Shush...lest she awaken...

My name is Amelia Gray, and I’m a cemetery restorer who lives with the dead. An anonymous donor has hired me to restore Woodbine Cemetery, a place where the rich and powerful bury their secrets. Forty years ago, a child disappeared without a trace and now her ghost has awakened, demanding that I find out the truth about her death. Only I know that she was murdered. Only I can bring her killer to justice. But the clues that I follow—a haunting melody and an unnamed baby’s grave—lead me to a series of disturbing suspects.

For generations, The Devlins have been members of Charleston’s elite. John Devlin once turned his back on the traditions and expectations that came with his birthright, but now he has seemingly accepted his rightful place. His family’s secrets make him a questionable ally. When my investigation brings me to the gates of his family’s palatial home, I have to wonder if he is about to become my mortal enemy.

Praise for THE GRAVEYARD QUEEN series by Amanda Stevens

“The beginning of Stevens’ GRAVEYARD QUEEN series left this reviewer breathless. The author smoothly establishes characters and forms the foundation of future storylines with an edgy and beautiful writing style. Her story is full of twists and turns, with delicious and surprising conclusions. Readers will want to force themselves to slow down and enjoy the book instead of speeding through to the end, and they’ll anxiously await the next installment of this deceptively gritty series.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Restorer

“The Restorer is by turns creepy and disturbing, mixed with mystery and a bit of romance. Amelia is a strong character who has led a hard and—of necessity—secret life. She is not close to many people, and her feelings for Devlin disturb her greatly. Although at times unnerving, The Restorer is well written and intriguing, and an excellent beginning to a new series.”

—Fort Worth Examiner

“I could rhapsodize for hours about how much I enjoyed The Restorer. Amanda Stevens has woven a web of intricate plot lines that elicit many emotions from her readers. This is a scary, provocative, chilling and totally mesmerizing book. I never wanted it to end and I’m going to be on pins and needles until the next book in THE GRAVEYARD QUEEN series comes out.”

—Fresh Fiction

The Awakening

Amanda Stevens

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Extract

Copyright

One

I came across the hidden grave my first day in Woodbine Cemetery. It was late October, warm and sunny with a mild breeze stirring my nostalgia and the colorful leaves that had fallen from the dogwood trees. Despite the temperature, I could feel autumn in the air—or at least in my imagination—as the sun settled toward the horizon.

Those fading days always brought twinges of melancholy and I was glad to have a new project to buoy my spirits. I was still in the early phases of the restoration—mapping, photographing and spending untold hours immersed in historical records. The hard labor of clearing brush and cleaning headstones would soon follow, but for now I luxuriated in the courtship stage, that heady, golden time of acquainting myself with the dead and their history.

Woodbine was one of the forgotten cemeteries in a whole community of burial grounds that fanned out from the Cooper River in Charleston, South Carolina. Tucked away at the end of a narrow lane and hidden from street view by a shrouded fence, this withering gem had languished in the shadow of the historic Magnolia Cemetery for decades until revitalization efforts in the area had uncovered it.

The grave was just as well hidden, secreted in the farthest corner of the cemetery and sheltered from the elements and the curious by the graceful arms of weeping willow trees. The graves of children always moved me, but this one affected me in a way I couldn’t explain. Perhaps it was the stone monument cast in the shape of an old-fashioned baby crib that so intrigued me, or the likeness of the child that peeped from underneath the hood. Or the unsettling epitaph, which read Shush... Lest She Awaken.

There was no name on the memorial, but I could make out the birth and death dates. The little girl had passed nearly fifty years ago at the heartbreaking age of two. Setting aside my camera, I smoothed my hand along the edge of the polished stone as I studied her portrait. What a beautiful child she’d been, with a heart-shaped face and perfect bow mouth. The black-and-white image had been hand-painted to tint her lips and cheeks pink, her curls golden and her eyes a lovely violet blue.

She hadn’t smiled for the camera and the solemnness of her countenance sent an inexplicable chill down my spine. It was strange to see such a serious expression on the face of an infant. Had she been ill? I wondered. Had her short life been filled with so much pain and suffering that death had come as a blessing?

I couldn’t look away from that sweet, doleful face. The child captivated me. There was something so mesmerizing about her eyes...something almost familiar about the shape of her mouth and nose and the lines of her jaw and chin. I couldn’t have known her. She’d passed long before I was born. I had only Mama and Papa and my aunt Lynrose in the area, none of whom had ever spoken of a dead baby. Despite the discovery of so many long-buried secrets, I doubted a familial bond, and yet I was drawn to that nameless child in a way that defied a real-world explanation.

Was she reaching out to me? Had my mere presence somehow awakened her?

It was not a comforting thought. I was a ghost seer, a death walker and sometimes a detective for the unquiet, but I did not embrace my calling. I took no pride in my abilities. I considered my gift a curse because all I’d ever wanted was a normal life. A quiet, peaceful existence, perhaps with a child of my own someday.

But ordinary was not meant to be, and I was coming to accept the painful reality that children were out of the question. I couldn’t take a chance that I would pass on my gift just as it had been passed down to me. The ghosts were frightening all on their own, but the malevolent entities that had invaded my world—the Others and the in-betweens, the malcontents and the shadow beings—made for a harrowing existence. I wouldn’t wish my life on anyone, especially a child. And as I had only just discovered, there was yet another danger lurking in the dark underbelly of the city. The Congé was a secret, fanatical group intent on ridding the living world of any force they perceived as unnatural. If they learned of my gift and the light inside me that attracted the earthbound entities, they would come for me and mine.

So, no, a family wasn’t in the cards. I would never willingly subject a child to the horrors and dangers that came with my bloodline.

But...back to this child. Who was she? Why had she been buried in a nameless grave in this sheltered, forsaken corner?

Forsaken perhaps, but not forgotten. The grave had recently been tended. Someone had cleared away dead leaves and planted purple pansies in the bed of the crib. Someone remembered this child. Someone who still grieved for her, perhaps.

The breeze drifted through the willows, tinkling a hidden wind chime. I was so caught up in the mystery of the grave that at first I didn’t take note of the melody. And it was a melody, distinct and haunting, as if an invisible hand tapped out the notes. Tearing my focus from the portrait, I lifted my gaze to comb the tree branches. The smell of woodbine deepened even though the blooms had long since faded. I felt something in the breeze—no longer a trace of autumn, but an ethereal chill that raised goose bumps along my arms.

Go. Go now, I told myself. Go back to your work before you get drawn into yet another ghostly puzzle, yet another dangerous mystery.

But I feared I had already lingered too long.

The sun hovered just above the treetops, but inside the grove of willow trees, a preternatural twilight had fallen. Here, the veil had already thinned and I could see a vague, timorous shadow in the deepest part of the shade. I shuddered, my hand still on the edge of the crib as a whispery missive floated over the grave and into my head. Mercy...

“Is someone there?” I called, and then chided myself for my stubborn naïveté. After all these years, after everything I’d seen and heard, I still wanted to believe the presence could be human and benign.

The shadow darted through the wispy strands of the willows and I heard a high-pitched giggle, followed by a muffled thump. Then an old, weathered ball rolled out of the shadows at my feet. I wanted to ignore the overture. I told myself to get on with the exploration of the cemetery, but before I could stop myself, I gave the ball a gentle kick back into the shadows. It was instantly returned, but this time I let it roll into the bushes.

The childish chortle died away and suddenly I sensed a darker emotion. The laughter that followed held no humor and only a remnant of humanness. Fear trickled down my spine as I searched the shade. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

Mercy.

From who? For what?

It was time to end this game, time to heed the instinct that warned to distance myself from this grave and the specter hiding in the shadows. But when I would have turned to scurry back into the light, my feet tangled in a vine that snaked around the base of the tomb. I hadn’t noticed the creeper earlier. It almost seemed as if the woodsy tentacle had slithered in while the ghost had caught my attention. As I bent to free my snared shoelaces, I heard the wind chime again, the sweet, haunting melody inharmonious with the darkness I felt from the entity and that high, mocking titter.

Instinctively, I reached for the key I wore around my neck, a talisman blessed by a divine hand and left to me by my great-grandmother Rose as protection against the ghosts. This provoked an even stronger reaction. A gust blew out of the shadows, so strong the blast felt like a physical assault. I was still bent and off balance, and as I staggered backward, the vine tightened around my ankles, jerking me off my feet. I fell in an ungainly sprawl, stressing my right wrist when I tried to catch myself.

I went down hard, gasping as pain darted up my arm. Cradling my tender wrist, I focused my attention on the shadows. I could see her there, watching me from the gloom. Her face reminded me of the embedded portrait, but she couldn’t be the infant’s ghost. This girl looked to have been at least ten when she passed. Sisters, perhaps. Dead but still clinging to their mortal bond.

I wanted to know her name, her history, her connection to the infant in the tomb.

I wanted to scramble to my feet, hurry from the cemetery and never look back.

The ghost’s childish trickery disturbed me in a way I didn’t yet understand. I found myself once again reaching for my talisman, but the key was gone. Frantically, I clutched my neck while tracking the mischievous entity. She giggled again before fading back into the shadows.

Two

I was still crouched on the ground with my gaze pinned to the spot where the ghost had vanished when I realized someone had come upon me. Not a ghost this time, but a human presence. I didn’t jump at the intrusion. I’d learned long ago to keep my nerves steady, so I took only a moment to recover my poise as I turned slowly toward the cemetery.

A man dressed in a faded black jacket and tattered jeans stood no more than five feet from me, head slightly cocked as he observed me with surly indifference. I had never met him before, but I recognized him from the description I’d been given by my contact in the group that had hired me. His name was Prosper Lamb and he was the cemetery caretaker, a term I used loosely in his case because not much care had been given to Woodbine over the past several decades. The grounds were overgrown and littered with trash, the graves in bad need of weeding. He hadn’t even bothered to pick up the empty beer bottles at the entrance, making me wonder how he managed to keep his job. I’d been told he lived across the road so perhaps proximity was the only requirement.

His gaze on me deepened and I suppressed another shudder as I took in his countenance. I guessed his age to be around forty, but a hard life had carved deep lines in his face. A scar at his neck and another across the back of his hand hinted at a violent past. He was tallish and lean with a hairline that had receded into a deep widow’s peak. He hadn’t said a word to alert me of his presence or to put me at ease. I had a feeling he enjoyed my discomfort.

I got quickly to my feet as I brushed off my jeans. “Mr. Lamb, isn’t it?”

“You must be the restorer,” he said in a countrified drawl. “They said you’d be stopping by today.”

“Amelia Gray.” I offered my hand, but then let it fall back to my side when I saw that his attention was already diverted.

He nodded to the ground at the base of the tomb where I had risen. “Looked like something knocked the wind out of you just now.”

“Nothing so dramatic. My shoelaces tangled in a vine and I tripped.”

“They’re everywhere,” he grumbled. “Briars, ivy, swamp morning glory. Pull one up, half a dozen more grow back in its place. No offense, ma’am, but this seems like a mighty big job for such a small woman.” His eyes narrowed as he gave me a cool appraisal.

“I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I’m up to the task.” I returned his frank assessment. “And what is it you do around here, Mr. Lamb?”

He merely shrugged at my pointed question. “They call me the caretaker, but I don’t touch the graves. Not anymore. These days I’m more of a watchman. I keep an eye on things. Chase away the riffraff that has a tendency to gravitate to places like this.” He put his hand on his waist, pushing back the wool jacket so that I could glimpse the gun he wore at his hip.

The knowledge that he was armed and quite possibly dangerous did nothing to put me at ease in his presence. I couldn’t help noting the isolation of our surroundings. Despite our nearness to the hustle and bustle of downtown Charleston, I doubted a car had strayed this way in a very long time.

His expression turned sardonic as he continued to watch me. His speech cadence and manner of dress put me in the mind of an old-time traveling preacher, also not reassuring.

“You’re off the beaten path and not in the safest part of town,” he warned. “If you run into trouble, just holler. I’ll be around.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lamb, but I don’t anticipate any trouble.”

“No one ever sees it coming. And you can call me Prosper. Or Prop. We’ll likely be seeing a lot of each other if you don’t get scared off.”

“Scared off by what?”

He grinned, displaying a toothy overbite. “Cemeteries can be frightening places, ma’am.”

“Not to a cemetery restorer.”

