Vendetta (Deadly Curiosities Book 2) (12 page)

He paused. “I can only stay here in Charleston briefly. I need to help in Boston, and there are things I have to track down that might make a difference. I’m going to look into what – who – could bring a Watcher here and why, and see if there’s another explanation. But I wanted to warn you and Teag. There may be more attacks – especially if I’m right about this being a vendetta.” He got up to leave. “Until I get back, keep your eyes open and watch out for anything unusual. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized I hadn’t mentioned the guy in the café.

You know, most people – female and male – would feel pretty lucky to have a guy that looks like that trying to start a conversation,
I told myself.
You look at him and decide he’s some kind of scary stalker. Maybe you’re just paranoid.

Maybe I was, but for good cause. And even though I still couldn’t figure out why, Coffee Guy made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Personally, I don’t find that attractive in a man. I wasn’t giving him the benefit of the doubt, not when so many weird things were going on.

My phone buzzed again, and I startled. It was Kell.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I told you about some of the weird stuff we’ve been seeing,” Kell said. “Then I thought, maybe I should show you. So… our group is going out to take a look at a haunted house that’s giving the real estate agent fits. We’ve been there before and it was active, but apparently not like this. Do you and Teag want to come?”

“When?”

Kell chuckled. “Wow. I should use the haunted house bit to get company more often,” he joked. “Day after tomorrow? We generally go after it’s dark enough that the ghosts will move but the neighbors won’t call the cops.”

“Works for me. And I’ll let Teag know right away.”

“Great.” He paused. “I really appreciate you taking this seriously. I think there’s something going on, but it’s not anything I can explain.”

“Let’s see what we can find out,” I said, trying to sound more chipper than I felt. I was afraid there was more at work than jumpy ghosts. “See you then.”

“D
ON’T FORGET,
I have an appointment at noon with Father Anne,” I said to Teag the next morning. Today was the day she and I were going to free poor Tad’s spirit from the hair wreath necklace.

He nodded. “I’ll stay with Maggie, in case we do get those busloads of Canadian tourists you were expecting,” he added with a grin.

Maggie had to keep her swollen ankle elevated, and she looked like she had been in a car wreck, but she insisted on coming in at least for part of the day, and had a doctor’s note to back her up. We were busier than usual, so the morning passed quickly. I sold a vintage tea set to a woman who was delighted to find one just like her grandmother’s. A brass lantern, an old seafarer’s telescope, and more vintage jewelry found new homes, which made for a profitable morning.

“Are you sure you’re okay meeting Father Anne without extra back-up?” Teag asked in a low voice when he followed me into the break room. I knew what he meant. Father Anne and I were both pretty good at watching out for ourselves, but with someone attacking Sorren’s interests, it never hurt to take extra precautions.

“That’s one reason I suggested she and I meet at noon,” I replied. “It’s a good time for working light magic, but not as good for dark magic.” Everyone thinks of midnight as the witching hour. They forget that noon has also traditionally been believed to be just as friendly for supernatural workings. Both midnight and noon are ‘liminal times’, when the veil between our realm and the next thins and magic becomes easier to work. Most creatures and people who are up to no good don’t like doing their dirty deeds in daylight. Add to that the fact that a number of supernatural creatures are allergic to direct sunlight, and I figured we would be safe.

“Be careful,” Teag admonished.

“Don’t worry,” I replied, grabbing my purse. But I knew he would.

I revved up my little blue Mini Cooper and headed out for Magnolia Cemetery. Magnolia Cemetery is a jewel. It was built on land that had once been a rice plantation, back in the 1850s. Old graves, lots of famous dead people, and beautiful huge live oaks make it a top attraction for visiting historians, tourists, and walkers.

The cemetery is just outside of town. I wanted to arrive early so that Father Anne could work her blessing exactly at noon. The supernatural can be surprisingly punctual.

