Teag chuckled. “Yep, she’s got her hands full of haunted, and she wants to dump the whole kit-and-caboodle off on us.”
Teag and I are an odd pair. He’s my assistant store manager, best friend, and occasional body guard. We’re both in our mid-twenties, but that’s where the resemblance ends. He’s tall and slender, whip-cord strong, with a skater-boy mop of dark hair and trendy glasses. I’m tall, slim but curvy, with my Scots-Irish heritage written large in my milk-white skin that burns in the South Carolina sun and my strawberry-blonde hair that frizzes in the Lowcountry humidity. He’s an expert at mixed martial arts. I can hold my own in a sparring match, but I’ll never win championships like Teag does. Teag’s in a serious romantic relationship with Anthony, a lawyer and Charleston blue-blood. My love life has been on hold for a while, though I’m sure one of these days that will change.
Even our magic is different. I read objects. Teag is a Weaver. He can weave spells into cloth and rope, and he can also bring together threads of information, even when they’re hidden or hard to find. That makes him a supernaturally-gifted hacker, and it’s saved our bacon more than once, given what we do around here.
“I told Abby I would go over right now,” I said. “Want to come with me?”
It was two hours until closing on a rainy afternoon, so the shop had been pretty quiet all day. “Sure,” he replied. “Let me make sure Maggie can close up, and I’ll ride along. Just in case.”
Abby’s Aunt Dorothy lived in one of the homes on the Battery facing the seawall and Charleston Harbor. Most of these houses dated from before the Civil War, and were solid enough to have survived both war and multiple hurricanes. Like the people whose families handed down the homes generation to generation, the houses were stately on the outside and sturdy on the inside.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” Abby Sondergran greeted Teag and me at the front door. The house was a cheery yellow on the outside, painted in pastel stucco that took its cue from the Caribbean. Bright white paint accentuated shutters, window, and door frames, porch rails, and trim.
This particular house had three wide porches—’piazzas’ as we call them in Charleston, one for every floor on the front of the home, and wrought-iron railings for each side window that faced the street. A cupola graced the top of the house. Inside the walled private garden, a profusion of oleander and bougainvillea vied with daylilies and crepe myrtles heavy with blossoms. Along the side, three stately palmetto trees separated the house from the sidewalk. Just beyond the seawall, the Cooper and Ashley rivers flowed into Charleston Harbor, lapping against the bulwark of the old battery fortifications.
“Your aunt’s home is beautiful,” I said as Abby ushered us inside. Whoever Aunt Dorothy had been, she was an avid traveler and collector. Everywhere I looked, trinkets from around the world filled curio cabinets and competed with leather-bound books for shelf space on tall bookshelves. The walls were filled with paintings, framed photographs, carved masks, hand-hammered sconces, and other treasures. Old Oriental carpets and kilim rugs covered the hardwood floors. The furniture was just as eclectic, with lacquered pieces from Asia, heavy carved mahogany from colonial Africa, elegant birch chairs in the Scandinavian style, and big, brass-bound leather trunks.
Yet underneath the world-traveler appearance, I felt the shift and shadow of something dark and powerful. At the moment, the presence was distant, but when I watched how twitchy and nervous Abby was, I figured I knew at least part of the reason.
“My aunt traveled for business and pleasure,” Abby said. “She was married to a diplomat, and she was an author and a cultural anthropologist who spoke a dozen languages.” A sad smile came to her face. “When Aunt Dorothy passed away, you wouldn’t believe the people who sent condolences! Artists, writers, ambassadors, even heads of state.” She shook her head. “Aunt Dorothy was a real pistol.”
“Dorothy Lunden was your aunt?” Teag had Googled the address on his phone while we drove over. I recognized the name from the Charleston Social Pages in the local magazines. A brilliant and successful woman who had, at the ripe old age of eighty, inexplicably shot herself while alone in her Battery Park mansion. Her death had made headlines and been the talk of the King Street merchants who congregated at the Honeysuckle Café, my favorite spot for lattes.
