by Lea Nolan
She cackles and pats my hand. “It’s just a memory, child. Something that already happened in the past. It can’t hurt you.”
As sure as she seems, it’s not enough to calm my jitters. “But you said it’s evil.” I glare at the polished, carved handle and wonder if some of that bad mojo tainted any of the stuff in my bag. My sketchbook’s in there, and so are my pencils and watercolors. They’re my only source of true joy, and I don’t want anything messing with them. “Why shouldn’t we just toss it in a fire and destroy it?”
Her eyes flash with alarm, as if I might be serious, which I totally am. “Because we need the information it contains. Besides, the knife itself isn’t evil. It’s been used for evil. There’s a difference. We’re not doing this to hurt anyone. In fact, we’re doing the opposite, helping your brother. It’s like I told you before about the importance of balance. If our hearts were dark, this knife would help us do great harm, but since we’ve got love on our side, its bad energy gets canceled out. It can’t harm us. Now are you ready to blend the burning incense? It’ll help lift up that memory.”
I steel myself for the inevitable fatigue and remind myself Miss Delia hasn’t been wrong yet, so I don’t have a reason to doubt her now. But still, it can’t hurt to rub my collier for a little extra luck and protection. “Sure, why not?” The glass beads’ smooth texture is reassuring.
She drops a handful of charcoal chips into the bottom of the mortar and lights them. As soon as the flame dies down, she carefully shows me how to layer all eight ingredients. The acacia leaves and buchu go first, filling the air with soft meadow florals and warm cherry currant. The weariness sets in. My arm feels like it’s made of lead as I sprinkle a little anise powder on top. As it heats, its licorice scent blends with the others and transforms the kitchen into a candy shop. My head bobs, desperate to drift off to sweet sleep. But thankfully Miss Delia adds the celery seed and dragon’s blood. Their pungent peppery scents jolt me awake enough to help add the myrrh, frankincense, and mint. Combined, these roots and herbs make Miss Delia’s kitchen smell like an ancient and very stinky cathedral.
A smoky gray cloud rises from the incense and floats out the back windows and over the herb garden.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, which is totally weird because the sky is a bright cobalt and nearly cloudless.
“So now what?” I yawn and wave a tendril of smoke away.
“We drink our tea and let the show begin.” She waggles her brows and points to the two mugs that have cooled. “You’ve got to drink it all at once, no sipping. The vision should start right away.”
I remove the cheesecloth tea bags and peer into the reddish-brown liquid in my cup. “Um, are you sure this isn’t going to make us hallucinate? I mean, how do we know we’re having a Psychic Vision and not tripping?”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Please, child, I’d never give you any drugs like that. And it’s not a hallucination if we both have the same vision.” She shakes her head. “Just drink your tea.”
I can’t resist a sniff. For the most part it’s sweet, but there’s a hint of something I can’t place. But Miss Delia made it, so I’m sure it’s safe. Right?
Clinking the side of her mug with mine, I raise a toast. “Here’s to a fun hoodoo adventure!” Then, before I give myself another second to think about it, I tip the mug to my lips and let the lukewarm liquid flood my mouth. Thankfully, I’m too busy gulping to taste anything until the last swallow, when I’m struck by a two-fisted flavor punch of sour cherry and bitter spinach. Ugh, it must be the buchu and dandelion greens. I swallow hard, willing myself not to hurl.
Miss Delia finishes her tea as quickly as I do, then holds the knife over the burning incense with one hand and grabs mine with the other. I close my eyes, expecting the vision to play out in my head, but she gives me a squeeze. “You’ll want to look into the smoke if you don’t want to miss anything.” She laughs. “And I’ll need you to grab hold of this knife with me. It’s heavier than I thought.” She slides her fingers up the handle to make room. I wrap my hand just below hers and rest my forearm against the African symbols carved around the mortar’s lip. But I don’t know how she thinks I’ll be able to hold it, either, since it suddenly feels like a concrete block in my tired hand. She clears her throat. “Smoke and mist reveal the past and how this object was used last. Reveal the truth about this curse, so we may find a cure to reverse.”
Another clash of thunder rumbles, still far away but closer than before. The water faucet suddenly gushes at the sink, distracting my attention.