A lot of Charleston’s cemeteries are all located on the same stretch of road, on or near Huguenin Avenue. Magnolia Cemetery is the biggest. The whole street is like a suburb of the dead. On the way out of town, I passed a couple more of the Ghost Bikes, forlornly chained to the fences and posts near where tragedies had occurred.

Thinking about the Ghost Bikes got me to notice a white cross marker near the corner of Huguenin Avenue and Brigade Street. There’s an overgrown corner that’s thick with brush. Poking out of the high weeds was a homemade cross with a small, sad wreath of faded silk flowers looped over the top. The name on the shrine was too faded to read. Drive along highways in a lot of the South and you’ll see similar memorials, placed by family where a loved one met a tragic end. I’ve always wondered whether the spirits hang around those memorials or whether they move on. Just in case, I always say a blessing for the departed when I pass by.

Father Anne was waiting for me at the front gates of Magnolia Cemetery wearing a black shirt with a clerical collar over jeans and Doc Martens. She grinned and waved when she saw me.

“Hi Cassidy,” she said as I pulled up and parked by the side of the cemetery roadway. “Beautiful day for a walk, isn’t it?”

We left our cars near the main gate and strolled into the peaceful grounds. I had forgotten how beautiful it was there. In the bright sunlight, with the fall flowers, I could almost push my thoughts away from all the weird things that had happened, and the danger that surrounded Sorren. Almost.

The jewelry box with the hair wreath was in a canvas tote bag. Father Anne and I walked down one of the paths toward the part of the cemetery where we would try to lay Tad’s soul to rest. I glanced around to see if there were people nearby.

Crazy as it seems, cemeteries can be busy places. Joggers and walkers like the car-free side roads, and the landscaping is gorgeous. On nice days, you might even see someone on one of the benches, reading a book. Most of the time in Charleston, you’ll spot tourists following a map of the graves of famous people, and here in the South, families still come to plant flowers or decorate a relative’s plot.

Today was quiet. The wind rustled through the live oaks, making the Spanish moss flutter. Teag had already searched for Tad’s grave. We hadn’t found one for him, but there were a lot of Civil War dead buried in Magnolia Cemetery, many of whom were unidentified. Father Anne and I walked to the section with soldiers’ graves, and then Father Anne stepped off the asphalt path into an empty section of yard. “This all right?”

I nodded, and handed her the canvas bag. Father Anne opened the velvet-flocked case and looked at the memorial wreath for a moment in silence. I guessed she was honoring the grief Tad’s fiancée felt when she made and wore the wreath, and the loss that separated the two lovers.

“Ready?” she asked. Father Anne and I had a lengthy discussion the night before on exactly what type of service might be appropriate. Apparently, there’s nothing in the
Book of Common Prayer
for releasing a trapped spirit from an old piece of jewelry. Exorcism didn’t seem quite right, because Tad’s ghost wasn’t a demon. On the other hand, there wasn’t a body to bury. In the end, Father Anne decided to write her own comments, based rather loosely on the 1662 ritual for burial at sea.

“Ready.”

I’m used to seeing Father Anne in the wee hours of the morning when we’re covered with blood from kicking demon ass. I’ve never made it to Saint Hildegard’s Church when she was giving the homily. So I had to admit I was a little surprised to see the change come over her bearing as she prepared to say the burial ritual. Father Anne stood a little taller, and her manner was somber and circumspect. There was just something different about her as she moved into her priestly role.

In the distance, I heard church bells begin to chime the noon hour.

Given what we do at Trifles and Folly, I see a lot of rituals. Voodoo, Hoodoo, Wiccan, Native American, Christian, and probably all the others as well – there are certain things that we humans need from our sacred space. Words matter, and so do actions. There’s a reason why holy men and women, priests and priestesses, and practitioners, say certain things in a certain way in a certain place at a certain time. Rituals prepare the worker to face the unknown, and they open a thin spot between our reality and somewhere else with a degree of safety. In other words, how you do it matters.

