“The Charleston Exposition? I haven’t thought about that in a long time. A very long time.” Sorren, my vampire business partner, stared into the distance, thinking. Teag and I sat at the break room table in the back of the shop, a take-out pizza box pushed out of the way, and waited for Sorren to sift through his memories.
Sorren is nearly six hundred years old. I wondered what it was like to have that many memories, whether the mind sent old recollections to the mental equivalent of salt mine storage, or whether it was like a really big database that took a while to index. For all his vast experience, Sorren looks like he’s in his mid- to late twenties with blond hair in a trendy cut and gray eyes the color of the sea before a storm. Before he was turned, he was the best jewel thief in Antwerp, maybe all of Belgium. Now, he’s one of the leaders of the Alliance, and he spends his time checking in with his many shops like Trifles and Folly and human partners all over the world.
“We did have a few problems with the Expo, as I recall,” Sorren said after a few minutes. “All those businessmen anxious—maybe desperate—do some deals attracted a few demons who were more than happy to make dreams come true in exchange for a soul or two. Had to put a stop to that. Found a couple of psi-vamps hanging around, feeding off the energy of the crowd. Not unusual when you have a big gathering like that. Took care of those pretty quickly,” he chuckled. “The succubus who infiltrated the exotic dancers was a bit more of a challenge.”
“Exotic dancers?” Teag asked. “Back then?”
Sorren gave him an amused look. “Ever hear of Salome, in the Bible? You think sex is a modern discovery? Of course, at the Expo, they called them ‘hoochie coochie’ dancers, but while the music changes, the song remains the same.”
I’m never sure whether it’s unsettling or comforting to realize that for all the world changes, people don’t. If I spent too much time thinking about it, I’m pretty sure I’d be depressed, so I don’t know how Sorren manages.
“So there was supernatural activity at the Expo,” I pressed.
“Any time you get a large gathering of people, there will be supernatural opportunists,” Sorren replied with a shrug, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Even more so if ambition and greed are involved. But I wouldn’t have called it a ‘hotbed’ of activity or said that the creatures were even particularly powerful. Mostly low-level spirits or monsters, looking for easy prey.”
I told Sorren about the spike in ghostly activity at Hampton Park, and the shadow entity I’d seen at the Archive, as well as the resonances I’d picked up from the items in both displays.
“Oh, I remember the Chicago World’s Fair quite well,” Sorren replied. It seemed odd to hear that from someone who looked younger than thirty, though in an unguarded moment, I could see centuries, not decades in his gray eyes. “Holmes—his name was actually Mudgett—and his ‘murder house.’ The press had a field day. You can imagine. Crime of the century and all that.”
His expression turned grim. “The Alliance investigated, of course. Such an atrocity, we wanted to believe there were demons, monsters involved.” He shook his head. “Just a twisted, sick man. Evil doesn’t need demons when it’s got men to do its work. Reminded me of another time, right here in Charleston. Lavinia Fisher.”
Teag and I nodded. We knew the story about the notorious innkeeper and her husband who killed and robbed their guests, all but two. Sorren, and one other man who led to Fisher’s downfall. The case was a sensation, even in the 1700s, and Lavinia’s hanging is one of Charleston’s most famous stories, along with her ghost, said to still haunt the Old Jail.
“The man who ‘survived’ to turn her in had help,” Sorren said, as a cold smile touched his lips. “There would have been too many questions if I came forward. We needed a mortal. I made sure he stayed that way.”
“No demon there either,” Teag said quietly.
Sorren shook his head. “No. Evil comes as much from the heart as it does from the Pit.”
I’m not sure that if I existed as long as Sorren has that I would retain any hope in humanity. Yet he does, and that hope is what keeps him fighting supernatural threats when he could just as easily retreat to a safe fortress and watch the world go by.
“Was there a serial killer loose at the Expo?” I asked, and filled him in on the wallets Ryan’s team found.
Sorren frowned. “If there was, it wasn’t supernatural in nature. We were monitoring closely, just in case something dark decided to feed. I don’t recall anything in the papers. Something like that should have been in the news.”
“Unless no one connected the dots,” Teag said and held up a sheaf of papers. “I just got started on the list of names Cassidy, Kell, and Ryan compiled from the wallets. It’s a slog through old newspaper archives, and not everything’s been digitized. But from what I’ve found so far, the men who lost those wallets were reported missing—and later, presumed dead—within a few weeks to a month or so after the Expo.”
“Did they have anything in common?” Sorren asked.
“They were young and single, and all of them but one from out of town. Some were college students, but others were doctors, teachers, businessmen, as well as a butcher, tailor, and farrier, from the ones I’ve looked into. Strangers, travelers, away from home and family—vulnerable.”
“What about the one? You said—all but one from out of town,” I asked.
Teag smiled. “James Hibbard. His family was from Aiken, but he had a married sister here in Charleston, and he was a student at The Citadel. The sister is long dead of course, died in 1960, but her granddaughter is a retired school teacher, still here in the city. It’s a long shot, but I found an address, and it’s the closest thing we’ve got to a personal connection to any of the wallet men.”
