by Lea Nolan
I push through the swinging door to the kitchen. Miss Delia is rolled up next to the worktable, peering over her spell book. A few hot charcoal briquettes burn in the bottom of the ancestors’ mortar. Their smoky aroma fills the air.
“Morning.”
She starts, clasping her hand to her chest. “Lord above! You can’t sneak up on an old woman like that.” Her super-thick lenses magnify and distort her eyes.
“Sorry, I thought you heard me come in.” I can’t help but chuckle at how adorable she looks in those glasses.
She yanks off her goggle-like specs. “If I had, do you think I’d be gasping for air like a boo hag had been riding my chest?”
Ew, the boo hag, an evil creature that sheds its skin and slips into your house, climbs up on your chest, and rides you while you’re sleeping, sucking the life from you. Most times, the boo hag siphons just enough to regenerate itself, but sometimes it goes too far, draining you dead. Occasionally, it jumps into the newly lifeless skin, taking over the body and impersonating its victim. It’s sort of the Gullah version of a vampire on steroids. Normally, I’d laugh off the idea, but after the plateyes and The Creep, anything’s possible. Though I’m not super-psyched to meet their version of a zombie.
I swallow my laughter. “You’re not really scared a boo hag will come in here, are you?”
She shakes her head. “Not in my house. I’ve worked too many protective charms for one of those foul, slimy creatures to get near. If one is foolish enough to come close, I’ve got plenty of salt and brooms to take care of them.”
“Huh?” She’s a master root worker and she’s going to rely on salt and brooms?
“Salt burns their skin and will even kill one if you’ve got enough of it. Otherwise, you’ve got to draw the vile monster into the sun without its victim’s skin and fry it up like a catfish.”
My stomach churns. Up until this second, I loved catfish. Not anymore. “And what do you do with the broom? Sweep up the ashes?”
She smiles. “Believe it or not, it’s to distract them. They’re cruel, wicked creatures, but put anything with bristles in front of them, and they’re putty in your hands. They’ll count the straw on a broom until dayclean,” she says, using the Gullah term for dawn.
I stare hard. “Seriously?”
She smirks. “Yes. They’re devilish but easily distracted. That’s why I’ve got a broom in nearly every room in the house.”
Now that I think about it, she does. There’s one on both the front and back porches, in the kitchen and living room, and even one in her bedroom. I thought she was just really into sweeping, but now I see there’s another reason for it.
She waves her hand away. “Enough talk about boo hags. We’ve got work to do.”
She’s right. With exactly seventeen days till Cooper’s birthday, we’re no closer to breaking the Beaumont Curse.
Without a word, I grab the bottle of citronella oil on the counter and dab it on my pressure points. I cleansed myself earlier this morning, but it never hurts to add a little extra lemon-fresh purification.
Out the rear window, I watch Cooper and Jack make their way into the overgrown backyard, a shovel slung across each of their shoulders. Cooper is also carrying a giant pair of pruning shears. They’ve decided to clear a path through the garden so Miss Delia can drive her chair around. As usual, Jack is jabbering about something, but unlike normal, Cooper looks preoccupied. It’s almost as if he doesn’t hear a thing Jack’s saying. I’m worried for him. Missy’s death has hit him harder than I expected. Though it makes sense, considering how much it’s reminded him of his mother.
I pull my attention away from the backyard and switch to another, equally depressing subject. “So, I didn’t see Taneea when I came in.”
“Pfft.” Miss Delia purses her wrinkled lips. “She left hours ago after helping me into my chair. Said she was going for a walk.”
“You don’t believe her?”
Miss Delia narrows her gaze. “Child, please. My great-granddaughter has about as much interest in exploring this island as you do joining her on a shopping spree at the mall. She’s found something to keep her busy all right, but it’s got nothing to do with sightseeing.”
I don’t know why I underestimated Miss Delia. Of course she’d know Taneea was up to something. But that doesn’t explain why she’s letting her get away with it.
“Do you think it’s a good idea to let her be alone for so long?” Because I thought the idea was to keep her out of trouble, not turn a blind eye.