Abby nodded, and the preoccupied look returned to her face, making her seem furtive, or maybe just a little scared. “Yes. I’m sure you read the news coverage. It was quite a shock. Not only was Aunt Dorothy in good health, but she had trips planned and was looking forward to giving several speeches about her travels.” She sighed. “I guess it’s true. You never think someone is going to commit suicide until they up and do it.”
I murmured condolences, but the dark undertow of negative energy in the home tugged at my mind. “Did your aunt live here by herself?” I asked.
“When she wasn’t riding a camel across the Sahara or an elephant across India, yes,” Abby replied with a chuckle. “Aunt Dorothy didn’t sit still much. She said she would spend more time at home once she got old. Meaning a lot older than she was when… well, you know.” The humor fled her eyes.
I nodded sympathetically. “Will you be living in the house once the auction is held?” I turned around again, taking in the magnificent architecture. Although Dorothy’s souvenirs cluttered the rooms and filled in the spaces, once they were gone the old home would feel spacious.
“Maybe,” Abby answered. “I’d love to move back to Charleston but I haven’t decided yet. I don’t feel quite… at home here.” Her eyes slid to the side, telling me that on some level, Abby probably felt at least a hint of the bad juju that seemed to waft through the house like candle smoke.
“I’d love for you to show us around,” I said, raising my voice just a bit to get Teag’s attention. He had wandered off to examine the antique rugs and finger the exquisite old linens in the dining room. To others, it might appear to be professional curiosity, but I knew his Weaver magic was busy trying to get a bead on the energy in the house and determine its source.
I intentionally kept my hands clasped behind my back. Something had charged the house with seriously bad vibes, and until I had a better idea of what we were dealing with, I did not want to get a full-blown vision, certainly not in front of a client. My intuition tingled as I passed through the crowded hallways, nearly brushing against mementos from all over the world. Some of the pieces radiated good cheer. Others were flat and neutral. A surprising number of pieces were at least slightly negative in their energy, giving a cumulative effect like walking past a long row of frowning people.
“Your aunt’s collection has quite a large scope,” I said, eyeing a suit of armor from England, a Samurai helmet from Japan, and a tapestry that I guessed was Medieval Belgian. I wished Sorren could have come with us. Given his vampire immortality, he’s lived through so much of history. Though, it makes it difficult sometimes for him to accord antiques and museum pieces proper respect when as he puts it, ‘they’re just like old stuff I used to own’.
One wall had entire glass cases of beautiful Native American pieces, including several shelves of Kachina dolls. I glanced back to check on Teag. We’d had a close call the last time we dealt with Native American artifacts… bad enough to trigger Teag’s gift and almost put him in the hospital.
Teag caught the glance and gave me a nervous but affirming smile.
Abby seemed more comfortable falling into the role of tour guide. She walked us through the house, pointing out unusual pieces or items that had been gifts from notable people. Throughout it, she peppered her conversation with anecdotes about her aunt, someone she clearly admired.
“Have you given any thought to pieces you might like to keep?” I asked. Even if Abby decided not to stay in the house, just a few of the decorations and furnishings would transform any home into a showplace.
A shadow seemed to fall across Abby’s face. “I don’t think so,” she said, avoiding eye contact again. “I have my memories and
photographs of Aunt Dorothy. The things in the house just seem to have so much ‘weight’ to them, if you know what I mean.”
I did know, probably in a clearer sense than Abby could imagine. There’s a reason most people find themselves whispering in museums. It’s not just the dour docents or the stern tour guides. On some primal level, even people without a clairvoyant bone in their bodies sense the memories stored in items that have been present at pivotal times in history. The things that get collected or put in museums usually witnessed significant events or catastrophes, juicing them up with strong emotions. It’s why I do my best to stay out of museums, even though I’m a huge history buff. I like to look at old things, but I don’t want to experience what they’ve seen and done.