“Let’s go see her tomorrow,” I urged. “I’ll get Maggie to cover the store.” I looked to Sorren. “I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve got to figure this out before something bad happens. That energy I felt in the Archive, it might not have made the men go missing, but it didn’t intend anything good.”
Sorren nodded. “That’s what I meant by ‘supernatural opportunists.’ There are creatures out there that feed on pain and fear, and that latch on to people with evil intent and intensify it for their own benefit. The exhibits brought all the memorabilia together and into the public eye, giving the resonance energy. It would have been like a dinner call to a creature like that.”
“Do you think there’s a connection to the people who’ve gone missing recently?” I asked, glancing at Teag.
He shrugged. “Until we know more about what happened back then, it’s hard to say. People go missing every day without supernatural causes. But yeah, maybe. If we can find out what we’re dealing with, maybe there’s a way to stop it, or at least bottle it back up for a hundred years.”
“I’ll make some inquiries through the Alliance,” Sorren said. “Very few entities are entirely unique. Someone else has likely either dealt with it or found a record of it.”
I tried to ignore the warning tightness in my gut and plastered on the bravest smile I could muster. “And tomorrow, we’ll go see Hibbard’s grandniece. Sooner or later, we’ll find the missing piece.”
The next day, Teag and made coffee in the break room before the shop opened. I called Alistair while we waited for Maggie. “I just wondered if Rand was able to pull that box we discussed out of storage,” I said. Harris Tomlinson was one more man who had gone missing, and I thought we might find a clue in his possessions.
“Not to my knowledge,” Alistair said. He sounded much grumpier than usual.
“Something wrong?”
“Rand hasn’t shown up for work today. It’s not like him, and he’s not answering his phone.”
A cold shiver slithered down my spine. “Has anyone seen him?”
“He lives at home with his parents—he’s going to college part-time to finish his degree—and his mother said he didn’t come home last night. She’s w
orried, says he’s good about letting her know if he’s going out with friends.”
“Any idea where he went last?”
Now that I knew what to listen for, I could hear the concern beneath Alistair’s gruff tone. “Not really. We’re doing a ‘then and now’ wall for the exhibit with photos of a scene back in the day overlaid with the same view on Plexiglass. He went down to the area that had been the fairground to get some photos. No one’s seen him since.”
“If you hear from him—”
“Looks like I was wrong,” Alistair interrupted. “The box is at the front desk. You just need to sign off on the inventory.”
“I’ll come by for it,” I promised. And if you hear from Rand, please let me know. I have a couple of questions.”
I ended the call and turned back to Teag, whose expression grew grim as I summarized Alistair’s comments. “So we’ve got another missing person,” Teag said.
“I’m afraid so.”
Teag was silent for a few moments, fingers flying over his keyboard. “Two.”
“Two what?”
“Rand makes the second new missing person since I the last time I checked,” Teag said. “Mike Irwin was reported missing two days ago, but it looks like he might have really been gone longer than that.”
“Does he fit the pattern?”
“You mean, was he young and single? Yes. And… oh—”
“What?”
Teag looked up. “He was an intern at the Archive.”
We stared at each other for a moment. “Rand worked for the museum,” I said. “Did you look for any connection with the others?”
Teag made a face. “No, but I will.” He sounded pissed, but I knew not to take it personally, that he was mad at himself for overlooking a connection, though how we might have protected Rand had we known, I had no idea.
Just then, the bell over the door chimed as Maggie let herself in with her key. “We’re back here,” I called.
Maggie swept into the room like a patchouli-scented hurricane. She’s got a head for business and a vibe from Woodstock, and she’s decided that kicking supernatural ass is much more fun than yoga and book club. Hard to believe that she used to be a retired teacher, and now she’s happily playing backup to our screwy little band of misfits trying to save the world without anyone noticing.
“All right. I’m here. Go do what you need to do,” Maggie said, pulling off her sweater and going for the coffeepot all in one smooth movement.
I hugged her. “What makes you think we need to do something?”
Maggie fixed me with a “not born yesterday” look. “Because I’m sure there’s something afoot. So go. The store will be fine. I’ve got plenty of coffee. Scoot.”
I had already called Catherine Landry, Hibbard’s grandniece, so she knew to expect us. We found her in an apartment building not far from downtown. She looked to be in her seventies, with gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, spry and curious.
“No one’s talked about great uncle James since my mama died,” Landry said. “Why now?”
“The museum and the Archive both have exhibits about the 1902 World’s Fair here in Charleston,” I said, skirting the truth. “We were doing some research related to the displays and found out several young men went missing, including your great uncle. You’re the only family member we were able to contact.”
“I know it happened long before you were born,” Teag took up the story, “but we thought maybe you might have heard stories from your mother or grandmother, about James Hibbard.”
Catherine Landry leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in front of her, lips touching her fingertips as she thought. “It’s been a very long time,” she said finally. “Grandma seemed… conflicted… about talking about him. Like the stories made her sad, but at the same time, she wanted—needed—to make sure someone remembered.”