“Ignore it,” she commands. “Focus on the spell.”
The incense smoke thickens and condenses, creating a floating canvas for the vision. A bright light flickers in the middle of the gray haze, followed by a quick succession of images that sputter like the beginning of a movie reel. My head swoons, and I blink, training my eyes on the vision before me. That was some powerful tea.
The pictures speed up and come into focus, revealing a vast, oak-paneled bedroom warmed by candlelight. A four-poster bed sits across the room, its drapes pulled back to reveal a woman writhing in agony under the covers. A tall, slender African woman leans over her, patting her face with a wet cloth.
The image zooms closer. The woman’s long, bedraggled hair hangs wet and matted over her face. She’s moaning and crying. One hand reaches up to squeeze the African woman’s fingers. “It’s agony, Jemy. I shan’t withstand this pain any longer.” Her accent reveals her status as part of the English aristocracy.
“It won’t be long now, Miss Lady Rose. This baby’s coming.” The woman with almond-colored skin tries to sound reassuring, but her strained voice reveals her concern.
Lady Rose? I peer at the woman in the white dressing gown soaked with perspiration and see her ghostly white skin, giant forehead, and freaky bug eyes. Even though she’s in the middle of childbirth, the giant ruby necklace is slung around her neck, the gold leaves clawing at her chest. I gasp. It is Lady Rose Beaumont, the first mistress of High Point Bluff.
Lady Rose screams and doubles over onto her side. When the contraction passes, she catches her breath. “I need Sabina.”
“But Miss Lady Rose, Master Edmund made us promise not to mess with her.” Jemy quivers with fear.
Lady Rose pulls her scraggly hair off her face and glares, her eyes bulging more than I thought humanly possible. “How dare you speak his name!” Lady Rose screams. “You are not worthy to tend his grave. Now do as I command, and bring me Sabina!” Another contraction slams through her body, and she cries out.
Jemy cowers and takes a step back toward the door. “But Miss Lady Rose, I gave him my word on his deathbed. She’s dangerous. Especially after, well, you know.” She wrings her hands in worry.
Lady Rose gasps for air, tears streaming down her face. “I know I am the mistress of this plantation.” Her words are stilted, grunted out as she fists the sheets in pain. “And now that my Edmund is gone, I am the only master you have left. Fetch. Me. Sabina.”
Jemy nods. “Yes, ma’am.” She scurries from the room.
Lady Rose weeps alone in her bed.
Finally, Jemy returns with Sabina, a small but stocky woman whose ebony face is scarred with a floral design. She’s dressed in coarse, dingy white clothes, and her hair is wrapped in a turban. A stubby, dark-colored root is clenched between her crooked teeth. She smiles when Lady Rose twists in pain.
“Well, now, ma’am. Looks like you in trouble.” Her accent is thick and foreign, making it harder to understand.
Lady Rose’s head lolls to the side. “Please help me.” It’s barely a whisper through her dried, cracked lips.
Sabina snickers. “Yes, Miss Lady Rose, anything for my mistress.”
Jemy grabs Sabina’s arm. “Don’t you hurt her, Sabina.”
Sabina wrenches free from the much-taller, younger woman, then leans toward her, her eyes narrowed into menacing slits. “I know my place and don’t need you to tell me how to wo
rk my healing. I’ve delivered nearly all the children on this plantation since I came—you included—so you best get out my way.” She grinds the crushed root between her teeth and walks to the foot of Lady Rose’s bed. “Now, ma’am, let me have a look at you.”
Lady Rose heaves a sigh. “Oh, Sabina, I knew you could do it! I’ve pleaded for you for days, but they wouldn’t listen to me.” She turns to Jemy and blasts her with scorn. “You nearly killed me and my child. Begone. I’ll deal with you later.”
Jemy is stricken by panic as her body stiffens. “No, Miss Lady Rose. You’re mistaken.”
Another massive contraction hits. Lady Rose clenches her bloated belly and shrieks. When it passes, she glowers at Jemy. “Get out, vermin!” Jemy bursts into tears and flees.