He shrugged, letting his jacket fall back into place as his gaze moved to the stone crib behind me. “That one there...she’s a strange one.”

For one crazy moment, I thought he meant the ghost and I glanced over my shoulder in dread. Then I realized he referred to the stone crib and the portrait of the dead child. “There’s no name on the monument. Do you know who she was?”

“Never heard tell,” he said. “But that’s not the only grave in here without a name. Woodbine is where the well-to-do used to bury their secrets.”

“What do you mean?”

His gaze turned sage. “Their bastards and mistresses, if you’ll pardon my language. People they kept on the fringes of their lives. They erected all these fine monuments to honor the dead, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t give them their names. So they laid them to rest here in Woodbine, close enough to visit but separate from the respectable family plots in Magnolia Cemetery.”

“I never knew that,” I said, intrigued in spite of myself.

“Now you do. Who do you think pays me to watch over them?”

“I assume the same trust that hired me.”

He leaned in. “Who do you think sits on the board? Who do you think made the donation to restore this place? Years and years go by and all of a sudden someone is mighty interested in getting this place cleaned up. That doesn’t strike you as curious?”

“Not at all. The neighboring cemeteries have been undergoing revitalization for years.”

“Maybe that’s all it is,” he said. “Then again, maybe someone has developed a guilty conscience.”

I knew better than to encourage his gossip, but I couldn’t help myself. “Who?”

“Well, that is the question, isn’t it?” He lifted his head to sniff the air. “Smell that?”

I took a quick breath, drawing in the lingering scent that had been stirred by the ghost. “You mean the woodbine?”

“Nah, that stuff won’t bloom again until next spring. I smell something dead.”

My gaze darted inadvertently to the spot where the ghost had vanished.

Prosper Lamb walked all around the tomb, testing the air like a bloodhound. “It’s fresh. Barely any rot. But I’m never wrong about that smell. I’ve had a nose for dead things since I was a kid.”

My senses had evolved along with my gift, but evidently he was even more sensitive than I was. I didn’t smell anything.

“Are you the superstitious type?” he asked suddenly.

“Not really. Why?”

“You’re not bothered by corpse birds?”

“Corpse birds?”

“That’s what my mama used to call dead birds found on or near graves. She claimed they were signs.” As he talked, he reached inside the crib bed and carefully parted the purple blossoms. A second later, he extracted a dead crow, holding it up by the claws so that he could assess the glistening carcass. Even in the shade, I could see the sheen of black feathers and the dull glint in its beady eyes. There was something odd about the way the head dangled...

“Still warm,” he said. “Must have just happened.”

Foreboding tingled through me. “How do you suppose it died?”

“Sometimes they fall out of the sky without rhyme or reason. This one, though.” He glanced up. “Something wrung its neck.”

I suppressed another shiver as I quickly scanned the gloomy landscape. “I don’t see how it could have just died. I’ve been here for several minutes and I didn’t see anything.”

He held the bird out to me. “Feel it for yourself.”

“No, that’s okay. I believe you. I’m just wondering what could have happened to the poor thing.” I found my gaze flashing back to the place where the dead girl had vanished. I fancied I could still hear the echo of her taunting laughter.

My hand went to my throat again before I remembered that Rose’s key had gone missing. “I’ve lost my necklace. If you find a ribbon with a key attached—”

“This one?” He shifted the dead bird to his left hand and reached out with his right to unsnag the ribbon from underneath the hood of the crib. How it had gotten there, I had no idea, unless the ribbon had been caught when I bent over the monument to study the photograph.

“Looks old,” he said, dangling the key in the air in much the same way he’d displayed the dead crow. “A good-luck charm?”

“Something like that.” I held out my hand.

He eyed the key for a moment longer before dropping it in my palm. “Better hang on to it then. A corpse bird isn’t just any old sign. It’s a death omen. Finding that dead crow likely means someone else is about to pass.”

Three

That night I had the most disturbing dream, undoubtedly triggered by the ghost child’s manifestation and by Prosper Lamb’s death prophesy. I found myself walking through Woodbine Cemetery, a thick mist swirling around my legs as I searched for all those nameless headstones. I felt an urgency to find them. It seemed imperative that I visit each grave to let the dead know they hadn’t been forgotten.

As I entered one of the ornate fences surrounding a plot, I saw my mother and my aunt Lynrose in wicker rockers drinking sweet tea at the edge of an open grave. They were dressed in summer finery, florals and pastels, rather than in heavy mourning attire. I could hear the murmur of their soft drawls as they peered down into the abyss. As I came upon them, Aunt Lynrose looked up with a stern admonishment. “Mind your manners, chile. Don’t you go poking your nose in places it doesn’t belong.”

“Leave her be, Lyn,” my mother scolded. “We should have tended to this business years ago. Now it’s up to Amelia to find out the truth.”

My aunt worried the gold locket at her throat as she returned her attention to the open grave. “You should know by now, dear sister, that some secrets are best left buried.”

I left them muttering to each other as I traveled on through a sea of headstones. Just when I thought I must be hopelessly lost, the mist thinned and I could see the willow trees that lined the riverbank. As I neared the water, the scent of woodbine deepened and I heard the distant tinkle of a wind chime. The haunting melody drew me deeper into the copse, where Prosper Lamb reclined against the stone cradle. He eyed me curiously as I came through the trees.

“That one there...she’s a strange one,” he warned. “A bad seed, you might say.”

I turned to find the ghost child glowering at me from the shadows. She didn’t taunt or try to play as she’d done before. Her anger was palpable. I could see blood on her hands and on the white drop-waist dress she wore. She stood upright, but her head dangled at an odd angle like that of the corpse bird she clutched to her chest.

As I started toward her, a powerful wind knocked me back. Struggling to remain upright, I called out to her. “Please stop. You’ll hurt me.”

Her surly expression never changed, but suddenly she lifted a finger to point at something in the mist over my shoulder. I thought Prosper Lamb must have come up behind me. Still battling that terrible wind, I turned in alarm but my feet tangled in a vine and I hit the ground hard, tumbling over and over as if rolling down a long hill.

I awakened before I hit the bottom, my heart pounding. For a moment I could have sworn I saw the dead child’s face hovering over me in the dark, but nothing was there, ghost or otherwise. The night was calm and my dog, Angus, slept peacefully in his bed beneath the window. If he’d sensed an intruder, living or dead, he would have alerted me.

Clutching Rose’s key to my breast, I settled back against the pillow. It had only been a dream. I was safe and sound in my own bed, protected from ghosts by the hallowed ground on which the house had been built, and from living intruders by the alarm system I’d recently installed. I was safe. Nothing could get to me here.

Yet my heart wouldn’t be still. I checked the time on my phone, noting that it was straight-up midnight. I turned on my side and nestled under the covers, exhausted from the day’s work but too unnerved to doze back off. No point in trying to analyze or dissect the disturbing visions. Likely, they didn’t mean anything. But I couldn’t bring myself to believe that. Dreams were often portents, and I couldn’t forget Mama and Aunt Lynrose gazing down into that open grave or Prosper Lamb’s warning that the ghost was a bad seed. I didn’t believe that, either. A child wasn’t inherently evil. Something must have happened in her short life to cause all that pent-up rage.

Outside I could hear the wind in the trees as I lay there sorting through my churning thoughts. I rolled restlessly onto my back and watched shadows flail across the ceiling as the chimes in the back garden jangled. I listened intently to that distant sound, dread seeping down into my bones. The discordant notes melded into a distinctive melody, one that I had heard in Woodbine Cemetery that very day.

I tried to ignore the haunting descant, drawing the quilt up over my ears. I wouldn’t get up from my warm bed to go explore. I would not. It was the wind stirring the chimes and nothing more. But the melancholy strands floated through the house, luring me from under the covers and down the hallway to my office. I stood on bare feet at one of the long windows, arms hugging my waist as I peered out into the nocturnal landscape. I’d had security lights installed along with the alarm system and now I could peer into almost every corner. I trailed my gaze along the snowy beds of sweet alyssum, through the camellias and up into the tea olives. The leaves fluttered in the breeze, but no one was about. Nothing was amiss.

Go back to bed, Amelia. Stop borrowing trouble.

But I couldn’t turn away from the window. I couldn’t turn my back on the night. Something was wrong. I could feel it with every fiber of my being.

As I stood watching the shadows, something crashed into the window directly in front of me. I stumbled back, hand to my heart. At first I thought it must be a night bird disoriented by the reflection of moonlight on glass, but I hadn’t seen so much as a darting shadow.

The sound came again and again. It was rhythmic and jarring, a steady bam, bam, bam that made me think of a ball being bounced against the window. And that made me think of the ball that had rolled to my feet in Woodbine Cemetery. Had the ghost child followed me home? Had she manifested in my garden? I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t yet feel her cold, but I sensed she was near.

The banging against the window increased, a hard, rapid volley that rattled the glass and set off my security alarm. Angus started barking and did not let up even when I hurried down the hall to deactivate the system. I returned to the window, my heart hammering a painful staccato as I stared out into the empty backyard. This was not a playful taunting; this was malevolent. I feared the ghost wouldn’t relent until the glass shattered into a million pieces.

“Please stop,” I pleaded.

Mercy, came the silent rejoinder.

“You’ll break the glass. You’ll hurt me.”

Mercy, the ghost demanded.

“Mercy,” I whispered.

The pounding stopped. Angus fell silent. The wind died away, leaving an unholy stillness in the garden.

Four

I awakened the next morning to the soothing sound of rain on my roof. I got up and dressed for the cemetery, but the deluge showed no sign of letting up. Work had always been my escape in times of stress and confusion, but today I felt a keen sense of relief that I could put off a return to Woodbine. The experience at my office window had left me unnerved. The ghost child wanted something from me and I hated to think what she might do next to get my attention.

But even apart from the dread I had of the apparition and her intentions, I had no desire to run into Prosper Lamb again. I had felt something in the caretaker’s presence—an indefinable foreshadowing—that worried me. I wasn’t comfortable with his proximity. I didn’t want him watching over me. I would have much preferred a solitary restoration, but I had no control over his comings and goings.

Trapped inside, I spent the morning catching up on bills and invoices, and that afternoon, I worked on my blog, Digging Graves. The crib monument had so intrigued me that I decided to write about the history of such headstones. The more I researched, the deeper my fascination became until the single blog post I’d originally envisioned turned into a series of articles I called “The Loneliest Graves: An Exploration of Symbolism and Traditions Associated with Infant Burials.”

Hours passed unnoticed as I became engrossed in my work. It was cozy in my office with the rain streaming down the windows and Angus curled up nearby. I sipped tea and contentedly typed away, stopping only when the drag of exhaustion called me to bed just before midnight.

Without any ominous dreams or ghostly interruptions, I slept the sleep of the dead and awakened to another rainy day. I returned to my writing, but by midmorning, I was starting to go a little stir-crazy. I drove down to Waterfront Park and then, grabbing my umbrella, exited the car for a soggy stroll along East Bay Street and the Battery. The weather had chased the tourists inside and I had the walkway to myself. I went all the way to the point of the peninsula and watched the waves for a few minutes before turning back.

The downpour shrouded the mansions along Battery Row, but even so, I stopped to admire them as I almost always did on my morning walks. The towering spectacles were a mixture of architectural styles representing the peak of Charleston’s grandeur. Like most of the old houses south of Broad Street, they had been passed down from generation to generation. The Devlin abode was one of the largest on East Bay, a shimmering white Renaissance Revival with three stories of columns and a rooftop pavilion from which the family’s ancestors had undoubtedly viewed the Battle of Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor.

Once upon a time, I’d had a connection to that house, though I’d never been inside and had never met the current owner, Jonathan Devlin. Until a year ago last spring, I’d had a relationship with his grandson, John Devlin, a former police detective who was the heir apparent to the Devlin home and to the family fortune. Our breakup had not been mutual and I’d spent the past eighteen months brooding about his reasons and motivations when I should have long since relegated him to a distant corner of my memory. But no matter what I did or where I went, I couldn’t seem to forget him. Scarcely a night went by I didn’t ache for him, that I didn’t dream about being back in his arms. Mornings were cold, cruel awakenings.

