seemed slightly aggressive, but her face remained friendly and welcoming. When her impenetrable stare began to make me uncomfortable, I pulled my eyes away and looked at Cooper. “Is there a bar in here, or do I have to wait for one of those waiters with white gloves to come around with a tray loaded with glasses of wine and champagne?”
Cooper let out a hearty laugh. “I think I can scrounge us up a couple of proper drinks—and some of those fancy appetizers if you’d like. What’ll you have?”
“I know we’re in mint julep country,” I said, “but I could sure go for a glass of single malt, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“You do realize a mint julep is nothing more than bourbon with a splash of sugar and mint?” He leaned closer to whisper. “Between you and me, Miss Bishop, I don’t think anyone here actually knows how to make one.”
“What a relief,” I said. “Sugar and alcohol should rarely meet, but I do like a margarita now and then. I’ll stick to scotch tonight. Preferably an Islay. Neat.”
“You are a surprise, Miss Bishop.” He grinned and glanced at my neck in that way a man does, lacking discretion. “A delightful one.”
While Cooper went to fetch my drink, I quickly moved around the room to get away from Agnes Freemont. I must have looked like a real wallflower, because a man came up to me and asked if I’d like to join him and his friends across the room. He pointed to a group of two women and three men huddled in a tight circle of conversation. A few of them kept glancing over at us, I supposed, to see if the bait worked. “Why not,” I said, wondering if we were ever going to get on with the real reason for me being here.
“I’m David, by the way.” He placed his hand at the small of my back to move me along. “David Hayes.” That’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing,” he added.
“Thank you. I’m Katie Bishop.”
He chuckled “Of course you are.”
I stopped midway across the room, forcing him to turn around and look at me. “Why is it that everyone here seems to know that?”
“Well,” he said, taking my arm and compelling me to keep moving, “it’s not every day that we meet someone who has the ability to break a two-hundred-year-old ward. Not to mention survive doing it.”
We reached his friends and I was greeted with five sets of staring eyes and stone-cold expressions. I recognized one of the men from a story in the local paper. He was a politician, although I couldn’t remember what kind. An alderman or a commissioner. Before David could introduce me—as if necessary—one of the women spoke up. “Are you planning to join our little hunting team?” she asked with a sly grin, like the question was a formality and I’d already been inducted.
“I see you’ve already been introduced to some of our members,” Cooper said, handing me my drink and glaring at the six people who were suddenly losing their cocky smiles. “I hope they haven’t scared you away with their overenthusiasm to bring you into our exclusive little club.” The look he gave them was sobering.
“Not at all,” I said. “We were discussing hunting.”
His brow went up. “Oh? Well, let’s get you introduced to a few more folks. We’ll have plenty to discuss shortly, and I’d hate for you to get the wrong idea because of something said over a few too many bourbons.”
I took a hefty swig of my scotch, the finest I’d ever tasted, and instantly felt softened from the sensation of the warm peat rushing down my throat. A few more would have me relaxed just fine. My eyes wandered around the perimeter of the room and landed on a young woman standing at the window. With black hair reaching down to her waist and skin as white as snow, she reminded me of a porcelain doll. I sensed she was uncomfortable in a room with so many people milling around, and her reluctance to mingle with the rest of the guests made her seem awkward and out of place in this grand house.
“I want to meet her,” I said, pointing to the ghostly girl.
Cooper followed my finger and smiled when he saw its target. He took my arm and led me across the room. The girl startled a bit when he spoke, breaking her distracted gaze out the window. “Emmaline,” he murmured, “I’d like you to meet someone.” The gentle manner in which he touched her arm did not go unnoticed. Her haunted eyes looked at his first and then turned to mine. She stared at me for a moment, and then her breath hitched as a discreet smile formed on her face.
“Katie,” I said, extending my hand. The seemingly shy woman reached out and embraced me in a hug, her hand gently covering my exposed tattoo.
“I see you,” she whispered into my ear before releasing me and settling back into the demure girl with the sad hazel eyes.
“Emmaline’s family has strong roots in our organization. Isn’t that right?”
She seemed to shrink deeper into the fabric of her black dress, which covered most of her skin. The only exposed parts were her hands, neck, and face. “Yes, Fin. We go very . . . deep.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She emitted the stran
gest aura, and the feeling of familiarity like we’d met before. But I could never forget that face. If we’d met I would have remembered.