Sabina shuts the door, then goes to the sideboard, spits the root out onto the floor, and washes her hands in the dry sink. Then she sits on the bed next to Lady Rose. “This won’t take long. Before you know it, your babe be in your arms.” A wry smile inches across her lips as she reaches her hand under Lady Rose’s dressing gown. Lady Rose shrieks. Sweat pours from her already-soaked head, and she’s even paler than before.
“You’re ready, Mistress,” Sabina says. “Wait for the next squeeze, and give one good push. Then it’ll all be over.” She licks her lips.
Lady Rose strains with the little energy she has left. A moment later, she howls, then collapses on the bed, her chest heaving for air.
Sabina lays her hand under the newborn infant’s head and wipes it with a nearby sheet. It snorts and coughs, then makes a mewing sound.
A deep, rolling laugh bubbles from Sabina’s chest as she slips her hand into the pocket of her skirt. “Well done, Mistress. You have a son. Exactly as I hoped.” She withdraws the dagger—the one Miss Delia’s holding over the mortar right now—and grabs the infant’s umbilical cord.
Lady Rose lifts her head off the pillow and manages an exhausted smile. “Thank you, Sabina.” Her voice is soft and ragged. “Thank you for saving me and my child. I knew you would redeem yourself. I will never forget this.”
Sabina’s lips curl at the corners. She looks like a psycho killer. “I know you won’t, Mistress, not after what I’m about to do.” She runs the knife’s blade up and down the cord but not hard enough to cut it.
Lady Rose tenses and strains to pull herself up as she eyes her newborn with grave concern. “What are you doing?”
Sabina cocks her head. “Repaying what you done to me and mine. Master Edmund got his for what he done.” She quirks her brow, and a giddy laugh slips from her lips. “His dry bones up and walked around till they turned to dust. Now he hears the mighty word of the Lord. Too bad it’s too late to save him.”
Lady Rose shudders. “Sabina, I had no part in what happened between Edmund and those dreadful pirates. You must believe me and spare my child.”
Sabina halts the knife’s menacing slide along the cord. Her gaze hardens, and she jabs the shiny blade at Lady Rose. “I might have believed you, but you’re wearing that blood stone. Even now. So I know you were involved.” She sneers and twists the knife in the air. “You and the master think you rule over us Africans, but you don’t know who I am. I am a queen in my homeland.” She beats her chest with her knife-wielding fist, then points the blade at Lady Rose. “You spilled royal blood. So you must pay, too, and here’s your punishment.”
She scoops the baby up with her free hand, nestling him in the crook of her arm, and reaches for the cord, looping it around her fingers. “I’m not going to take this boy now. No, I’m going to let you have him for a little while. Let him grow big and strong, happy and bright till he comes of age and becomes a man. Full of potential. That’s when I’ll steal his soul. And when you see how corrupt he becomes, you’re going to know it’s because of the evil you and the master did for a red rock.” The baby cries. Sabina rocks him gently and makes shushing noises. “And the best part is, this cycle’s going to repeat, for his son, and his son after that, for as long as the Beaumonts live.” Sabina erupts in peals of deranged laughter.
Lady Rose’s eyes flash with anger. “You don’t have the power.”
“Don’t I? The master learned different.”
Lady Rose scoffs. “You claim credit for Edmund’s pestilence. And though you may have convinced some of your fellow ignorant slaves, I know it was nothing more than the plague, certainly not the work of a madwoman. You are a charlatan, and I’ll see you hanged before you threaten my child again.” She screams, “Jemy! Cato! Jupiter! Come here at once!”
Sabina chuckles. “They’ll never catch me. And even if they do, it’ll be too late.” She slips the blade into the umbilical cord loop. “As you took mine, I take yours and all of theirs.” With a flick of her wrist, the knife severs the cord. The candle flames sputter. Sabina tosses the infant at Lady Rose, who screams and fumbles to catch him. Sabina throws the knife on the bed, reaches into her pocket and lobs a handful of powder on the mother and child, and bolts for the door. Even though the window and door are shut, a massive gust of wind whips around the room, extinguishing the candles and leaving the room in total darkness. The door opens a crack, then slams shut.