Not only had Devlin broken my heart, but he’d also returned to a life he once rejected. He’d resigned from the police department, taken control of the family’s holdings and, rumor had it, he’d moved back into his grandfather’s mansion. Sometimes in my weaker moments, I wondered if the reason he’d left was because I didn’t have an acceptable pedigree. I wasn’t a suitable match for someone who came from a world I could only gaze at from afar. The Devlin family was one of the oldest and wealthiest in the city. They had been here since the founding of Charleston over three hundred years ago. My people came from the mountains.

But that was too simplistic an explanation for our estrangement and didn’t take into account his family’s sinister connections—those dark alliances and shadowy associations, some of which were only now surfacing. It was hard enough to accept Devlin’s recent engagement, let alone the possibility that as a member of the secret and deadly Congé, he might now be my mortal enemy.

As I stared across the street, the base of my spine tingled. Little wonder, I told myself. For all I knew, Devlin might be inside at that very moment. Even the mere possibility of his nearness fluttered my heart. But it was more than that. Someone watched me.

My grip tightened around the umbrella as I searched the windows and balconies and the rain-soaked garden. I didn’t see anyone until I shifted my focus to the third floor and then my pulse jumped. Devlin stood in an open doorway, arms folded, one shoulder propped against the frame. The moment our gazes collided, he came out onto the balcony, leaning his forearms against the balustrade as he peered down at me.

I couldn’t help but shudder at his intensity. I knew the weight of that stare only too well. I had felt the singularity of his focus in anger and in passion. As I stood frozen, rain pattering against my umbrella, forbidden memories stirred to life—his husky drawl in the warm darkness...those obsidian eyes hard upon me as my legs locked around him...

I banished the images, reminding myself that Devlin was engaged now and some memories were best left buried. But even as I hardened my resolve, even as I tried to turn away from him, I could feel the pressure of his fingers around my arms, the feathery brush of his lips at my nape. It was as if he had come up behind me, coaxing me back against him as he wrapped me in a heated embrace. The sensation was so real and so powerful, I had the strongest urge to turn into him, to draw his face down to mine for a kiss. My hand lifted as if to touch him, but I quickly dropped it to my side and took a long breath to quiet my racing heart.

“Don’t,” I whispered.

He stared down at me for another long moment—almost defiantly, I thought—before he straightened and went back inside, leaving me alone and shivering in the rain.

* * *

I didn’t like wallowing in misery and self-pity, so I drove over to the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies for a quick visit with my friend and mentor, Dr. Rupert Shaw. He and Papa were the only ones I could turn to in times of paranormal upheaval, but today I wanted his company as much as his advice.

Once we were settled in his cozy but perpetually cluttered office with cups of soothing chamomile before us, I told him about my new project at Woodbine Cemetery and my encounter with Prosper Lamb.

“Do you know anything about Woodbine?” I asked.

“Most of the cemeteries in that area are on the committee’s register of historic burial grounds,” he said absently as he sipped his tea.

“Yes, some of the graves are pre–Civil War. According to the caretaker, Woodbine has a rather sordid history.”

“Indeed?”

His response was so incurious I wondered if he’d heard me at all. Earlier when I’d called, he had seemed genuinely glad to hear from me, but now he appeared distracted and more than a little dispirited. He watched the rain through the garden doors with a brooding frown.

I set my teacup aside. “I have a feeling I’ve come at a bad time.”

He gave a dismissive wave. “Nonsense. You’re always welcome here. You know that.”

“Yes, but I shouldn’t take advantage of your good nature. I’ll go now and come back another day.”

“No, stay put, my dear. The rain has made me gloomy and reflective. Left to my own devices, I could easily become maudlin. Your company is a welcome diversion. No one can cheer me up the way you do.”

“Which is surprising, considering the things we normally discuss,” I teased. “We could talk about you for a change. I have the unfortunate tendency to dominate our conversations, but I am a good listener.”

“That’s a kind offer and I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I’d rather hear more about your work. What’s this about a sordid history?”

I nodded as I settled back against my chair. It was obvious he had something on his mind, but I wouldn’t press him. “It may be nothing more than gossip or an urban legend, but I’m intrigued by the caretaker’s claim of buried secrets. He says Woodbine is where the city’s well-to-do interred the people on the fringes of their lives. Mistresses, for example, and the children that came from those illicit unions.”

“Cemeteries are more your domain than mine,” Dr. Shaw said. “But I would never underestimate the decadence and callousness of the upper crust nor the extraordinary lengths they’ve gone to over the years to keep a stranglehold on their fortunes and legacies.” There was an uncharacteristic bitterness in his tone that made me wonder again about his despondency.

“Like forming the Order of the Coffin and the Claw,” I said. “And the Congé.”

“Any number of closed and exclusive societies—the latter, of course, being far more sinister than the former.”

I leaned forward, searching his careworn face and feeling faintly alarmed by the sallowness of his skin and the dark circles beneath his eyes. He had the look of a distraught man, but perhaps his mood really was attributable to the gloomy weather. Still, his attire seemed more threadbare than usual and his thick cap of white hair wasn’t as sleekly groomed as I’d come to expect. He had turned to the garden, watching the rain in glum fascination until I softly called him back.

He stirred and offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. My mind keeps wandering but it has nothing to do with the company. You were saying?”

“I asked if you’d found out anything more about the Congé.”

“I’ve pulled back on my research. One of my sources became concerned that the inquiries had been noticed, and it seemed prudent to keep a low profile, at least for the time being. What I do know is that the Congé, with the exception of a very small and fervent faction, went dormant for a long period of time. As of late, there’s been resurgence. A powerful reawakening, I’m told. Old connections have been reestablished, while new members have been recruited. The Congé remain rooted in the occult, but they are also deeply embedded in the mainstream—business, government, finance. Like the Order of the Coffin and the Claw, they favor their own and eschew the unknown. Their primary motivation is to protect and maintain the status quo. But the Congé take it one step further. They fancy themselves kingmakers with a divine mandate. They use the fears and superstitions bred by these turbulent times to satiate their lust for power.”

“Who’s behind the resurgence?”

His mouth tightened as he set aside his teacup with a clatter. “My sources either don’t know or won’t say, but I wonder if Jonathan Devlin might not be at the heart of it all.”

I stared at him in shock. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s nothing more than speculation, but the Devlin name features prominently on the list I told you about weeks ago.”

“The membership list?”

He nodded as he twisted his pinkie ring, the snake-and-talon insignia all too familiar to me by now. “Think about what we know of their recruitment. They conscript from exclusive groups like the Order of the Coffin and the Claw, and there is no doubt whatsoever that the Devlins have had a long and intimate history with the Order.”

“As do you,” I pointed out. “You’ve never actually admitted your association, but you wear their emblem just as Devlin does.”

“You’re referring to my ring,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “I believe I once told you that I picked it up at a flea market.”

“That is what you said.”

“Even if I had once been affiliated with the Order, someone with my background and interests would never have been allowed into the exalted inner circle. And after my unseemly dismissal from Emerson University, I would have been further marginalized if not outright ostracized.”

“Is that what happened?”

He stared down at the ring. “If such a thing had happened, someone with my disposition, stripped of my reputation and power, might take a perverse pleasure in finding the venerated emblem at a lowly flea market. I might enjoy wearing said token, not out of vanity or misplaced loyalty, but as a poke in the eye at the elites. After all, they do like to keep their symbols unsullied.”

“I can see how that would be satisfying,” I said, not knowing whether or not I believed him. Claws were notoriously wily. “So the Congé recruits only from this exalted inner circle? Is that how they’ve remained under the radar for so long? Most of the Order wouldn’t even be aware of them then.”

“Correct. As I’ve said before, the elite chosen from the elite. The Devlin name carries the weight of aristocracy and tradition, perhaps more than any other of the old families. They’ve managed to remain virtually untainted through the generations, despite John’s marriage to Mariama Goodwine. My guess is, Jonathan Devlin knows he isn’t long for this world so he’s putting his affairs in order and cementing his legacy.”

“And he expects John to take over when he’s gone?”

“He is the grandson and heir apparent. The only other living Devlin so far as I know. That in itself adds cachet.”

Once the conversation turned to Devlin, I found myself back on the Battery staring up at that third-story balcony. The intensity of his stare lingered in the prickle at my nape and in the sudden thud of my heart.

“I’ve always been very fond of John,” Dr. Shaw said with a sigh. “I believe that, unlike his grandfather, he is at heart an honorable man. But if I’m allowed to speak plainly, the more distance you put between yourself and the Devlins, the better off you’ll be.”

“That is plainly spoken,” I said.

“I’ve never made any secret of my disdain for Jonathan Devlin. He is a cold, ruthless man who destroys anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in his path.”

“That’s a very bold statement. I wasn’t aware you knew him that well.”

His gaze hardened. “We haven’t traveled in the same circle for years, but my opinion hasn’t changed. And if I’m right about his connection to the Congé, he is also very dangerous. As I said, you should stay far away from that family.”

“So it would seem,” I murmured, still taken aback by the sharpness in his tone. I’d never seen Dr. Shaw like this, even during the time he’d been under the influence of a diabolical assistant. He didn’t seem drugged or dazed today, but he was clearly preoccupied and not a little perturbed.

We both fell silent, lost in our own chaotic thoughts. Then Dr. Shaw let out another heavy sigh. “I’ve said enough about Jonathan Devlin. He is not a fit subject for such a gray day. We should get back to the subject of Woodbine.”

“Because a cemetery is such a cheerful topic,” I said with a smile.

“For us it is.”

“Yes.” I was happy enough to comply. For some reason, Dr. Shaw’s animosity toward Devlin’s grandfather made me uneasy, even though he was right to worry. Any member of the Congé, let alone the leader, could be lethal to someone like me and perhaps to Dr. Shaw, as well. “Here’s something that might interest you,” I said. “Woodbine has a ghost.”

Dr. Shaw lifted a snowy brow. “Only one?”

“I’ve seen just the one, though I have a feeling the cemetery is a very haunted place. All those buried secrets.” I shivered. “This ghost is the spirit of a little girl. And she appears to be a very angry entity.”

“Do you know why?”

“I don’t even know who she was. The only clue I have is an unnamed grave hidden within a copse of willow trees. The memorial is carved in the shape of a crib and the nameplate has only birth and death dates. The ghost seems to have a connection to this grave and I thought at first she was the spirit of the child buried there. But the infant died at the age of two and the ghost girl appears to have been ten or so when she passed.”

“Sisters?”

“That was my second thought. The ghost child came to my house last night and almost broke a window. I didn’t see her, but I sensed her out in the garden. She manifests with the smell of honeysuckle and a strange, haunting melody that I can sometimes hear in the wind chimes.”

“Intriguing.”

“Very. Before she appeared last night, I had a dream about her. The caretaker called her a bad seed.”

“Do you think that explains her anger?”

“No. Despite what I’ve read about an evil gene, I don’t believe children are born bad. Something happens in their life to turn them.”

“Or someone.”

Too late, I thought of his son, Ethan, a man with dark secrets and deadly tendencies. Ethan Shaw hadn’t been born evil and Dr. Shaw had certainly been a benevolent if somewhat absentminded role model. They had always seemed close. And yet Ethan Shaw had fallen prey to outside manipulations and his own misplaced affections until one day he had brought a gun to my house and shot Devlin in cold blood before he, himself, had been shot and killed.

I wondered if Dr. Shaw was also thinking about his son and if I should openly acknowledge the tender subject. Or should I pretend the awkward silence was only a lull in the conversation?

“Looking back, you think you can pinpoint exactly when they made the wrong turn,” he mused. “Where and why mistakes were made. And then years later you learn, quite unexpectedly, that you never really had a clue. Forces were at play you never saw coming.” He picked up a silver letter opener from his desk and absently fingered the edge.

“I—yes, that’s probably true.” I felt bad that he couldn’t open up to me in a more direct way. He had helped me through so many difficult times and he was obviously in the throes of rumination and regret. I wondered what had put him in such a state, the where and the why of his current deliberation.

Absently, he twisted the letter opener in his hand until the jewel in the handle caught the light. Something about his fixation chilled me. Then he rallied and gave me a tenuous smile. “Your ghost. Why do you think she tried to break your window?”

I shrugged. “She wants my attention. And like all the others, she needs my help.”

“Will you help her?”

“Do I ever really have a choice? I keep hoping she’ll just fade away. But they never have before.” Now it was I who sank into gloomy contemplation. “I think other forces may be at play here, too, Dr. Shaw. I don’t know how to explain it, but I’ve had moments of déjà vu lately. Callbacks to my past that I can’t help but think have meaning. I have this looming dread that something is coming to a head. Or to an end. The caretaker found a dead crow in the bed of the crib. He called it a corpse bird. He said it was a sign that someone else was about to pass.”