The sound of music suddenly floated through the air, travelling through a tall double archway leading into the next room. The room with the dancefloor, I assumed. Cooper hijacked the conversation, breaking the spell between Emmaline and me. “I’d ask you to dance, Miss Bishop, but our host is making her entrance.
The room fell silent as all eyes shifted toward the grand staircase leading to the second floor. A woman in her late forties or early fifties, dressed in a metallic pantsuit that looked like it had just come off a Paris runway slowly descended the steps, surveying the room until her eyes landed on mine. Without blinking, she kept them fixed on me with hawk-like focus. She made her way down with a leisurely glide and headed straight for us, glancing for a moment at Emmaline before focusing back on me. “This is her?” she asked while her eyes tracked back and forth between mine, then trailed down my face to my neck and shoulders.
“Katie Bishop,” Cooper introduced, “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Whitman.”
“Lillian,” she added. Her smile widened but her face seemed tense, like she was conflicted between welcoming me and wanting to slap me. “You’re a very odd woman, Miss Bishop.” She turned to the crowd that had gathered around the three of us, swinging her eyes around the circle at their faces. “Leave,” she ordered in a calm but firm tone. A hushed gasp filled the room but no one argued, clearly knowing who was in charge.
I glanced at Fin, shocked by the sudden dismissal. The ball was over before it even had a chance to get started. Was it all a guise just to get me here . . . the extravagant dress, the Bentley? They could have saved a lot of money by just inviting me over for a drink and handing me the address.
“Don’t you worry, Miss Bishop,” Cooper said. “These folks are used to having their fun and revelry interrupted. They’ll just take it somewhere else. And knowing Lillian, she’ll make up for it with some over the top dinner party in the future.”
The crowd seemed unfazed and began funneling toward the entrance. “Council can stay,” Lillian added.
When the room thinned out and all that was left was a handful of people—the ones Lillian referred to as “council,” I was relieved that Emmaline was one of them. She was the only one in the room I felt comfortable with and I had no idea why. But I planned to find out.
“Now,” Lillian continued, looking at me, “let’s have a little talk and see if we can make a deal.”
7
The eight of us adjourned to a room with a stately oval table and thousands of books lining two walls of floor-to-ceiling shelves. The library, obviously.
“Would anyone like to refresh their drink before we begin?” Lillian asked.
I held up my glass. “Please.” Something told me I was going to need it, although it was probably wiser to stay sober for the discussion.
Cooper got up and left the room. He returned a minute later with a bottle of scotch in one hand and bourbon in the other. He set the scotch on the table in front of me and took the bourbon with him as he took a seat and turned the discussion over to Lillian Whitman.
“I trust some of you have already met Miss Bishop.” she said. “For those of you who haven’t, there she is. We’ll get around to introductions in a minute.” All eyes around the table turned to look at me. “Miss Bishop is the woman responsible for setting the spirit free.” Those friendly eyes weren’t so friendly anymore, except for Cooper’s and Emmaline’s, which looked more sympathetic than accusatory. “Of course, it was unintentional.” She looked at me for an unnerving few seconds, as if waiting for me to dispute that. “Isn’t that right, Miss Bishop?”
I glared back at her. “I don’t like games, Mrs. Whitman. You’re going to have to tell me a little more than Mr. Cooper did if you want answers.” I grabbed the bottle and filled my glass while I waited for her to enlighten me.
“Fair enough.” She opened her mouth but hesitated. “Why don’t we do away with the formality? Call me Lillian. May I call you Katie?”
I nodded once in concession. “You can start, Lillian, by telling me what this is all about.”
She got up and walked across the library to an imposing kneehole desk that matched the grandeur of the room. She grabbed a large book lying on top of it and carried it back to the table. “This is what this is all about.” With a forceful shove, she sent the book sliding across the table.
Before it slammed into my lap, I caught it and turned it right side up. The book looked old, with no title and a large unfamiliar symbol on the cover. “What am I looking at?” I asked.
“It’s a replica,” she said. “The original is very old and I wouldn’t recommend touching it.”