Sparks shoot up in the mortar, then suddenly cut off, stifling the incense screen and dissipating the smoke. I shake my head to clear the hazy fog that still hangs in my brain and turn to Miss Delia, who’s doing the same. She releases my hand. Beyond tired, I’m drained and lose my grip on the knife, which drops on the counter with a clatter.
I’m totally confused, and it’s not because of the psychic tea’s lingering effects. The vision showed the knife’s last cut, all right, and confirms that Edmund died from The Creep, but it certainly didn’t show us how the curse was cast.
My addled brain grapples with all the information revealed in the scene, ruminating over Sabina’s words.
Oh, my God. I gasp. It can’t be.
The blood drains from my skin, and a wave of nausea crests over me. My ears ring. It’s got to be my spirit guide, screaming at me, confirming what I already suspect. But I have to know I’m right and not misunderstanding. I clear my throat and force the words through my constricted throat. “What did that mean?” My voice cracks.
Miss Delia’s mouth turns down. “Your boy is doomed.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The kitchen is suddenly scorching, filled with dense, humid air that stinks of stale incense. My mouth dries, and my tongue hangs like a piece of old shoe leather. Another wave of nausea rises. I’ve got to get out of here before I throw up all over Miss Delia’s counter.
Despite my exhaustion, I spring off the stool, charge through the kitchen and side porch, then bolt out the screen door into the garden. Tipping over, I brace my hands against my knees. But it doesn’t stop the queasy jolt of electricity that rushes over my body and dumps my lunch on a sweet lavender bush. Another, more powerful charge grips me, emptying the rest of my stomach. I catch a whiff of the mess and stumble backward to keep from dry heaving. My foot catches on something, tossing me on my butt, smack in the middle of another scratchy lavender plant.
High above, the endless crystal-blue sky looms, mocking my insignificance. I suddenly realize how vulnerable I am—outside by myself, just steps from where the plateye retreated after it attacked Miss Delia and me. Normally that would be enough to send me straight back into the house, but not now. It was bad enough that my brother—my twin—contracted the most horrific curse imaginable. But now I know that my Cooper—my sweet, adorable, kind Cooper—is destined to lose his soul in a matter of weeks. And then he’ll morph into a dark-hearted, egocentric, repulsive glutton. Just like his father. The Cooper I know and love will be gone forever.
Hot, stinging tears pour from my eyes. The scrubby lavender scratches my bare skin, but I don’t flinch. I’m too overwhelmed by the knowledge that the two most important people in my life are doomed. Maybe Jack’s got a chance, thanks to Miss Delia and the magic mortar, but assuming we do reverse The Creep, how
will we live without Cooper? He’s Jack’s best friend. He’s my summer, the golden sunlight that warms my otherwise cold and lonely year. I won’t be able to face him when he turns. And I know Jack won’t accept his change. We won’t be like our dad, who’s taken a lifetime of Beau’s crap out of a perverted sense of loyalty.
Anger boils in my gut, giving me a boost of energy to fight the hoodoo-induced fatigue. It’s not fair. Jack and Cooper don’t deserve this, and I don’t deserve to lose them. Sure, Jack was greedy wanting the treasure, but that doesn’t mean he should lose his skin and bones, and maybe even his life because of it. And Cooper shouldn’t be punished for something some random ancestor did almost three hundred years ago. I sniff and wipe the goopy mixture of tears and snot from my face. There has to be something we can do. If the Psychic Vision was right, and Sabina really did curse the Beaumont men with black magic, then Miss Delia and I should be able to counteract it by working a white magic spell.
The thought quiets my throbbing head. I sit up straighter.
The knife is the key. It knows what happened and why Sabina cursed Cooper’s family. Maybe it knows how she cursed them, too. We need to pull another memory. I push myself off the ground and fly back to Miss Delia’s kitchen with my fists clenched, determined to get the information I need and force both curses to obey my will. They’re not going to steal Jack and Cooper from me.
Miss Delia starts when the back door slams behind me. “Lord, child, you scared me.” She has shut off the faucet and is wearing her giant goggle glasses while poring over her spell book. “You feeling better?”
I plop down on the stool next to her and hope she doesn’t smell the puke on my breath. “Yeah. Listen, we can’t just let this happen to Cooper. There’s got to be something we can do. I’ve got an idea.”