“Birds have been considered harbingers since the beginning of time. It’s true that a dead bird is often thought to be an omen, but like the death card in a tarot deck, it may not signify a literal passing.” Dr. Shaw observed me with kindly eyes. “It could be the death of something you’ve held on to for too long. An old relationship, for instance. Or the passing of an era. As with all things that end, the way then becomes clear for new opportunities. Perhaps a new destination.”

On the surface, his words seemed hopeful, but for me, they dropped like anvils and I felt a keen sense of loss for something that had yet to go missing. “I’m not sure that interpretation makes me feel a good deal better.”

“Letting go is a very hard thing,” he said. “Grief and guilt, even loneliness, can become a comfort. A touchstone. The road behind us, littered as it is with mistakes and heartache, can often be more appealing than the open road in front of us.”

“I hear what you’re saying and I don’t disagree, but in this case, I can’t help thinking the omen may have a more straightforward implication. I’ve been having strange dreams. Premonitions. The corpse bird can be interpreted literally, can’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, still toying with the letter opener. “A dead bird can most definitely be the harbinger of a physical death.”

Five

I shook off the lingering effects of that unsettling conversation and rewarded myself with another long afternoon of research. Seated in my office with my back to the windows, I switched my focus from “The Loneliest Graves” to the business of restoring Woodbine Cemetery. I’d located a map in the local archives and had already begun a preliminary perusal of the records through the online databases of the main library and the county clerk’s office. But the unnamed graves would require a more thorough digging.

As I worked, I was drawn back time and again to that stone crib hidden in the willow trees. I had the child’s birth and death dates, so I felt certain I could eventually uncover her identity. But after a few hours at the computer, I remained stymied. Either the databases weren’t up to date or her birth and death had been recorded in another county. Or—a more troubling prospect—the official records had been purged. That seemed a drastic action but one that might corroborate Prosper Lamb’s assertion about the well-to-do and their buried secrets.

I kept at it until early evening, when a phone call from Temple Lee drew me back out of the house for dinner. I’d once worked for Temple at the State Archeologist’s Office in Columbia and we’d remained close after my relocation to Charleston to start my own business. I didn’t often go out on weeknights, but a diversion was just what I needed, and Temple was always an entertaining dinner companion.

By the time I left the house, the rain had finally stopped, and the dripping city basked in a golden glow as the sun sank below the church spires. I decided to walk over to Meeting Street, taking time for a brief stroll through one of the city’s churchyards before arriving at Rapture, a restaurant housed in a beautiful old building that had once been a rectory. I had learned on a previous visit that the place had been built on hallowed ground. No ghost could touch me inside and I was more than happy to leave the dead world behind me if only for the space of a meal.

But all through dinner, my mind kept straying back to that nameless grave and to the ghost child that had hovered nearby. I couldn’t help wondering if she had manifested near the crib for a reason. She and the infant had a connection—to each other and possibly to me—that I had yet to discern. No matter how badly I wished to escape another netherworld puzzle, I could already feel the chill of her pull.

Thankfully, Temple seemed equally distracted and paid no attention to my pensive mood. The restaurant was crowded for a Wednesday night and even as she regaled me with a tale from a current excavation, her gaze darted now and then to the entrance and she seemed uncharacteristically fidgety. Lately, I seemed to have that effect on people.

Finally I put down my fork as I followed her gaze. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No, why?” she asked innocently, tucking back her hair. She was dressed in teal silk tonight, a lovely bold shade that complemented her coloring. Gold earrings dangled from her lobes and it seemed to me that she’d taken extra care with her makeup. She always looked fabulous but I didn’t think her fine-tuning was for my benefit.

“You keep watching the door,” I said.

She smiled and shrugged. “Just checking out the scenery. No harm in that, is there?”

“No, but I’m not sure I believe you. You have the look of someone who’s up to something. Or hiding something.” I was only half joking. Canting my head, I pretended to study her. “What’s going on with you? The way you keep watching that door makes me wonder if you had an ulterior motive for your last-minute dinner invitation. And why, out of all the restaurants in Charleston, you asked me to meet you at this one.”

“I didn’t feel like eating alone and as to the restaurant...lovely atmosphere, impeccable service and—” she motioned to her plate “—the best shrimp and grits in the city. Not to mention the lavender ice cream. Why wouldn’t I choose Rapture?”

“I can think of one reason,” I murmured uneasily, picking at my mushroom crepe. The rustic restaurant truly was beautiful. Candles flickered from wall sconces. Soft music played in the background. Our table looked out into the garden, where glowing lanterns seemed to float down from the tree branches. Without any hovering ghosts, the setting was dreamy and peaceful, but I couldn’t stop thinking dark thoughts.

“Do you remember the last time we came here together?” I asked with a shiver. “You invited Ethan Shaw to join us. He’s been on my mind today.”

Temple grimaced. “Such a charming, elegant man, or so he seemed. Who would have ever guessed he had that kind of darkness inside him? I knew him for years. We worked together on a number of excavations and I never had an inkling.”

“No one did. That’s what made him so dangerous. And tragic.”

She gave me a strange look. “John Devlin was here that night, too, remember? You’d only just met, but I could tell you were already falling for him. And I knew he would be trouble. I warned you about getting involved with someone like him.”

“Someone out of my league.”

“Someone with his past,” she corrected. She searched my face in the candlelight. “Given how things turned out, do you ever wish you’d taken my advice?”

“That’s a complicated question.” And one I’d pondered often on sleepless nights when the house seemed too quiet and my bed too empty.

“Well?” Temple prompted as she regarded me across the table.

I drew a long breath and released it. “No, I’m not sorry. Not at all. Despite everything, I wouldn’t trade a moment of my time with Devlin.”

“Spoken like a hopeless romantic.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It can be.” She picked up her wineglass but didn’t drink. Instead she stared into the dregs as if trying to divine an acceptable explanation. “You’ve created a fairy tale around that man. A romantic fantasy with which no ordinary mortal can compete. That’s why you can’t move on. This fascination you have for him has never been good for you, Amelia. I hope you can see that now.”

Her words stung more than they should have, perhaps because they hit a little too close to home. “I did try to move on, and look where it got me.”

She winced. “The police detective, you mean. The one down in Beaufort County. Yes, that was unfortunate.”

Unfortunate? The man had tried to kill me. “Devlin’s engaged now. I’ve accepted that.”

“Have you?” A smile flitted. “You sound convincing, but I’ve known you for a long time and you’ve always been adept at putting on a good face.” She paused as if contemplating whether or not to push on, but Temple had never been one to hold back. “Have you seen him since you’ve been back in Charleston?”

“Only in passing.” I continued to pick absently at my food as I pictured him on that third-story balcony. Memories stirred yet again but I batted them away.

“He hasn’t tried to contact you?”

“No.” At least not in the way she meant.

“Doesn’t his silence tell you something? You just came through a harrowing ordeal. You were nearly murdered by a madman and he can’t be bothered to call and see if you’re all right? Does he even know what happened to you?”

I shrugged off the question, murmuring something purposefully vague, but I knew Devlin was fully cognizant of the dangers I’d encountered during my last restoration. He had even whispered in my ear to warn me. I couldn’t explain the how or the why of it to Temple because she would ridicule the concept of an astral traveler—someone who could separate the spiritual self from the corporal body.

My belief about Devlin’s astral wanderings stemmed from something Dr. Shaw had told me during my Seven Gates ordeal: I knew a young man once, a traveler who claimed to have looked into a hellish abyss. He was so shaken by the sight that he tried for years to convince himself what he experienced was nothing more than a nightmare. I don’t think he ever traveled again—at least not consciously. He had a fear of being trapped in such a place.

It was possible Devlin wasn’t even aware of his ability, but it would explain so much about his younger days at the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies and his subsequent rejection of all things paranormal. It would explain so much about him.

I rubbed a hand up and down my chilled arm. “This conversation has taken a bad turn.”

“Yes, we’ve grown morose,” Temple agreed. “Let’s talk about something else, something pleasant. Tell me about this new project of yours. You said the cemetery is local, correct?”

I nodded and started to relax as our wineglasses were replenished and we drifted into more comfortable conversation territory. “It’s located at the end of a narrow street off Algonquin Road, practically in the shadow of Magnolia Cemetery. But Woodbine is much smaller, only a few acres. And unlike the other cemeteries in the area, it’s been badly neglected for decades. The fence is so overgrown with honeysuckle vines, you’d never know a cemetery lies behind it if not for the taller monuments.”

“But didn’t you mention something about a caretaker?” Temple asked as she shot another glance toward the entrance.

“That’s what I was told, but now that I’ve met him, I think that job description was greatly exaggerated. By his own admission, he doesn’t touch the graves. He’s more of a watchman. According to him, he’s there to chase away the riffraff.”

“Which may not be a bad thing if the cemetery is as isolated as you say,” she pointed out.

“True. But I don’t know that Prosper Lamb’s presence makes me feel a good deal safer.”

“Prosper Lamb. What an interesting name.”

“He’s an interesting man and he does seem to know quite a lot about the cemetery. He told me that Woodbine was once used by the well-to-do to bury their secrets. Their mistresses and bastards, people they kept on the fringes of their lives.”

“Well, that’s a rather sleazy concept, isn’t it?” Temple’s eyes gleamed and I could tell that I’d hooked her in a way that I hadn’t been able to engage Dr. Shaw. She was itching to know more, but we both fell silent as the waiter approached and the table was cleared. We ordered after-dinner drinks—a cordial for her and a cup of tea for me. Once we were alone again, she leaned in. “Go on. I want to hear more about these buried secrets. You know how I relish the salacious.”

“At least you admit it.” I cast a quick glance around, more out of habit than any real fear of being overheard. “Mr. Lamb said that’s the reason Woodbine has so many unnamed graves. The wealthy benefactors bought the finest monuments to commemorate the passing of their loved ones, but they wouldn’t allow their names to be inscribed in the stones. Whether any of it is true or not...who knows?” I looked up with a smile as a cup of tea was placed before me.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Temple said, cradling her glass. “Image and reputation were once everything to the blue bloods in this city. People would do anything, including commit murder, to protect their status. To be honest, I’m not sure times have changed that much.”

Dr. Shaw had said much the same thing, but I didn’t want to get into the Congé can of worms with Temple. I had no idea how to go about explaining the organization to a nonbeliever.

“I’m inclined to agree, especially since I can’t seem to locate some of the records. If I were the suspicious type, I might think someone had purposely removed them.” I sipped the tea absently as my thoughts drifted back to the cemetery. “I ran across one of the unnamed graves the other day, that of a little girl who died at the age of two. I haven’t been able to find out who she was.”

“Hers are the missing records?”

I nodded. “I may be jumping to conclusions. It’s possible her birth and death were recorded in another county. But, Temple...” I paused on an inexplicable shiver. “Something about her burial won’t let me go. I know it sounds strange, but finding her grave has had a powerful effect on me.”

“In what way?”

“I can’t explain it, really. Maybe it’s because she died so young or because her memorial is shaped like an old-fashioned baby crib. There’s even an embedded portrait of her beneath the hood. The whole presentation haunts me.”

“How very sad it sounds. But you know why it haunts you, don’t you? It’s our inherent fear of children.”

“What?”

“It’s true. We all have it. We fear their vulnerability because it forces us to face the prospect of our own mortality. If a child can die, what’s to bind the rest of us to this mortal coil?”

“That may be profound and a bit muddled all at the same time,” I said. “I do agree that every tiny grave is affecting. This one, though—” I broke off, still trying to analyze my reaction. “It almost seems as if I have a personal connection to her. I don’t see how. She died long before I was born.” Although in my family, the impossible was never out of the question, and I labored under no delusion that all our secrets had been uncovered.

“And there’s nothing else on the stone to identify her?”

“Just her birth and death dates and an inscription that reads Shush... Lest She Awaken.”

“You’ve given me goose bumps.” Temple held out her arm so that I could see her pebbled flesh in the candlelight.

“I know. The phrasing is unsettling,” I agreed. “But sleep and rest references are common on graves, especially those of children. I mean, think about where the word cemetery comes from. Literally, dormitory or sleeping place in Greek.”