“Okay,” I snorted, flipping through the first few pages of the book. I noted the lack of front matter, but I doubted whoever authored the original was concerned with publishing rights. The pages were parchment, obviously imitation because who wrote on sheepskin these days? On the first page that wasn’t blank was a drawing of an animal, some kind of cat. On closer inspection, I noticed the eyes were very human-like, intelligent as they seemed to look directly at me from the parchment. I found it difficult to look away or turn to the next page.
“What am I looking at?”
“It’s a grimoire,” Cooper interjected. “And not a friendly one.”
I knew enough about magic to know that a grimoire was nothing to mess with—a book of spells and incantations. I tried to read the caption around the drawing. “What language is this?”
Lillian smiled weakly. “That’s a very good question. It seems to be some sort of a hybrid language.” She went on to explain that the grimoire had been discovered in the slave quarters of a plantation near the Savannah River. What made it so unique was that the language appeared to be some sort of Goidelic language mixed with several African languages. The only link between those languages was the fact that Scots migrated to Georgia to protect the coast in the mid-1700s. A decade later, the Atlantic slave trade at the Port of Savannah was in full swing. The two cultures could have easily clashed—or aligned—to create the grimoire.
“You mean you don’t know what it says?”
“No,” she replied. “But we do know that the book is dangerous. There are two spirits trapped inside by some pretty powerful magic. Does the name Legvu mean anything to you?”
I’d never heard it before. “No. Should it?”
“Not necessarily, but I promise you’ll never forget it after today. Legvu is a god. A rogue god who tends to be a little unpredictable. A trickster and a master of languages, hence the convoluted mix of Goidelic and African. Broken into two separate spirits to dilute his strength, and held that way by a powerful incantation that can only be broken by deciphering the spell. So you see, Katie, no living person knows what those words mean, and that’s exactly how it needs to stay.” She paused and considered what she was about to tell me next. “Based on oral history, we know Legvu came to Savannah on one of the slave ships. We believe he hitched a ride on a young woman who was with child. When the child was born, Legvu immediately took control of it. Grew from a babe into an old man in a day. As you can imagine, his master was suspicious. But it was what they found in his possession that set their plan into motion.”
“Legvu was carrying a bag of bones.” Fin said, hijacking the story. “The bones of Adro. Half man, half god of pure evil. Most people would call it myth, but lucky for us our forefathers knew better.”
“That’s an interesting story,” I noted. “You Savannahians are full of them.”
“I would say that’s true, Katie,” Lillian said. “But unfortunately, the story is real. The ancestors—we’ll just leave it at that—obliged the master and broke Legvu into the two spirits and imprisoned them in the grimoire. If those spirits escape and find their way back to one another, they’ll be a force of evil in their own right. Throw in those bones and—” She shook her head, stopping short of
describing the destruction that would fall on the city. “And now one of them has managed to break free and manifest into an unsuspecting host.”
“What happened to the bones?” I asked.
“The bones are at rest,” Lillian continued. “That’s the one good thing that has come out of all this. We know that Legvu buried them at a crossroads, but they’ve never been found, which is for the best. Best to leave them buried.”
I nodded. “So that’s where the society got its name.”
“Well, partly,” she explained. “You see, Katie, Savannah itself is an intersection where the supernatural roads meet. The society has grown into more than just the keepers of that grimoire. Our mission is to steward the well-being of the entire city. As a major crossroads, you can imagine the kind of things that try to upset the balance of good and evil in this place, yes?”
I looked at the benign faces around the table and thought, God help Savannah, if this was its front line.
Lillian got back down to business. “The book has already killed several people who’ve had the balls to handle it.”
With an involuntary jerk, I let go of the page I was touching and pushed my chair away from the table.
Cooper laughed. “It won’t bite, Miss Bishop. As Lillian said, it’s a replica.”
I pulled myself together and looked at all the faces around the table. Emmaline was staring at me, silently forming words that I couldn’t hear, her fingers twisting nervously around the crushed velvet sleeve covering her arm. And then she croaked out, “Look at the next page.”
Lillian’s eyes shot to Emmaline. “Quiet, girl!” Emmaline shrunk deeper into her chair like a drying sponge. Realizing who she’d just yelled at, Lillian lowered her tone. “I’m not angry with you, Emmaline, but please let me handle this.”
Crossroads of Bones (A Katie Bishop Novel Book 1) Page 6