As we moved through the big home, the supernatural energy waxed and waned. I was willing to bet that a number of Aunt Dorothy’s souvenirs actually packed a magical wallop, while others were resonant with strong emotions. It would be difficult for anyone with even a bit of intuition to be present around this collection day-in and day-out. I wondered if Aunt Dorothy realized that her constant traveling might have been a way to avoid spending too much time with her treasures.
“What a view!” Teag stared out of the cupola window over the harbor. I came to stand beside him, taking in the panoramic vista.
“This was one of Aunt Dorothy’s favorite places,” Abby said, and pointed to a small chair and ottoman. They barely fit in the tiny room, but I could just imagine someone curled up with a book and a cup of tea, looking out over the water.
“It’s going to take my team some time to catalogue and pack all the items for a sale,” I said. “And for a collection like this, we would want to advertise and reach out to some of the collectors and institutions on our list, in order to get you the best price.” I named a figure for the appraisal, rounding it up somewhat because I anticipated trouble, as well as the percentage and advance for auction. To my surprise, Abby didn’t blink.
“Not unreasonable, given how much stuff there is,” she said. “How soon can you get started?”
“Have we seen everything?” I asked. It just slipped out, prompted by an inner voice that suspected there was more to the story.
For an instant, before she covered it, Abby looked scared. Then she composed herself, and her polished manner slipped back into place. “Everything but the cellar,” she replied. “More of the same, but much of it still in packing crates, since there just wasn’t room for everything.”
“Let’s go take a quick look,” I urged, “just so I know what we’re dealing with.” I had set a price expecting something like this, so my curiosity lay more with the supernatural flavor of what lay in the basement. I glanced at Teag, and he nodded, so I knew we were on the same wavelength.
On our way downstairs, we passed the glass cabinets full of Native American artifacts again. Beautifully beaded dresses, leggings, and moccasins that filled one display case. Bows and arrows, tomahawks, and war axes, clubs, and knives were presented in another cabinet. The third case held a beautiful array of pottery in the bottom and then four shelves filled with colorful Hopi Kachina dolls. One look told me all of the items were old enough to be quite valuable, without adding the large, loom-woven Navaho blankets that were neatly folded on a nearby set of shelves.
I stopped to take a better look. Something in the case was supernaturally active, but the energy was slippery, as if it did not want me to fix on it. “How did your aunt come to have this collection?” I asked, bending closer without touching anything.
“Kinda creepy, aren’t they?” Abby said, and stepped back with a shudder. “I like a lot of my aunt’s stuff, but those give me the willies. They look like something out of an alien movie.”
I didn’t know much about Kachinas—yet—but I had to agree. The fanciful carvings were brightly colored, depicting figures that represented the gods upon whom tribes depended for rain fall and good harvests, fertility, and successful hunts. Each figure wore an elaborate headdress, mask, and costume. They were teaching tools, not idols, and the ability to carve them was a prized skill handed down from generation to generation.
Yet as I peered at the figures in the case, I felt a shiver run down my spine. Some of the Kachinas gave off a positive energy. Others were neutral, nothing more than carved wood, from a supernatural perspective. A few hummed with pent-up malice. I shied away from those figures, but I forced myself to take note. The Kachinas that raised my hackles were painted in dark hues. Their faces were covered with what looked to me like tentacles, a long, solid fringe that completely shrouded their features. In their hands were knives or whips. Even the posture of the dolls was menacing. Teag gave a nod when I looked his way. He’d be researching this as soon as we got into the car.
“This way,” Abby said, although I could hear reluctance in her voice. She led us to a door in the kitchen and opened it wide for us. A basement smell wafted up musty and a little damp, the scent of old cardboard boxes and paint cans due to be discarded.
My psychic senses went on high alert as we descended wooden stairs that trembled under our every step. Whatever remained packed away in the boxes and crates I could glimpse by the naked bulbs in the ceiling fixtures had some powerful juju, and not the good kind. I wondered if Aunt Dorothy had left those treasures boxed because she sensed their energy and decided to keep it at arm’s length.