“That doesn’t make the epitaph any less creepy.”

“No, but it helps to put it in context. Remember, rural cemeteries were originally designed as parks where families could congregate with their children. In that context, sleep imagery was considered more appropriate for young eyes. I’ve been researching infant burials in general and...” My words faded as I realized I’d already lost her attention.

Her focus had once again shifted to the entrance and something about her expression, a subtle flicker of emotion, made me turn to see who had come in. A man stood just inside the doorway, his imperious gaze sweeping the dining room. He seemed to vector in on our table and something unpleasant crawled up my spine as our gazes briefly locked.

Until recently, I had never considered myself clairvoyant or psychic or even particularly intuitive, but the evolution of my gift had introduced me to any number of new sensations and abilities. For that reason, I didn’t discount the uncanny premonition that suddenly gripped me. My heart thudded as I stared back at the stranger. His features seemed to eerily morph into the beady eyes and gaping beak of the corpse bird Prosper Lamb had plucked from the stone crib. I even detected an iridescent gleam in his dark hair. It was a very disconcerting vision and I quickly blinked to dispel the image.

The man’s face settled back into its normal appearance, but my nerves bristled with unease. He looked familiar and I wondered where I might have met him. He was tallish and trim and I judged his age to be mid to late fifties. I could see a sprinkling of silver throughout his dark hair, and his face was a healthy golden shade that no tanning bed or spray could replicate. I couldn’t place him, but I recognized the cut and drape of a well-tailored suit and the carriage of a man who had unquestionably been raised in the lap of luxury.

He gave a surprised, pleased nod when his attention moved across the table to Temple and she looked suitably taken aback by his arrival even though I suspected he was the reason we had come to this restaurant in the first place.

“Who is that?” I asked, thrown off guard by the man’s disquieting presence and by my bizarre reaction to him.

Temple glanced at me in surprise. “You don’t recognize him? That’s Rance Duvall.”

His back was to me now as he turned to greet someone beyond my view. Released from his gaze, my pulse steadied, but I still felt quite shaken. “Rance Duvall,” I mused. “Why do I know that name?”

“In Charleston, you would be hard-pressed not to know his name.” Temple lowered her voice. “He’s one of the Duvalls. As in Duvall Island. His family has been around for generations.” She waited for me to make the connection and when I appeared suitably impressed, she continued. “He’s also active in local politics, especially on issues regarding zoning and historic preservation. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your paths had crossed at some point.”

I watched as others joined him and the party was guided into a private dining room. “He does look familiar, but I can’t remember when or where we may have met. How do you know him?”

“One of the burial mounds we’re excavating is located on Duvall Island. He’s given us unlimited access and even arranged for the use of some very expensive equipment. Considering all the resistance and red tape that we’re usually up against, his cooperation has been refreshing, to say the least.”

Somehow I didn’t think professional collaboration or cooperation was the extent of Temple’s appreciation for Rance Duvall. I felt the need to warn her about what I’d seen in his visage. But what had I seen—or sensed? “Did you know he would be here tonight? Is that why you chose this restaurant?”

She smiled. “Happy coincidence.”

“Sure it is. And your fixation on the entrance was just my imagination.”

“It was.” But she didn’t try very hard to convince me. If anything, her smile turned self-satisfied as she picked up her napkin and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “As long as we’re both here, you don’t mind if I go say a quick hello, do you?”

I did mind but I could give her no good reason for my objection. “Would it do any good if I said yes?”

She scooted back her chair and stood. “None whatever.”

“That’s what I thought. Temple—” Her name came out harsher than I’d meant it.

She lifted a querying brow. “What?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Be careful.”

She gave me an odd look before turning away from the table.

Six

I used Temple’s absence for a trip to the ladies’ room, where I applied a layer of lip gloss and tightened my ponytail. I examined my reflection as I washed my hands and dried them on a paper towel. Like Dr. Shaw, I had dark circles under my eyes from stress and lack of sleep. A ghost visit always took a toll and I didn’t think I’d seen the last of this one. A part of me did wish she would fade away without further contact, but my curiosity had been roused despite my dread.

Leaning in, I stared at those dark circles as if I could somehow wish them away. And then I focused even more intently until the tiny motes at the bottoms of my pupils took on the look of keyholes. How many times had I wished for the ability to see into those openings, to peer so deeply into my psyche and soul that I could somehow divine my destiny?

The prospect of knowing the road ahead was at once intriguing and terrifying, I backed away from the mirror, turning my attention once again to the smudges beneath my eyes. Poor Dr. Shaw. I’d tried not to dwell on our conversation, but his mannerisms and vague musings about wrong turns had left me disquieted. And then how strange to already have Ethan Shaw on my mind when Temple had called to invite me to the very restaurant where the three of us had spent our first evening together.

The universe was aligning in strange and disturbing ways, and somehow at the center of it all was Woodbine Cemetery. Ever since I’d been awarded the project, there’d been so many references to my past.

I was still brooding about all those niggling moments as I left the ladies’ room, but none was quite as unnerving as the sight of John Devlin standing in the alcove blocking my path just as he had done once before, in this very space, in this very restaurant. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and managed to look surprised, but my suspension of disbelief only extended so far. He must have seen me leave the table and followed me into the alcove to wait for me. Why, I couldn’t imagine, but a happenstance meeting this was not.

I faltered, but only for a moment. Then I mentally braced myself as I moved forward, already feeling the heady pull of his orbit. His eyes were just as dark and perhaps even more mesmerizing than I remembered. He was tall, lean and still otherworldly handsome though his looks had changed. The five-o’clock shadow had become a perpetual feature, it seemed, as had the longer hair and his more casual attire.

My throat tightened as I approached and I hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself, either by being tongue-tied or blurting something far too revealing.

As it happened, Devlin was the first to speak. “Amelia,” he drawled. “Just like old times.”

He spoke softly, intimately, and yet I had no trouble at all hearing him over the din of the restaurant. His voice drew a quiver and I closed my eyes briefly, steeling myself against his unfair ambush.

“Hello” was all I could manage, along with a brief smile. I clung to my poise, but it was a feat hardly worth celebrating because I should have been over John Devlin a long time ago. I should have been dining with a new lover rather than an old friend, and I set my chin with an accusing jut, as if the blame for my bleak love life rested solely on Devlin’s shoulders.

He said, “This seems to be quite the popular place tonight.”

“Doesn’t it?” My smile turned wry and I added an edge to my voice. “I’m still reeling from the coincidence of it all. You. Me. This alcove.”

“One would almost think it planned.”

And just like that, poise shattered. I made a nonsensical gesture toward the archway. “I was just on my way back to the table.”

He made no move to allow me passage. “You look good,” he said, searching my face and then dropping his gaze for a more subtle scrutiny.

Good, not well. I hated myself for taking note of the distinction.

I had on a simple black dress with my mother’s pearls. Perfectly safe and acceptable attire, but that dark gaze made me feel as if I had on nothing at all.

“You, as well,” I said. “I mean, good. You look good. Different, but...good.” Why did that scruff on his lower face appeal to me so? Or those silver strands at his temples? I had the strongest urge to run the back of my hand against the stubble and then plunge my fingers into his hair. Instead, I toyed with the string of pearls at my neck. I could feel my great-grandmother’s key beneath my dress and I wondered if I should pull it free and hold it in front of me to ward off Devlin’s magnetism.

As we stood there with very little else to say to one another, it occurred to me that perhaps this moment was the essence of Dr. Shaw’s explanation of a death omen. Not a literal passing, but the end of something I’d been hanging on to. I’d been carrying a torch for Devlin for far too long and I waited for that moment of supreme revelation when the weight of unrequited love lifted miraculously from my shoulders, saving me from all those sleepless nights and liberating me for the open road ahead.

Instead, I found myself jostled by someone passing by in the corridor. I was pushed up against Devlin and my heart jolted.

His arm came around me, so fleeting I might have imagined the caress. But for a moment, I felt the pressure of his fingers against the small of my back and I closed my eyes, drawing in that delectable, indefinable essence that was so uniquely John Devlin.

“Sorry,” I mumbled and pushed away.

“You’re here with Temple,” he said.

“And you? You aren’t dining alone tonight, are you?”

The question was a throwback to that first night when he had come to the restaurant alone, but I instantly berated myself. What a stupid thing to ask of an old flame that had recently gotten engaged. I’d momentarily forgotten about his betrothal. Now it all came rushing back to me and as an image of Claire Bellefontaine’s perfect face flashed before my eyes, I did have a revelation.

I thought about the other time Devlin and I had stood here in this alcove and the conversation had turned to Ethan Shaw. Devlin and I had only just met, but I’d had the thrilling notion that he was jealous of my dinner companion. I’d known very little about him then, other than his profession and that two ghosts haunted him. Now I knew quite a lot about his past, about his dead wife and daughter, about his upbringing, his legacy, his affiliation with the Congé. If my hunch was true about his astral travels, I might even know something about him that he wasn’t aware of himself. But for all those discoveries, he was more of a stranger to me at that moment than he’d been upon our first meeting.

He hadn’t answered, I realized, so I gave him a reprieve. “You’re here with—”

“There’s a group of us.”

A meeting of the Congé?

I said very casually, “I heard about your engagement. I should congratulate you.”

Something flickered in his eyes, an emotion I didn’t dare name. “Thank you.” Unlike his eyes, his tone was impassive to the point of dismissive. I tried not to read anything into it.

I started to ask if they’d set a date, make the proper small talk about his upcoming nuptials, but instead I shrugged. “I really should get back.”

“I won’t keep you. But I’m glad I had a chance to say hello.” That beguiling flicker again and a little half smile that made me wonder once more about the unlikely coincidence of our meeting.

Despite his engagement, a part of me wanted him to protest my departure. In the back of my mind floated a vision. His hand sliding up my bare arm as he pulled me farther into the shadowy alcove where he would stare deeply into my eyes for a long, heart-stopping moment before he kissed me.

He was already staring deeply into my eyes, I realized, and his gaze lingered on my lips as if he had read my mind. He straightened languorously, reminding me of all those long, dreamy mornings in bed. I might not know his motives or intentions or even the content of his heart, but I knew his body, all the angles and shadows. The ripple of sinewy muscle.

“I—nice to see you again,” I murmured.

“Good night,” he said, and as I brushed past him, I could have sworn I heard an ominous whisper in my ear. “Watch your back, Amelia.”

* * *

I went back to the table and sipped my cooling tea as I glanced around the dining room. I didn’t see where Devlin had disappeared to or Temple, either, for that matter. Which was just as well as far as I was concerned. The last thing I wanted was to see Devlin with his gorgeous fiancée, and as for my dinner companion, I needed a moment before facing her. Temple’s ability to read me bordered on the uncanny. She would know something was up the minute she sat down across from me and I wasn’t prepared for another grilling about Devlin. My only hope was that she would be sufficiently distracted by her apparent infatuation with Rance Duvall and wouldn’t notice the high color in my cheeks or the slight tremor in my hands.

As I waited for her return, I tried to distract myself by going back over everything that had happened at Woodbine Cemetery. Staring into my cup, I conjured the infant’s face floating on the surface of my tea. The expression captured by the photographer still distressed me. The big eyes, the button nose, the soft cheeks—common attributes of almost any two-year-old. But behind that sweet countenance something dark lurked. Or was that merely my imagination? Was I searching for something in the child’s violet eyes that existed only in my head?

I sank so deeply into contemplation that the music didn’t register at first. The canned melody was soothing background noise, nothing more. Then slowly the haunting strands wove into my consciousness as familiarity teased me. What was that song? I still couldn’t place it. The tune seemed right there at the edge of my memory. Eerily pervasive and yet maddeningly elusive.

The room grew frigid, a dank, seeping bone-frost that often preceded the dead. I rubbed my arms and glanced around yet again. The other diners seemed impervious to the chill, but the cold wasn’t my imagination. The corners of the window had rimed and I could see my breath on the air.

I turned to the garden in fear. Twilight had deepened to nightfall and the candles on the tables sputtered in a draft. My spine crawled as dread mingled with the cold. I told myself to look away. A manifestation in the garden was nothing to me. No ghost could touch me on hallowed ground and the talisman I wore around my neck was added protection. I was safe inside this former rectory. Safe inside my consecrated bubble.