We were on consecrated ground, within the cemetery walls. Father Anne was a consecrated person, ordained in the traditions of her faith. She had an iron cross on a chain around her neck, a protective symbol. And now, as she spoke words that resonated with more than four hundred years of sacred repetition, I could feel power rising around us.

“Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of them that depart hence in the Lord...”

I don’t think it was my imagination that the air trembled above the box Father Anne held in her outstretched hand. As Father Anne said the words of the burial rite, the shimmer grew a little more visible.

Father Anne didn’t try to say the whole burial service. That wasn’t why we were here. Tad’s mortal remains were long gone. We came to lay his spirit to rest, and from the subtle iridescence that floated just above the velvet box, I had the feeling that Tad was finally going to be able to move on.

“…be with us all evermore. Amen.” Father Anne finished the prayer, and the faint shimmering glow rippled once and then winked out. She looked at me and held out the box. “Do you want to see if he’s really gone?”

I nodded and took a deep breath, then reached out to take the box. I felt a tingle of old power, and dimly, I could sense images from the vision I had seen before. But Tad’s lonely ghost had departed. I slipped the box into my pocket. “He’s gone.”

Father Anne smiled. “Well, that’s my good deed for the day, I suppose. Tad was long overdue to make it home.” At first, we didn’t say much as we headed back to our cars. Then I had a question that I couldn’t get out of my mind.

“If you can lay a ghost to rest, how come Charleston has so many restless spirits?”

Father Anne shrugged. “Monkey’s fist.”

“Come again?”

“Didn’t you ever hear the story about how people trap monkeys by putting a banana in a bottle? When the monkey reaches in, his hand fits. But when he makes a fist and grabs the banana, his hand is too big to come out. Unless he lets go of the banana, he’s stuck.”

Since I hadn’t seen any ghosts holding bottled bananas, I was confused.

She chuckled. “Some of the ghosts are stone tape recordings – memories, not really spirits. A few, like Tad, got lost on the way to that bright light at the end of the tunnel. And probably a few more are actually trapped by something nefarious, like a cursed object. But it’s my bet that the majority of ghosts are here because there’s something they don’t want to let go of – like the monkey’s banana.”

Father Anne shrugged. “They might be holding on to memories, or love, or vengeance, or maybe they just want to be heard. But if that’s the case, then they can get free on their own when they’re ready, by letting go and walking away.”

Put that way, it sounded like the spirits of the dearly departed needed a supernatural shrink more than an exorcist. “Yeah,” I replied. “But do the ghosts know that?”

“Probably,” she said as we came into view of our cars. “How many times have you struggled with something, only to realize that you actually knew what to do all along?” She gave a sad smile. “They might be dead, but they’re only human.”

We had parked our cars not far inside the entrance gate, near where the large central pond divides one side of the cemetery from another. Father Anne gave me a hug and said good-bye.

“Call me if you need something,” she said. “There’s been some strange stuff going on lately. If there’s a way I can help, count me in.”

I thanked her profusely, then waved as she drove off. That’s when I heard something stirring in the pond.

I turned sharply. Nothing moved along the banks of the pond, but I saw a ripple in its dark waters. A sign warned visitors not to feed the alligators. It’s the Coastal South. If there’s water, there’s gonna be ’gators. I watched for a moment, and could have sworn I saw something long and black move beneath the water, but it was there and gone too quickly to be sure.

I decided that now was a good time to leave, so I got into the car and headed out, watching all around me. There didn’t seem to be anything unusual, so I made the turn onto Huguenin Avenue and headed back to town.

The afternoon’s work had done a real number on my mood. Even though we had released Tad’s spirit, I had been struggling with a feeling of guilt that had been growing on me since I arrived at the cemetery.
People are going to die, and it’s all my fault. I’m just not cut out for this. My magic isn’t strong enough. If I’d have been any good at this, Jonathan wouldn’t have disappeared. All my fault –