“It’s not my preference, but it’s all I can do. Her mother shipped her here to Sa’leenuh to keep her off the streets of Chicago. She got her wish.”
“Yeah, but as small as St. Helena is, she could still get mixed up in some bad stuff.”
Miss Delia smiles. “Sometimes the toughest cases require the softest touch. She’s new here and is still testing the boundaries. If I clamp down too hard and make her stay in the house all day, she’ll run as soon as she gets the chance. Then she’ll find some real trouble. This way, she’s home every morning and night to help me get ready. It’s more than her mother could get out of her.” She pushes on her glasses and turns back to her spell book, a clear sign she’s done talking about Taneea and her issues.
My pulse begins to thrum, throbbing gently, but definitely more forcefully in my neck. Maybe my energy tea is working after all.
With a shaky hand, Miss Delia grabs a pinch of powder from one of the crocks beside her and then tosses it onto the smoldering flames. The powder crackles as it bounces off the sizzling coals. A strong, bitter scent wafts up, reminding me of my mother’s favorite Thai green-curry dish. And not in a good way.
Wincing, I cover my nose. “Ugh, what is that?”
“Rue. It’s an ancient herb with the power to turn back jinxes. I had an idea Sabina could have found a way to reverse its power and used it set the curse.” Her lips turn down as she stretches to reach another crock. “But it didn’t even catch fire. Not for a second.”
“What’s this one?” I ask as I push the dish toward her. My hand trembles slightly but the effect is so faint, I doubt she notices.
“Burdock root.” Her long, bent fingers dip into the bowl. A second later, the powder splashes on the charcoal. It ignites, but the red flame it creates is quiet as it slowly licks the remains of the pulverized root. The warm, woody smell of sawdust curls up from the mortar. She mutters something in Gullah, probably a cuss word too dirty for me to hear.
“Not enough power, right?” I think back on the explosions Sabina created in the Psychic Visions. Small but impactful, they were like pocket-size bundles of dynamite.
She nods. “Uh huh. Not hot enough, either. The flame should burn orange and yellow.” Her glasses slip down her nose. She scowls at the mortar and taps a yellowed nail on the arm of her wheelchair. “I’ve tried nearly everything I can think of. I’m running out of ingredients.”
“It has to be something, right? Maybe she used an herb that doesn’t grow here anymore.”
Shaking her head, she sucks her teeth. “There isn’t a plant grown in the Lowcountry that isn’t in my pantry.” She trains her good eye on the shelf lined with apothecary bottles. “Which makes we wonder if I haven’t been fishing in the wrong pond.” Her milky eye flicks toward me. “Maybe she didn’t use a plant after all. Maybe it’s a curio.”
“But you’ve got a ton of those.” I point to the shelves devoted to magnetic lodestones, cat’s eye shells, badger teeth, pyrite amulets, and hunks of black dog hair, plus a ton of other strange but magical items. “Why don’t we just grind those up and see which will burn?”
“Because I don’t think the answer is that simple. My curios are powerful, but I’m guessing whatever Sabina used was filled with dark magic. And hard to come by.”
“Oh.” I slump into a nearby stool. “I suppose there isn’t a neighborhood black magic shop we can visit to stock up on these nefarious items?”
“Not likely. The ma
gic I’m talking about is special. It’s homegrown and handmade with the most wicked intentions.”
My heart picks up speed at what I think she’s implying. I’d blame it on the tea except I’m genuinely afraid so my reaction is just as likely caused by the adrenaline. I’m up for a lot of things but dabbling in black magic isn’t one of them. Fighting a curse is one thing. Creating one is another.
Stiffening, I draw back slightly. “You don’t mean—”
She cuts me off, anticipating my concern. “Of course not. I’ve got no interest in working black magic, especially with you. I’ve only worked one real dark spell in my life, and though it was the right thing to do, I paid for it dearly. But I knew the price going in and it was one I was willing to pay.”
I’d love to ask what she’s talking about but I know better. If she hasn’t told me by now, she’s got no intention of spilling the beans.