But I couldn’t tear my gaze from the window. Even as I watched the frost spread and crackle across the glass, even as my hand crept to Rose’s key, I could feel an insidious presence tearing at my fingers, stealing my will as my defenses crumpled.

The scent of woodbine oozed in with the cold. The cloying perfume leached through the glass to whorl around my senses like smoke. I sat enthralled—trapped—as my gaze darted about the garden, searching for the ghost child even as I tried to recoil from her icy tentacles.

She was well hidden and nearly transparent. If not for the faint glow of her manifestation, I wouldn’t have noticed her at all. But as soon as I focused on her, she grew more substantial, as if the warmth of my concentration imbued and emboldened her. The last of the shadows melted away and she stood exposed, an ethereal vision bathed in silky moonlight.

She had manifested in the same white dress as before but I could see more detail now. A row of black buttons set against a scalloped seam decorated the bodice, and a plaid ribbon trimmed the drop waist. She wore patent leather shoes with white tights, and another ribbon dangled from her long blond hair. Her attire was obviously from another decade. Late sixties to midseventies, perhaps, though I was no expert on fashion. She looked to be dressed for church, but her young features were twisted in angry defiance—and a touch of fear, I thought—as she stood with her hands behind her back hiding something in the folds of her skirt.

I became so fixated on her shimmering form that I felt myself slip deeper into enthrallment. She had my undivided attention, but she seemed unmindful of me. She didn’t peer at me from the shadows as she’d done in the cemetery. She didn’t taunt me or try to make contact. It was as if I’d somehow entered her memory, a voyeur to something that had happened in the past. The ghost wasn’t aware of me because I didn’t yet exist. I didn’t belong in her world.

For the longest time, she stood motionless, hands behind her back, face tilted. Still defiant, still angry, still hiding her fear. Someone was with her, I realized. Someone invisible to me. Her companion must have said something to her for she tried to back away only to be drawn up short as though forcibly restrained. Her wrists were pried from her back, but whatever she had locked in her fist remained hidden from me. Her companion shook her hard, may even have struck her. The child’s eyes widened in fear and shock as she flew backward, bouncing and tumbling as if rolling down a steep flight of stairs. Her body came to a jarring halt, arms flung wide, head tilted at a sickening angle.

I half rose from my chair even though I could do nothing. The tragedy had occurred long ago, before I was born, before I had discovered that nameless grave hidden deep inside the willow trees. I couldn’t go back in time. I couldn’t save the child because she was already dead.

My heart continued to pound and I grew dizzy with emotion. I didn’t want to be in that child’s memory. I didn’t want to see any more of her past. Surely she had revealed to me all that she had intended.

But no. She wasn’t done with me yet.

As I sat pressing my great-grandmother’s key to my breast, the apparition floated up from the ground, limbs and head dangling as if carried by her unseen assailant. As they neared the edge of the garden, the ghost child’s nebulous form pivoted back to me briefly as if the attacker had turned to make certain no one had witnessed the crime.

For one terrifying instant, I could have sworn I felt those invisible eyes upon me, warning me away, cautioning me to say nothing. Reminding me that this was not my business.

The scene faded. The ghost child vanished as a curtain of shadows once again lowered over the garden.

Seven

I sat stunned, my gaze riveted to the spot where the ghost had vanished as the frost on the window receded. The air around me warmed, but my bones felt cold and brittle. I drew a shaky breath as my every instinct tingled an ominous warning.

Forget what you saw. Ignore what you feel. Don’t get dragged into another dead-world mystery.

But it was too late for caution. Too late to seek asylum in denial. The ghost child had already latched on to me, robbing me of warmth and energy, and in due time she would usurp my vitality unless I could help her move on.

Now I knew why my presence in Woodbine Cemetery had awakened her. Now I knew what she wanted of me. She had been murdered and no matter how much I might wish to believe otherwise, she wouldn’t return to her grave until her killer had been exposed.

It wasn’t the first time a ghost had come to me seeking justice, but a murdered child was an entirely different level of horror. Who would have done such a thing to that little girl? And how could I uncover a killer when I didn’t even know the identity of the victim?

I touched a finger to the window. It was cool from the night air and nothing more. The temperature inside the restaurant was pleasant, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I reached for my sweater, draping it over my shoulders and clutching it to my chest as I searched the garden for the specter. She was gone, melted back into the shadows of the dead world.

I picked up my tea and then set down the cup with a clatter when I realized someone had approached the table. I assumed Temple had returned and arranged my expression so as not to give away my distress. But when I glanced up, another shock rolled through me and my fingers tightened reflexively around Rose’s key.

The woman who stood over me was a stranger, but I knew her name, knew her face, knew that smile tugging at her ruby lips as she stared down at me. I knew the sound of her voice even though we’d never spoken. She was Claire Bellefontaine, Devlin’s fiancée.

Even if I’d never seen her in person, I would have recognized her from the engagement photo that had run in the paper. A photo that I had regarded far longer and far more often than I should have, truth be told. But I had seen her in person and recently.

Only a few weeks ago I’d been walking back to my car on Tradd Street when the lights of an oncoming vehicle had startled me into a recessed doorway. From my hiding place, I had observed first Devlin and then Claire Bellefontaine enter a shadowy courtyard. Their clandestine behavior had seemed peculiar to me and I became convinced the shrouded carriage house beyond the courtyard was, in fact, the inner sanctum of the powerful and deadly Congé.

I had no proof, of course, but I trusted my instincts and by then Dr. Shaw had informed me of the infamous list and had warned me of the Devlins’ connection to the nefarious group. If Claire Bellefontaine was also involved, I now found myself in the presence of a very dangerous and cunning enemy.

Before either of us spoke, two thoughts ran simultaneously through my head. One: no matter that I still reeled from the shock of the ghost child’s revelation, I couldn’t give myself away to the woman standing over me. Two: now that I had the opportunity to observe her up close, she was far more attractive than I could have ever imagined. Easily one of the most beautiful women I’d ever encountered. A cool, ethereal blonde. The physical opposite of Devlin’s late wife, Mariama, a fiery Gullah temptress. I didn’t like to think where I fell on that spectrum.

Claire’s silvery-gold hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, highlighting her near-perfect bone structure. Her eyes were blue, her lips full and her skin tanned and flawless. She wore a simple white sheath, exquisitely cut and adorned with a single gold chain.

“Please forgive the intrusion,” she said in a cultured drawl that reminded me of Devlin’s, but the tentative note in her voice took me aback.

“Yes?” My heart fluttered a warning as another thought came to me. Had she seen me with Devlin in the alcove? Nothing had happened but a cordial conversation, so why did I suddenly feel like the other woman? The role didn’t sit well with me and I tried to shake off the lingering effects of that brief encounter.

Her fingers curled around the back of Temple’s chair. I couldn’t help but note that her nails were clipped short and perfectly manicured. I didn’t see a ring on her finger and hated myself for looking.

“We’ve never met, but I know you by reputation. I’m Claire Bellefontaine.” She extended her hand and I could do nothing but offer mine in return. Her grip was appropriately firm and she didn’t linger awkwardly as if to prove a point, yet I felt an intense relief the moment she released me.

I dropped my hand to my lap and threaded my fingers together. “Amelia Gray.”

She smiled. “Yes, I know who you are. As I said, your reputation precedes you.”

Surely she hadn’t come over to my table to make a scene, so why was she here?

“I’m on the board that administers the Woodbine Cemetery Trust,” she said. “I wanted to tell you in person how happy we are that you’ll be overseeing the restoration.”

She couldn’t have caught me more by surprise, but I managed a courteous reply.

“Other firms were recommended, but your work speaks for itself,” she went on. “And of course, you have an ardent admirer in Rupert Shaw. He’s an acquaintance of yours, I believe.”

“We’re friends, yes, but I had no idea he was involved in the Woodbine project.” Yet more alarm bells sounded. Why hadn’t Dr. Shaw told me earlier about his involvement? Why had he pretended to know so little about the cemetery? I supposed it was possible that he could serve on the board and still be uninformed about the day-to-day details, but why not at least mention his recommendation?

Claire’s expression remained guileless, but something hard lurked beneath that cool surface. “Perhaps he didn’t want you to think that he had influenced the outcome. But I assure you that despite his wholehearted endorsement, the board would never have awarded you the contract if we hadn’t been unanimously impressed by your résumé and portfolio.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s all I wanted to say. I won’t keep you any longer.” She produced a card from her bag and placed it on the table. “I know you already have a contact on the board, but if you ever have a question or problem that can’t be resolved to your satisfaction, please feel free to call me. This project means a great deal to me. You see, I have family in Woodbine.”

“I understand.” She had family in Woodbine? In one of the unnamed graves?

“Good night, Miss Gray.”

“Good night.”

She walked away, trailing the faintest scent of sandalwood and privilege. The other diners watched her. Men and women alike. Her beauty and charisma were palpable. What a magnetic couple she and Devlin must make.

I picked up her card. The stock was thick and creamy. Expensive and understated. Claire Bellefontaine. Attorney at Law.

The restaurant had grown cold again. I thought perhaps my suspicions regarding Devlin’s fiancée had chilled me. It wasn’t every day I found myself in such close quarters with a possible member of the Congé, someone whose mission it was to stamp out unnaturals like me.

But the frost was otherworldly. I turned to the garden, startled to find the ghost child hovering directly outside the window, so close I could have touched her cold face if not for the glass between us. I could see her features clearly now, could sense her powerful emotions. Her pale hands were clenched at her sides and as I sat there riveted by her nearness, her mouth dropped open and she emitted a piercing howl. The inhuman sound was so ear-splittingly shrill that I thought the window might shatter.

I resisted the urge to cover my ears, but the sound sliced like a blade through my nerve endings. The pain became so intense I felt physically ill. I glanced around at the nearest diners. How could they not hear that scream? How could they remain impervious to such bone-chilling rage?

She remained right outside the window, but she wasn’t looking in at me, I realized. Her anger was directed elsewhere. When I followed her icy gaze to the front of the restaurant, I saw that she was staring at Claire Bellefontaine.

And Claire Bellefontaine stared back at me.

Eight

I said good-night to Temple and left the restaurant alone. She didn’t seem to mind. She headed off to the bar for another drink and I suspected she’d already made plans with Rance Duvall. I didn’t like the idea, but there was nothing I could do about it. Temple had a mind of her own and even if I could have offered a cogent argument for staying away from Duvall, she wouldn’t have listened to me. I comforted myself with the reminder that she’d always been a savvy judge of character and could take care of herself. Right now I had other issues to worry about.

My head swirled with everything the ghost child had revealed to me in the garden. The sound of her scream still echoed in my ears. As stunned as I’d been by that dreadful howl, an even greater shock came with the realization that the ghost’s focus had been trained on Claire Bellefontaine. What was their connection?

Claire’s attention had been directed at me, but something in her frozen expression made me wonder if she’d seen or heard the apparition for herself. Or had at least sensed a supernatural presence. Dr. Shaw had once told me that he believed many of the Congé were sensitive to the other world, thus making them adept at ferreting out the unnatural. Had she read something on my face or in my eyes that aroused her suspicions? Or—an even darker thought—had Devlin told her about me? Had he confided his own suspicions regarding my gift?

Whatever the case, the encounter had left me trembling and dazed. Her involvement with Woodbine Cemetery couldn’t be a coincidence and I had to wonder why Dr. Shaw, knowing what he knew of my gift, knowing what he knew of the Congé, hadn’t at least warned me about her. Instead, according to Claire, he’d recommended me for the job and until I had a chance to speak with him again, I could only speculate as to his motive. Surely it would have been best for everyone if I’d stayed far away from Devlin’s fiancée.

I turned on Queen Street, walking all the way over to Rutledge Avenue. It was still early and the streets buzzed with traffic. I passed any number of pedestrians on my way home, mostly tourists and a few students from nearby UMSC. Despite my uneasiness over the evening’s events, I wasn’t frightened. I had my phone and pepper spray handy. Even so, I kept a watchful eye on my surroundings as my mind continued to spin.

Not surprisingly, my thoughts eventually turned back to Devlin, as they almost always did. Why couldn’t I move on? Why couldn’t I accept once and for all that he was gone from my life and was never coming back? I didn’t want to think of myself as a woman who pined. I’d been alone for most of my life. I knew how to endure, even to flourish, on my own so why couldn’t I forget him?

