The weather coaxed me out of my worries. Fall is one of my favorite times of year in Charleston. The days, while still quite warm, were cooler than at the peak of the summer. While the gardens weren’t quite the riot of blooms they had been a few months earlier, pansies and mums had traded places with petunias and verbena. Evenings were pleasant, warm enough to be on the porch.
Valerie passed in one of Andrews Carriage Rides’ horse-drawn wagons. She had a full load of tourists, and she waved as she went by. I waved back. Lucky for us, tourism here doesn’t end with Labor Day. There are plenty of people who want to enjoy Charleston’s beautiful scenery and wonderful food when the climate is a little more moderate. I was beginning to hope that Maggie’s prediction of this being a good day might actually be on target.
I swung by Honeysuckle Café to pick up a pumpkin-spice latte on my way. Rick and Trina both greeted me with a hearty hello.
“Anything new?” I asked as I waited for Rick to fix the latte.
“You just missed a bunch of cops,” Rick replied, as the steam whistled into the cup of milk. “Some guy disappeared over at the Old Jail, or so his girlfriend says. Claims he headed down a flight of stairs and never got to the bottom.” He handed me the latte. “Weird, huh?”
I felt a chill run down my spine. Unlike the other disappearances Anthony had told us about, this one hadn’t been hushed up. “Yeah, kinda creepy,” I replied. “Figures it would happen at the Jail, doesn’t it?”
“I steer clear of that place,” Rick said. “Big with tourists. Never could understand why. That place, it’s bad news.”
I nodded in agreement, but I suspected my reasons were a little more concrete than Rick’s for avoiding a place that was a top tourist attraction. Charleston’s Old Jail had been the site of harsh judgment and human misery for a very long time, and deaths and suffering can permanently stain a building’s energy. That’s why so many locations that hit the ‘most haunted’ list tend to be abandoned hospitals, madhouses, battlefields, and penitentiaries. I’d also heard some of Sorren’s stories about the Old Jail, back when it still held prisoners and used its gallows. Just thinking about it made me touch the agate necklace around my throat for protection.
“Let me know if they find the guy,” I said as I paid for the coffee and headed out the door. But deep inside, I know that no matter how hard the police searched, they weren’t going to turn up anything.
My bad mood flooded back. You’re supposed to be protecting people in Charleston against the supernatural. Some job you’re doing. This is all your fault. I felt so overwhelmed with guilt that tears started and I blinked them back furiously.
Wait a minute! I argued with myself. No one said I was supposed to know everything. We’re working on it. We’ll figure it out. I managed to push the wave of guilt back so that it didn’t stop me in my tracks, but the awful feeling lingered that I had let everyone down. Maybe I need to go to the doctor. This isn’t like me. I’m a pretty realistic person, and I’ve seen stuff working for the Alliance that would send most cops running for the hills, but I work at staying relatively optimistic. I have my faults, but pessimism isn’t usually one of them. Probably working too much. Overtired. I’ll take a nice, ghost-free vacation once we deal with the disappearances.
As I left the café, I spotted the guy who had chatted me up about the latte sitting at a table by the window in a restaurant across the street. He saw me, waved and smiled, but made no move to call me over or get up. That was fine with me. I gave a half-hearted smile and wave, then walked briskly down the block.
What bothered me about him? I still wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the too good-looking part. Something about Coffee Guy seemed fake, although I couldn’t put my finger on why. My gut feeling told me that Coffee Guy wasn’t what he seemed.
And then there was the zap of magic when I brushed his hand. That didn’t happen often. Usually, only when I touched someone else who had magic. So that meant the stranger had some kind of power of his own, and from the look in his eyes when I got jolted, he didn’t like that my magic outed him. Curiouser and curiouser. And now there he was again, popping up along my path. Coincidence? Maybe. Stalker? Too soon to tell. Friend or foe? Not sure, but until proven otherwise, he goes in the ‘foe’ category.
I cut through the Charleston City Market on my way to Forbidden City. The Market is the heart of historic Charleston, and buildings take up the main section of Market Square.
Charlestonians have been buying produce, spices, and baked goods at the City Market for hundreds of years. Nowadays, shoppers can find fresh fruits and vegetables, locally-made jams, jellies, and pastries, artisan-roasted coffee, Charleston-raised tea, and a wide selection of craft and art objects sold by the people who made them.
Walking through the City Market is my favorite way to lift my mood and clear my head. I shop there a lot, so many of the merchants know me. The smell of the coffee, pastries, and spices makes me happy, and I love to see so many beautiful things on display. I waved hello to friends as I walked by, although I didn’t stop to chat like I usually do.
Near the main outside doors, sat an elderly woman and her daughter weaving beautiful, complex baskets from sweetgrass. Completed baskets lay on a large cloth on the ground near their feet. Charleston sweetgrass baskets are a local art, passed down from generation to generation, and they sell for hundreds – sometimes thousands – of dollars. Baskets like these are in the Smithsonian and other museums, a handcraft with roots tracing back to the Gullah people and the region’s freed and escaped slaves. And in my opinion, no one made more beautiful sweetgrass baskets than Mrs. Teller and her daughter, Niella.