She points a gnarled finger at me. “You, Emma, will not go down that path if I have anything to do with it. Your hoodoo practice is for good, based in love to save those closest to you. That’s the way it’s going to stay.”
Good to know, because I’m not looking to cross over to the dark side anytime soon.
I scratch my head. “Okay, but what do we do in the meantime? If we need some black magic curios but can’t make them, how do we get them?”
She draws a deep breath and stares out the kitchen window, but doesn’t seem to notice Cooper and Jack, who are working so hard they’re glistening with sweat. Instead, though her eyes are fixed on something outside, she appears to be lost in thought, reliving an event lodged deep in her memory. A moment later, she shakes her head and turns back to me. “You just leave it to me. These aren’t my only supplies.”
Peering out the kitchen window, I scan the vast, weed-choked backyard. Did I miss something? The only thing out there besides my brother and boyfriend, and a bunch of plants, is a broken-down shed whose door is nearly hanging off its rusted hinges. Does she have a stash out there?
“Do you need me to get something for you? The guys have only just started clearing the field. I don’t think your wheelchair can make it back there.”
Her head snaps toward me. “You won’t touch a thing. Not yet. Not ever if I had my way. But even I know sometimes you’ve got to dance with the darkness while you’re waiting on the light. That’s a fight for another day, when you’re strong enough to resist its pull.”
The hair on the back of my neck rises. For the first time I’m actually afraid of all this power and its consequences. But I’m sure of one thing: I need to build up my resistance and strength pronto. And brew a stronger tea.
Miss Delia pulls her attention back to the kitchen, and it seems, the present. “I’m tired. Would you mind cleaning up this mess for me?”
“Sure, no problem.” Slipping off the stool, my foot nudges my messenger bag. Amid all this talk about darkness and black magic, I’ve completely forgotten about the sample of sludgy stuff we found on Missy’s body. “Before you go, would you mind taking a look at something?” I reach inside and fish out the plastic travel bottle nestled in the interior pocket. Then I bring her up to speed on what happened yesterday.
She shakes her head. “Good Lord, child. How did you not tell me all this when you walked in?”
I shrug. “Because you were in the middle of something. And I suppose there’s a chance Claude and the sheriff are right and it really was natural causes. Or something.” I twist the top to loosen the seal and hand it to her. “It’s just I’ve never seen this stuff before and thought maybe you’d have a clue what it is.”
With a shaky hand, she draws the bottle close and lifts off the cap. The rank smell from yesterday fills the kitchen except the scent of rancid garbage and skunk roadkill has ripened into something truly ghastly. Now, along with those festering odors, there’s a hint of fermented decay laced with death. If putrid has a smell, this is it.
She pulls the bottle away and coughs. “This was on her body?”
I blink my stinging eyes and nod, then take the bottle back from her and close the lid. “Yeah. And on the carpet in the bedroom. That’s where I took this sample.”
She knits her brows. “And the sheriff didn’t pay it any mind?”
“Not really. Though they could have been putting on a good show, trying to see if anyone would admit what it was. But to be fair, it didn’t stink that bad yesterday. It’s…evolved into something truly nasty. Maybe I should have kept it in the refrigerator or something.”
She scoffs. “I doubt it would have made much difference. Decomposition is a natural process. No matter how cold you keep something, it’ll happen eventually.”
I stare at the bottle of dried, chunky gunk. “Is that what this is?”
She nods. “Must be to smell like that.”
“Have you seen anything like it before? Do you know what it is?”
She shakes her snowy-white head. “Can’t say I have. But it doesn’t take much to know it’s not something you want to mess with. The stink alone is a warning to stay away.”
My pulse picks up. “Do you think it’s some sort of curse or something? Maybe it killed Missy.”
Miss Delia pats my hand. “Don’t let your imagination run ahead of you, Emma. Not everything has a supernatural cause. Sometimes, as strange as it may seem, things are exactly as they appear.”
“But—”
“But what?” She shoots me a look that clearly tells me not to question her further.