Maybe Temple was right. I’d created a dangerous fairy tale around him, one that kept me clinging to the past. He was my one and only serious love affair, so instead of facing the reality of our breakup, I’d allowed myself a bittersweet hope that his departure had somehow been a noble gesture. I’d convinced myself that because of his reluctant involvement with the Congé, he’d distanced himself in order to protect me. Why else would he have found a way to warn me of the danger I’d faced in Seven Gates Cemetery? I told myself that no matter his association with that deadly faction, no matter his engagement to Claire Bellefontaine, he still cared for me.

My thoughts continued to churn as I turned right on Rutledge Avenue. The palm trees lining Colonial Lake cast long shadows across the moonlit surface. The water looked eerie and mysterious, and as I hurried along the street, the long row of Charleston-style houses seemed to crowd in on me. At the intersection of Rutledge and Beaufain, I paused to glance in the direction of the lovely old Queen Anne where Devlin had once lived with his dead wife and daughter. I couldn’t see the house clearly from my vantage, but I had no trouble conjuring the turrets and arches and the shimmer of ghosts at the front window.

Up until that point, I hadn’t felt a sense of urgency to get home, but as the memories faded, a vague worry descended. A nagging premonition that something wasn’t right.

The steady drip-drip-drip of the rain-soaked trees niggled at my nerves. A streetlight hummed and sputtered and I turned anxiously to survey the shadows as a dog barked in the distance. Traffic had dwindled. Suddenly, I felt very alone in the dark and I continued on down the street, glancing over my shoulder now and then until my house came into view.

I couldn’t deny a sense of relief as I pushed open the gate and entered the garden. I sailed up the porch steps and unlocked the front door, but I didn’t go in. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe some instinct warned that I should remain vigilant or my heightened senses had picked up an uncanny vibe. Or maybe it was as simple as wanting to enjoy the fresh air from the safety of my front porch. Whatever the reason, I moved to the corner where the shadows were the deepest and I could watch the street without being seen.

I drew calming breaths and focused. The night came alive for me. The waxing moon hung just above the treetops, and here and there stars peeked through a translucent veil of clouds. I could smell the tea olives at the side of the house and the last of the fall gardenias in the front garden. The perfumes mingled and drifted through my senses like a dream. Awash in that heady aroma, I stood there thinking of Devlin.

Where was he now? I wondered. Still at the restaurant with Claire and the others? Or had the two of them slipped away to spend the rest of the evening alone?

A night bird called from a treetop, coaxing me out of my reverie. The air had grown cooler and I pulled my sweater around me as I turned to go inside. Then I halted at the sound of an approaching car. Normally, this wouldn’t have alarmed me. Rutledge was a busy street. But I was certain the vehicle had slowed as it neared my house.

I was still hidden at the end of the porch, but I found myself sinking even deeper into the shadows as I peered across the garden to get a look at the long, sleek sedan with tinted windows. The vehicle pulled to the curb and stopped in front of my house. I caught my breath as the driver cut the engine. Was I being followed? Watched?

I wanted to believe paranoia was getting to me. After everything I’d been through, it would hardly be surprising. But was it really paranoia? I had enemies among the living, the dead and the possessed. All those malevolent faces flashed through my mind as I huddled in the dark and waited.

The back window slid down. I could see the shadowy profile of the passenger as he leaned forward to speak to the driver. I had the impression of a rigid posture and a sleek cap of silver hair. When he turned his head to stare up at my house, I caught my breath in astonishment. I knew him. As with Claire Bellefontaine, I’d never met him, had never even heard his voice. But I would have recognized Devlin’s grandfather anywhere.

This was turning out to be a night of unnerving firsts.

I pressed back against the wall as I tried to make myself invisible. I heard the click of a car door and a moment later, the driver came around to the open passenger window. He was a big man with wide shoulders and a menacing presence. I heard the soft murmur of their voices in the dark, but I couldn’t make out the conversation.

The driver left the car and came up the walkway, pausing with his hand on the gate as he tilted his head to stare up at the second-story windows. His behavior troubled me. I had the notion he was trying to determine whether or not the upstairs tenant was home. Another moment passed and then he opened the gate and stepped into the garden.

The night had gone deathly still. Even the songbird fell silent. Oddly, the scent of the gardenias deepened, as if Jonathan Devlin’s arrival had somehow stirred the heavenly scent. The driver’s footsteps were muffled as he strode up the walkway and climbed the porch steps.

I didn’t move a muscle as I tracked him. If he peered into the shadowy corner, he would spot me huddled and quivering, but he didn’t even look my way. Instead he paused on the top step as Angus barked a warning from inside. Then he turned to glance over his shoulder at the car.

“You hear that?” he called softly.

“You mean the dog? Yes, come away from the porch before the whole neighborhood is awakened,” Jonathan Devlin said gruffly. “We’ll wait until morning.”

The driver immediately turned and exited the premises as quickly and as quietly as he had come.

I cowered in my hiding place as my heartbeat thundered in my ears. Only when the sound of the car faded did I rise and clamor down the porch steps, rushing along the walkway, through the gate and out to the street. I even took a few steps toward those receding taillights before I came to my senses and halted. What was I doing?

If Dr. Shaw’s research and conjecture proved correct, then the elderly Devlin was not only a member of the Congé, but perhaps the leader. He could be every bit as dangerous as Claire Bellefontaine, perhaps even more so.

Why else would he have come to my house? Why now, if not on a mission for that dastardly faction?

Nine

Once inside the house, I calmed Angus as I locked the door, reset the alarm and then stood at the window for several minutes watching the street, my breath catching at the sound of every car engine. I didn’t see the black car again but I could imagine the sleek lines gliding through darkened alleyways back to the exclusive enclave south of Broad, back to that towering mansion on Battery Row.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, I knelt to stroke Angus’s back and scratch behind his battered ear nubs. Now that the outside threat had passed, he relaxed and pushed up against me. Since our time in Seven Gates Cemetery, we’d returned to our old friendship and I welcomed the ease and affection with which he now greeted me.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” I murmured, dropping all the way to the floor so that he could nuzzle my face. “You’ve no idea.”

After a few minutes in his calming company, I began to think a little more rationally. I even managed to consider the possibility that I had overreacted. The unexpected visit from Jonathan Devlin had thrown me for a loop, but if he were up to no good, would he have had his driver park in front of my house? Would he have sent the man up to my door? He was far too smart and seasoned to leave that kind of trail. No, whatever his motive, he hadn’t come here on business for the Congé. So why had he come?

My nerves still thrummed as I headed down the hallway to the kitchen, Angus at my heels. I put on the kettle and fixed a cup of chamomile before letting him out in the rear garden for his evening activities. I sat on the back steps and sipped the soothing brew as he made his rounds through the bushes and flower beds, sniffing here, pawing there before disappearing into the shadows to do his business.

The night was still clear, but the wind had risen since I got home, and I snuggled my sweater around me as I listened to the tinkle of the wind chime. The discordant notes were a comfort because they didn’t settle into a melody. I hoped that meant the ghost child hadn’t followed me home from the restaurant.

Even so, I remained jittery, my disquiet too easily summoning the images that had unfolded in that garden. I shuddered as I thought back on that horrifying tableau. Someone had killed that child. Murdered her in cold blood. I wondered about her assailant, why he had remained invisible to me. Was he—she—still alive? Had he gone unpunished all this time?

As I sat there puzzling over the child’s death, bits and pieces of last night’s dream mingled with the ghost’s revelations. In the back of my mind, I could see Mama and Aunt Lynrose at the edge of that open grave, rocking and sipping sweet tea as my aunt warned me not to poke my nose in places it didn’t belong.

Leave her be, Lyn. We should have tended to this business years ago. Now it’s up to Amelia to uncover the truth.

What business? What truth? How could that child’s murder be connected in any way to my family?

It couldn’t, I told myself firmly. Sometimes a dream could portend the future or unlock the past, but sometimes a dream was just a dream. It was pointless to try and infer anything from those disjointed images when I had concrete clues to decipher.

The prospect of another investigation so soon after my harrowing experiences in Seven Gates Cemetery overwhelmed and exhausted me. What choice did I have, though? The ghost had already latched on to me and she wouldn’t fade away of her own accord. I had learned that the hard way. Her tricks would only become more pernicious if I tried to ignore her. The sooner I started putting the pieces together, the sooner she would go back to her grave and we could both rest easy. That was the hope, at least.

Succumbing to my weariness, I yawned and called to Angus. He appeared at the edge of the shadows, head cocked as he regarded me across the garden. When I called to him again, he took a step toward me and then halted, his tail going up as he fixed his gaze on the steps beside me.

“What is it?” I murmured even as a thrill skirted along my spine. I turned to stare at the empty space beside me. There was no ghostly chill, no shimmer from a manifestation, only a quivering certainty that I was no longer alone.

“John,” I whispered. It wasn’t a question. I knew he was there just as I knew if I put out my hand, I would feel nothing but air.

The night became unbearably still, so quiet I could hear the sigh of the wind in the trees. Or was that my own sigh? I swallowed and touched my face where I could have sworn I felt his lips.

A moment later, the wind chime tinkled as if brushed by an invisible shoulder. I heard the gate creak as if a flesh-and-blood entity had gone through it.

Then all was silent in my garden.

* * *

I had another strange dream that night. I was a child again, no more than nine or ten, wandering through the familiar terrain of an abandoned cemetery. The air smelled of old death and fresh earth, a scent that I did not find unpleasant. As I walked on, the breeze picked up, swirling the mist at my feet as the leaves overhead started to whisper my name. Amelia. Amelia.

I wasn’t at all frightened of those whispers or of my withered surroundings. I was at home here. The eerie sights and sounds were a comfort.

On either side of me, angels with broken wings rose up out of the mist and I wanted to stop and read the epitaphs as I had always done with Papa. But the plates on the monuments were blank, as if the inscriptions had somehow been scrubbed clean.

A memorial without a name seemed very sad to me. I didn’t like the notion of the dead being hidden away and forgotten. Everyone had the right to be mourned and remembered, even those who had dwelled on the fringes of someone else’s life.

I walked on, the paving stones cool beneath my bare feet. The shadows grew longer and a tingle up my spine warned of the coming twilight. But I didn’t turn back. Something awaited me in the cemetery, something important. Something I needed to see. A part of me knew that I was dreaming, but it was more than a dream. Deep in my subconscious, memories were stirring.

Eventually, I came upon Mama and Aunt Lynrose still rocking beside that open grave as they sipped sweet tea from frosted glasses. They were dressed in cool linen, hair precisely coiffed, makeup and nails done to tasteful perfection. I caught the whiff of lemon sachet on the breeze and more faintly, the green notes from their perfume.

The familiarity of those fragrances wrapped me in the warmest embrace and I hurried forward, eager to be drawn into their circle. They whispered to one another, their expressions anxious and didn’t even glance up as I approached. I went right up to the fence and called out to them through the wrought-iron gate, but they didn’t seem to hear me and for whatever reason, I couldn’t enter. The gate was locked tight.

I sank down in the mist and closed my eyes, letting their voices drift over me. I heard my name now and then, but mostly they were reminiscing about their girlhood days. The murmur of their soft drawls and clinking glasses aroused a dreamy nostalgia. I hugged my knees to my chest as I thought back on all those overheard conversations, all those sisterly secrets that intrigued and mystified even as they deepened my loneliness.

Mama said with a little sigh, “Lyn, do you know what I’ve been thinking about lately? That dress Mother made for your sixteenth birthday. The midnight blue one.”

Aunt Lynrose clutched her hands to her heart. Her voice grew soft and unbearably wistful in the twilight. “Oh, how I loved that dress! I wore it to the spring dance, remember? The crystals on the skirt twinkled like starlight when I twirled.”

“You wore your hair up that night and Mother let you borrow her diamond earbobs. You looked just like a princess.”

“And I felt like one, too.”

“I remember how happy you were when you left the house. How you couldn’t stop smiling.”

“It was a night like no other.”

“If only we’d known—”

“Don’t, Etta.”

“When you didn’t come home—”

“Oh, don’t let’s talk about that part,” my aunt pleaded. “I just want to remember the music and the moonlight and the scent of honeysuckle drifting in through the open doors.”

“But we have to talk about that part,” Mama insisted. “That’s why we’re here. When midnight struck and you didn’t come home or even call, Mother was beside herself with worry. It wasn’t like you to miss curfew. And Father—” Mama shuddered. “I’d never seen him so angry. He paced the floor all night and when you finally came home at sunrise, you had that terrible row.”