The basement was filled with neat rows of wooden crates and heavy packing boxes, each row stacked on concrete blocks about waist high. I could see packing and postage labels that came from every corner of the globe. I couldn’t get a fix on where the bad mojo was coming from, but once we started moving things around it wouldn’t be hard to spot.
“Do you know how long the boxes have been stored here?” I asked.
“Not too long,” Abby replied. “Most came in a few weeks before Aunt Dorothy died. She had just come back from a trip out West, and her friend shipped back the crates. She tried not to have anything stored in here… in case of flooding. But she ran out of room and had to make do. She had been so excited about her new finds…”
“We can get started in the morning,” I told Abby after she had signed our appraisal agreement.
“I’ll be here,” she said, and something in her voice told me she would rather be elsewhere. “I live in Louisiana, and it’s too expensive for me to keep going back and forth while I get things settled. I’ll be staying in the house, at least until I’ve got more of a handle on the estate.”
Personally, I wouldn’t have wanted to stay in the house with the strange supernatural vibes I was getting. “Great. See you bright and early!” Abby saw us to the door, but she was already looking worried and preoccupied when she gave us a half-hearted wave good-bye.
Neither Teag nor I said anything until we were in the car and headed back to the shop. “I don’t think I’d want to spend the night there by myself,” Teag ventured.
I shook my head. “Not on a bet. I’m wondering if there’s a connection between that last shipment Aunt Dorothy got and her sudden personality change.”
“It would be good to get Abby out of the house for a while so you can get a read on which items are dangerous without an audience,” Teag added. “Once we’ve cleared the ‘sparklers’ and ‘spookies’, we can have the auction team in to inventory and photograph the remaining items.”
I grimaced. That involved touching pieces and getting visions, and if the item had a sordid or tragic history—or was downright evil—it was no fun. “Yeah. Drea owes me a couple of favors. I thought I’d see if she would invite Abby to join in on some of her carriage tours, see if we can get her busy for a few hours. You doing okay? This is the first time we’ve run into Native American artifacts since…”
“Yeah. All good. I’ve actually been working a lot with Native American weaving as part of my training. So in some ways it feels ‘familiar’. I’ll see what I can dig up on those spooky dolls,” Teag promised as I dropped him off at the shop to pick up his car.
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br /> “And I’ll leave a voice mail for Sorren and let him know about the new job,” I replied. Yes, my vampire boss uses cell phones, as well as text messages and email. He says that vampires who can’t adapt don’t survive.
“How about if you go straight over to Abby’s house, and I’ll stop by the shop and make sure Maggie opens ok, then come over to join you?” Teag suggested.
“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed.
* * *
The next day, I showed up at the house at nine a.m. Abby’s car was parked at the curb. I knocked, and waited. The house had a large, brass door knocker and the minute I touched it, I felt the world spin out around me.
Faces flashed past me, some famous, some not. All had come with a sense of excitement and anticipation, looking forward to meeting the exceptional woman who lived there. A sense of harmony and satisfaction filled me. Dorothy’s house had been a real home at one time, filled with friends and laughter. A very different feeling from the shadowed and uncomfortable atmosphere I had experienced yesterday.
The vision dissipated, leaving me to wonder why Abby hadn’t answered my knock. I knocked again, louder this time. No response. I called her cell and got no response so I called the house phone, and heard it ring inside the house, but no one answered.
I paced the porch, debating what to do. Abby hadn’t called me to cancel, and if she had left a message at the shop, Teag would have let me know. The longer I waited on the porch, the more certain I became that Abby was in trouble, although I had no idea why. Reminding myself I had a perfectly legitimate reason to be at the house, I walked slowly around, peering into windows to see if I could spot Abby.
By the time I had circled the house, I was certain something was wrong. I glanced over my shoulder, sizing up how well any of the neighbors could see the front door. Sorren had once been the best jewel thief in Antwerp, and since getting into and out of places was part of handling supernatural threats, he had passed those skills along to Teag and me. I had the door open in just a few seconds, and reeled as the psychic force of the house hit me.
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