Dropping my gaze, I flip open the flap on my messenger bag to stow the bottle. I don’t understand why she’s so calm and disinterested. After all her talk about dark forces, I’d think she’d at least be a little intrigued by this stuff. Instead, she seems as indifferent as Claude and Sheriff Walker. Which is weird, because I’d have bet she’d be as suspicious as I am of Claude’s influence over the sheriff.
“Why don’t you leave that vial with me? Maybe I can find some kind of spell to test it.” Her voice is kind and sweet as she extends an open palm.
“Really?” I fish out the bottle. “Do you want to look now? I could grab your spell book and we could go through it together. I bet there’s something in there that will help.”
“Maybe later. When I’m feeling more up to it.” She slips the bottle into the pocket of her housedress and then places her finger on her wheelchair’s joystick and maneuvers out of the kitchen.
I spend the next few minutes cleaning up after her explosion experiments, putting away the crocks of ingredients, and cleaning the ancestors’ mortar. Just as I’ve wiped its smooth stone and gold-filled interior, the front screen door slams. A moment later, raised voices carry into the kitchen. It’s Taneea and Miss Delia.
“Tell me where you got that.” Miss Delia’s voice is firm but heavy with fatigue.
“It’s none of your business,” Taneea snaps.
That’s it. I’m sick of her crap. Tossing my rag on the counter, I race though the swinging kitchen door to the living room. “What’s going on?”
The scent of Taneea’s spicy perfume smacks me in the face. It’s especially strong, as if she just sprayed it on. Today she’s wearing a skintight, black and white zebra-striped tank with a chunky belt over black capri leggings. Her neck is dripping with beaded necklaces and her arms are covered with bangles. But she seems especially protective of the quilted, white leather handbag that’s slung over her shoulder, its handle gripped in her curled hand. An alligator-foot key chain dangles from one of the gold loops that connects the straps to the bag.
Taneea’s upper lip curls as she takes me in, then tucks the key chain into the body of the bag. “Ugh. Why don’t you go back into the kitchen where you belong?” Only it’s not really a question. From her repulsed expression it’s clear she wishes I’d go a lot farther away than the next room. Like maybe Australia. But I’m not going anywhere except to plop on the couch to monitor their confrontation.
“I’ll ask you again. Where did you get that?” Miss Del
ia’s narrowed gaze zeroes in on the bag.
“In Chicago. Before I came here.” Taneea’s eyes shift down and off to the side.
Miss Delia crosses her arms. “Do I look stupid?”
Taneea’s eyes flicker with light and for an instant she looks as if she might answer the rhetorical question, but sanity must take over because she keeps her mouth shut.
“Smart girl,” Miss Delia says, and then leans forward in her chair. “Don’t think for a second I don’t know what comes in and out of this house. Now, this time I’d like the truth. Where did you get that bag?”
“On Hilton Head.” Taneea’s eyes drop to her patent-leather peep-toe shoes. “In a boutique.”
Miss Delia’s eyebrows shoot up as she grips the arms of her chair. “How did you pay for it?”
Taneea’s jaw juts forward. “With a credit card.”
“You don’t have one.”
“Yes I do. My mother gave me one.”
“She gave it to me. For emergencies. And so far we haven’t had any.”
Taneea shrugs, but her eyes blaze with anger. “Why does it matter whose card I used? It’s my bag, and it’s not returnable.”
“It matters very much. Regardless of who you grow up to be or how rich or poor you are, your character and integrity are all you’ll ever have in this world, the only things you truly earn for yourself. Whether you stole your maamy’s card or got someone else to buy that ugly bag for you, they’re shortcuts to getting what you want. You won’t appreciate—or deserve—that bag until you can earn it yourself.”
Taneea rolls her eyes. “Please, spare me the public service announcement. Not everyone can be Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes like Emma over there.” She tosses me a hateful glare, lingering over my cotton shorts and V-neck T-shirt.
Though I know it’s dumb, I suddenly feel underdressed. And completely inadequate. Which only propels me to speak before I think. “Hey, don’t be mad at me. It’s not my fault you bought a hideous bag.”
“The fact that you think this bag is hideous proves how little you know about fashion.” She forces a condescending laugh as she strokes the gold chains hanging off her new purse.