“You don’t need to remind me.” My aunt’s voice sounded resigned as she lifted a hand to her cheek. “I’ll remember every word he said to me until my dying day.”

“Nothing was ever the same,” Mama said sadly. “We were a happy family until that night. At least it was easy to pretend that we were. Then Father sent you away and I wanted desperately to come with you. The tension in the house had become so oppressive by that time. But I suppose I had it easy considering what you had to put up with Aunt Rue. She was such a spiteful person. So pious and judgmental. I don’t know how you stood it.”

“I stood it because I had to. It was my penitence, Father said.”

“It was cruel of him, what he made you do.”

“And I’ve never forgiven him,” my aunt said. “But what good does it do to dredge all that up now? Haven’t we both learned that some secrets are best left buried?”

“Have you been able to bury it, though?”

“Yes, until I hear that song. You know the one I mean. And then everything comes back as though it were yesterday. All that pain and suffering. The guilt and the loneliness. Oh, Etta, the loneliness...”

The faint tinkle of a wind chime came to me as I knelt there clinging to the fence. The melody drifted through my senses, tugging at more memories until I had the strongest sense of déjà vu. I knew that I had overheard this very conversation just as I knew the secret my mother and aunt spoke of wasn’t meant for my ears. I would be in trouble if they caught me eavesdropping and I couldn’t abide Mama’s disapproval. She and Papa were everything to me, so I tried very hard to never, ever displease them. I stood to alert her of my nearness, but when I called out to her, she dissolved into the mist without even acknowledging my presence.

“Where did she go?” I cried. “I need her to see me.”

My aunt stared pensively into the open grave. “Leave it alone, chile. You can’t change the past. What’s done is done. You of all people should know that no good ever comes from all that digging.”

And then my aunt vanished, too, leaving me with a terrible foreboding. What’s done is done.

I knew that I was still dreaming, but the realization gave me no comfort because I couldn’t rouse myself. Not yet. The dreams and the ghostly visits were somehow connected and everything had meaning. The mist, the open grave, my mother and aunt’s conversation. Even the beady eyes of the corpse bird that watched me from atop a headstone. If the crow wasn’t a clue, then it was surely a sign or an omen. It means someone else is likely to pass.

I pulled myself up to my full height, shaking off those lonely bondages of my childhood so that I could continue the journey as an adult. As I moved back into the cemetery, I realized the scene had shifted and now I found myself behind the crumbling walls of Oak Grove Cemetery, that darkest of all burial places, where even the dead didn’t wish to linger.

The mist thickened and the air grew colder. An unnatural wind tore at my hair and the hem of my nightgown. I covered my nose and mouth as the smell of fresh death rose up from a sea of open graves.

Straight ahead, the Gothic spires of the Bedford Mausoleum peeked up over the treetops. The distant tinkle of a wind chime lured me into the woods and when I emerged into a clearing, I found myself at the bottom of a long staircase. At the very top, light shone through an open doorway where shadows danced upon the walls.

I didn’t want to go up there. I didn’t want to see inside the mausoleum. But the melody of the wind chime wrapped around my senses, drawing me upward as if a string around my wrist had been tugged.

The air grew steadily colder as I climbed. The night became crowded with ghosts. The diaphanous beings drifted up behind me on the steps, brushing their frigid fingers through my hair, pressing icy lips to my ears as they whispered about unspeakable secrets.

I could feel my energy wane as their appetites threatened to consume me. But I kept climbing, on and on until I reached the summit. A silhouette appeared in the doorway blocking my way into the mausoleum. It was Devlin, barefoot and shirtless, his hair unkempt, his eyes inflamed with an emotion I didn’t want to name.

I put out a hand, thinking he would dissolve the way Mama and Aunt Lynrose had, but instead I felt the warm ripple of muscle. I closed my eyes on a shiver.

He caught my wrist and I thought he meant to pull me against him. I wouldn’t have resisted no matter his betrothal. But he held me away, the intensity of his stare deepening my unease until I suddenly found myself wanting to break free of him.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said harshly, holding me fast. “You don’t belong.”

“Where are we?” I tried to look around him into the mausoleum but he stepped in front of me, shielding my view with his body. I could hear all manner of sounds inside, inhuman screams and groans that chilled me to the bone. “What is this place?”

“Go,” he said. “Before they find you.”

“Who?”

“You can’t be seen here. This is a place for the dead.”

“Then why are you here?”

He said nothing to that, merely stared at me longingly before he turned in resignation to go back inside. I stepped across the threshold into that cold, dark space filled with shadows and torchlight and noises that lifted the hair at my nape. But Devlin was nowhere to be seen.

I wasn’t alone, however. Claire Bellefontaine crouched on the stone floor before a pool of blood. Light shimmered in her silvery gold hair and something dark and feral glinted in her blue eyes.

She lifted a finger to her ruby lips. “Shush. Lest she awaken.”

Then she pointed to the doorway and I whirled. The ghost child hovered at the top of the stairs. She wore the same clothes as before, but now I could see a flash of silver in her fist.

Familiarity tugged at me again, but the memory flitted away as her face morphed into a corpse bird. I could see the iridescent sheen of her feathery hair and the dead gleam of those beady eyes in the torchlight. Her head hung at a sickening angle, but when I would have moved to help her, she emitted a high-pitched scream that knocked me back against the wall.

I crumpled to the floor, hands to my ears as I cried in horror, “Please stop. You’re hurting me.”

“Mercy,” she said before she tumbled backward down the stairs.

I rose and rushed to the doorway. She was already gone, but she’d left something behind on the top step. A charm bracelet gleamed in the torchlight, but when I bent to pick it up, my fingers found nothing but mist.

I awakened with my fingers tangled around the ribbon at my throat. The weight and purpose of Rose’s key should have reassured me, but my heart pounded so hard, I had to sit up in bed to catch my breath. I searched the shadows, all the darkened corners. Nothing was amiss. Angus snoozed on in a puddle of moonlight, oblivious to anything but his own dreams.

Shoving back the covers, I rose and padded into the hallway to check the alarm system. The activated light glowed reassuringly, but I still found myself glancing over my shoulder as I walked to the kitchen for a drink of water. Then I took a quick look around the house before returning to the front window to glance out at the street.

It was well after midnight and traffic had long since died away. The night was quiet and peaceful, lit by a crescent moon and the streetlights along Rutledge. I saw nothing untoward. Even the shadows were static. There was nothing inside or outside that should have kept my heart racing, and yet my uneasiness mounted the longer I stood at that window.

My scalp prickled a warning as I suddenly vectored in on the cause of my disquiet. Halfway down the block a sleek black sedan with darkly tinted windows was parked at the curb. The headlights were off, but I could see the silhouette of the driver behind the wheel. As if prompted by the fierceness of my concentration, he opened the door, briefly illuminating the interior of the car. He appeared to be alone. He got out and came around to recline against the front fender.

I could see him clearly underneath the streetlight. Even from this distance, there was no mistaking his identity. I’d seen him on my front porch only hours ago.

And there was no mistaking his intent. He had been sent to watch my house.

Ten

I managed a few more hours of sleep and arose early in a resolved if not entirely upbeat mood. A cool gray light seeped into the bedroom, but the warm edge of sunrise glowed just above the horizon. While I dressed, Angus roused and padded off down the hallway to wait patiently at the back door. After a quick look out the front window to make sure the black car had moved on, I turned off the security system and followed him outside.

Plopping down on the steps to tie my walking shoes, I let my thoughts amble while he went about his morning routine. Naturally, my mind went back to the dream and to Mama and Aunt Lynrose sitting beside that open grave in their rockers. Time and my subconscious may have embellished the dialogue, but I had no doubt I’d overheard a similar conversation sometime in the distant past. The memory had been pushed to the back of my mind until recent events had called it forth. But why? I still couldn’t imagine how my mother and aunt were connected to Woodbine Cemetery any more than I understood Devlin’s warning that I didn’t belong in the dead world. And he did?

The way he had turned away in resignation to walk back into the mausoleum had chilled me most of all, but maybe I was making too much of that scene. Not every element in a dream had to have meaning. Maybe some of the images were nothing more than fragmented memories and disjointed worries knitted together into something indecipherable.

I called Angus back inside and poured nuggets in his bowl. I topped off his water before heading out on my morning walk. The air was cool, but I set a brisk pace and soon warmed up from the exertion. Traffic was still sparse and I met only a handful of early-bird pedestrians. As I strode along the cracked sidewalks, I kept a vigilant eye, but if the black car tailed me, the driver was skilled enough to avoid detection.

Turning left on Broad Street, I sailed past banks and law offices housed in centuries-old buildings as I headed toward the water. The pastel houses along Rainbow Row glowed softly in the morning light. I crossed the street to the Battery, telling myself to keep moving, to avert my eyes when I passed the Devlin mansion, but that was asking too much. I slowed my steps as my gaze darted across East Bay. The sun was just rising over the harbor and the light reflecting off the windows blinded me.

Shielding my eyes, I scanned the elegant facade, searching the balcony where I had seen Devlin. He wasn’t outside today. No one was about. The family slept on while I stood watching their house.

Abruptly, I turned and made my way to the bottom of the peninsula, crossing the street once again to White Point Garden. No one was about in the park, either, and I was glad to have the space to myself. I followed a trail past the gazebo and canons to a remote spot where I often came to think.

The camellia blossoms hung heavy with dew, and the smell of brine drifted on the sea breeze, which ruffled my hair. It was one of those clean, clear mornings when Charleston shimmered like a diamond. I headed for my usual bench only to find it occupied. I started to move on, then stopped dead as a quiver went through me.

The man’s head was turned so that I could only see his profile, but I recognized the jawline, the rigid posture, the gleaming silver hair—not a strand out of place. Even at so early an hour, Jonathan Devlin was formally turned out in a three-piece suit and wingtips. A gold watch fob hung from his vest and a precisely folded pocket square adorned his coat. He could have been on his way to a funeral, so somber his attire.

I hadn’t made a sound. I was certain of that. But before I could make my escape, he turned and pinned me with a gaze every bit as dark and intense as his grandson’s. I was awestruck by that glare. It was as if his eyes had the power to hold me in suspended animation.

In that frozen moment, I suddenly became acutely aware of my own apparel—walking shoes, leggings and a faded hoodie. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but the wind and the exertion of my walk had loosened damp tendrils. I wore no makeup or perfume and my nails were clipped short so that I could more easily scrub away the graveyard dirt. A less appealing presentation I could hardly imagine, but why should I be so concerned about my appearance? Jonathan Devlin was nothing to me. I had no need to impress.

Even so, I couldn’t dispel the echo of my aunt Lynrose’s censure. You must always wear gloves when you work, Amelia. On that there can be no compromise. A woman’s hands never lie.

Neither of us spoke for the longest time, which only prolonged the awkward encounter. Finally, I cleared my throat and shrugged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“It’s a public park. I don’t own this bench.” He had Devlin’s drawl, I noted. That cultured cadence rarely heard these days and only ever south of Broad Street.

I tried to suppress a shiver as I inched back a step. “That’s true, but you were here first. I can find another bench.”

“No, don’t run away, young lady.” His voice softened though not without effort, I wagered. He rose from the bench to face me.

He was tall, with the trim physique and resolute demeanor of a man who cut himself and those around him very little slack. I wondered what it must have been like for Devlin, a rebellious teen losing his parents so suddenly and forced to live with a man who wore a three-piece suit and polished wingtips for an early-morning stroll in the park. But then, I didn’t delude myself into thinking that this was a coincidental meeting. Not after the episode last night in front of my house.

“I may have beaten you to the punch this time,” Jonathan Devlin allowed. “But you come here often enough that I imagine you think of this as your place.” He gave a little wave as if to encompass our surroundings.

I stared back at him, trying not to show my nerves. “How would you know how often I come here? Or that I come here at all, for that matter.”

“There is very little I don’t know about you, Miss Gray.”

Apprehension quickened my breath. “That sounds ominous.”

“Yet you’re still here.” The light slanting down through the leaves caught him in such a way as to magnify the lines and creases in his face and the slight sag of his jowls. Despite his military posture and fitness, I detected a slight quake in his voice, a chink in his armor that he undoubtedly abhorred. A man such as he would cling to his vigor until his dying breath.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, his dark gaze taking my measure.

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