Teag and I said nothing, waiting out her pause. “James was grandma’s older brother, and she worshipped him. She was so proud when he went to college here in Charleston, even though she hated him being away. She worried about him,” Catherine said, frowning as if filtering childhood memories through an adult lens. “He was a kind man, but he didn’t always fit in easily.”
“Did she know he was coming to the World’s Fair?” I asked.
Catherine nodded. “He was going to graduate soon, and he’d heard that there would be a lot of businessmen at the Fair, maybe looking for people to hire. He thought he might get a good job, make enough money to send some home to the family, even help grandma go to school.” She chuckled. “Grandma was a smart girl, and James told her she should get an education, that he’d help her.”
“Did James send any word about being at the Fair?” Teag nudged.
“He sent a couple of postcards,” Catherine replied. “I lent them to the Museum. The last thing grandma ever heard from him, he sent her one of those souvenir coins, with a note that he had met some nice people and thought he had a job arranged, that he’d be home to visit soon and tell her all about it.”
She sighed. “That was the last anyone ever heard from him. A telegraph came from his new job, informing him that he was being let go for not showing up. Grandma’s parents came to Charleston, went to the police, but no one knew anything. They hoped, for a long time, that maybe James had been hurt, hit his head, lost his memory—that sort of thing. That he might show up and be able to explain everything. Hoping for a miracle,” she said quietly. “But they didn’t get one. And after years went by, they accepted that he must be dead. Only I think grandma held out hope, all the way to the end, that he was out there, somewhere. Or that at least she would find out what happened.”
Catherine picked up a framed picture and handed it to Teag. “That’s the last picture she had of James. It was taken about a year before he left for school.”
I didn’t try to touch the frame since I figured the photo held a lot of emotional resonance, but I leaned forward to get a better look. James was a good looking young man in his teens with a wide grin, and Catherine’s grandmother was a young girl of about ten who shared a strong resemblance to James. They stood arm in arm, and their body language made it clear they were close to each other.
“Did your grandmother have any theories about what happened to James?” I asked in a gentle tone.
Catherine stared at the picture as if imagining the young girl her grandmother had once been. “She said that Aiken was too small for James, not enough opportunity, small-minded people,” Catherine recalled. “Said that he blossomed in the ‘big city’ where he met more people full of ideas, like him. I don’t think she ever got over his death. I hope that they’re together again, wherever they are.”
I blinked back tears at her tone and managed a smile. “Thank you. I appreciate you sharing your story—with us, and with the museum.”
“My mom spent years trying to find out what happened to her Uncle James,” Catherine added, looking up sharply. “Although she never met him, she knew what an impact his death had on her mother. She hired a private investigator and found nothing. She even went to a psychic.” Catherine wrapped her arms around herself and repressed a shiver. Teag and I exchanged a glance.
“Did the psychic tell her anything?” Teag ventured.
Catherine nodded, but I took her a minute to speak. “Mama never told Grandma about the psychic. Didn’t tell me until much later.” She looked up, a defiant gleam in her eyes. “You’ve got to understand what it took for my mama to go have a séance done. All the church people said that kind of thing was sin. But she went anyway. And then she wished she hadn’t.”
“This would have been long enough past when he disappeared that one way or the other, James had to be dead?” I confirmed.
Catherine nodded. “Grandma never acknowledged it, but mama and I knew. After a while, the calendar outweighed any optimism we might have had left.” I knew what she meant. James would have been born around 1880, and we were well past the centenarian milestone.
“What did the psychic tell your mother?” Teag kept his voice soothing.
Catherine looked away. “She said James never left Charleston. That his spirit was trapped here.” She swallowed hard. “He was murdered. And that he wouldn’t rest until his murderer was caught.” Catherine turned back and met my gaze. “It’s too late to catch and punish James’s killer. But do the next best thing. Figure out who did it, so that we can tell the whole story.”
Secrets and Lies
“All of them.” Teag’s voice held a flat, angry tone I had rarely heard before.
“You’re sure?” I held on to the last, small glimmer of hope, but it died as Teag gave a curt nod.
“I’m certain. The men who owned those wallets came to the Charleston Exposition and were never heard from again.” Teag sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers against the break room table.
“And the police?”
Teag stood up and began to pace, fairly vibrating with nervous energy. “Anthony got a friend of his down at the department to see what he could find in the old records. We’re going back over a hundred years here, but he found a log book. All of the wallet men were reported missing or had relatives ask the police to track them either during the Expo or within six months after it ended.”
“And did the police find anything?” I had to ask, but I could guess the answer from the look on Teag’s face.
“No. Anthony’s contact didn’t straight-out say it, but it didn’t look like the police took the reports too seriously. I guess they figured ‘boys will be boys,’” he added in a tight voice. “Just a note with each one saying that no evidence was found of foul play, missing presumed voluntary departure.”
“Fifty ‘voluntary departures’ that didn’t bother to inform their families?” I asked incredulously.
Teag nodded. “Yeah. It looks bad. The guy at the police department seemed to think so too, because he asked Anthony if the information was going to be made public.”
“Not that it would do a lot of good now,” I said with a snort. “You think it was a cover-up?”
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