“I wondered when you’d come ’round here, Cassidy,” Mrs. Teller said, not looking up from the complicated pattern her agile fingers wove. She had been making baskets all her life, and she made it look easy, but the strips of grass were tough and sharp, and novices ended up with bloody fingers.
“It was a nice day for a walk,” I said.
Niella nodded. “Sure is. Lots of tourists walking around. Let’s hope they feel like taking a little bit of Charleston home with them.”
“You heard about the men that disappeared?” Mrs. Teller asked, looking up at me with piercing, black eyes. Close-cropped gray hair was a stark contrast against her dark skin. I wasn’t sure how old she was. But I knew her skill as a powerful root worker was a force to be reckoned with.
“Yes. But I’m not sure what to make of it,” I replied.
Mrs. Teller cocked her head at me as if she were certain that I wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Oh child. I think you do. Bad things are happening all over town. People been coming to me for days for charms and blessings. I give them what I can,” she said with a sigh, “but what’s comin’ is bigger than I can put a root on, you know what I mean?”
“Mama –” Niella said, a warning for her mother not to speak of things too loudly, or maybe not to call the evil by name. Niella and Mrs. Teller know about my magic, and about Sorren. Teag takes Weaving lessons from Mrs. Teller to learn more about controlling his power, something he’s also pretty new at doing. Still, Niella’s right to be careful. Most people in Charleston don’t believe in magic, or in the kinds of supernatural threats we do our best to protect them from. We try to keep it that way.
“What do you know about the disappearances?” I asked quietly.
Mrs. Teller went back to her weaving. “I know I’ve been called out to bless a dozen staircases in the last two days,” she replied. “And I know there are people who are mighty scared.”
“We’re trying to figure out what’s going on,” I said.
Mrs. Teller nodded sagely. “Figured as much. Blessing those stairs might help keep the dark away, and I can send some folks away with gris-gris bags and jack balls, but this nonsense is gonna have to stop.”
“Mama’s trying to tell you that if you need us, we’ll be there to help,” Niella said, with a sidelong glance at her mother.
Mrs. Teller glared back
. “I don’t need you to speak my mind for me,” she snapped. “But she’s right. I knew one of those men who disappeared.”
“You did? Was there anything unusual about him?”
Mrs. Teller shook her head. “He didn’t have ‘abilities’, if that’s what you mean. Nobody special. Just a friend. He’d been in a bit of trouble, but he was just getting everything straightened out and now –” She sighed. “If Niella and I can help, you just give a holler, you hear?”
I smiled. “I do hear you,” I replied. “And if we need your ‘abilities’, I’ll let you know.”
Mrs. Teller nodded. “Good enough,” she said, fingers still flying on her weaving. “Now best you get on. And you tell Teag for me that it’s been too long since he’s been ’round for a lesson.”
“I’ll be sure to let him know,” I said, giving a wave and heading off. The day was bright, but my thoughts were dark as I headed to Forbidden City to pick up lunch.
Teag was busy with a customer when I got back to the store. I carried the bags of food into the break room, and Maggie followed me. “A strange man came looking for someone named Sorren,” she said, a worried expression on her face. “I told him I didn’t know anyone by that name. Teag was in the back, so he wasn’t there to shoo this fellow away. Looked like a rough sort.”
“Did he say anything else?” I asked, glancing at the door.
“He said he’d be back. That there was a reckoning to be had. And that this Sorren fellow had better be prepared to finish what he started.”
“What did he look like?” I asked. I didn’t know whether to take what the stranger said as a pronouncement of fact, or a threat. And until I knew whose side he was on, I intended to be very careful.
“Big guy, about as tall as my husband, maybe six foot six or so,” Maggie replied. “He had a leather jacket on, funny with the heat to wear that, don’t you think? And it was pretty beat up, plenty of scratches. He looked like he’d been in a few fights himself. Had a scar that wound around one eye and down his cheek, and he was missing part of an ear. His hands were all scarred up, too, and he had several big silver rings that looked like they’d hurt if you got hit with them.”
Yikes. “Thanks, Maggie,” I said. “We’ll keep an eye out for him. If you see him again, make sure you yell for Teag or me.” I managed a smile. “Now why don’t you sit down and eat, and I’ll cover for you and Teag.”
I went up front to handle any customers while Teag and Maggie ate, then came back to finish my lunch after they were done. Mrs. Teller was right. There’s a storm brewing. And unless we figure something out, fast, we’re going to be smack dab in the middle of it.
THAT EVENING, BAXTER and I had some old people to cheer up. I closed up shop at Trifles and Folly, warning Teag and Maggie to be extra careful. The stranger who had been looking for Sorren didn’t come back, and I didn’t spot Coffee Guy anywhere near the store. I headed home to get changed and have a bite to eat. My little blue Mini Cooper slid into a parking space near the curb and I checked all around me before I got out, but there were no lurking strangers or ominous shadows.
I live in what Charlestonians call a ‘single house’. The house is turned with the narrow side toward the street, so the main door in from the sidewalk enters the broad front porch, not the house itself. What most folks call a ‘front’ door actually looks into a small walled private garden. The house had been in my family for a long time, and when I moved back to Charleston after I inherited the store, my parents were just about to move to Charlotte, so they sold me the house at a discount, and we all got a good deal.
Baxter was already yipping and squeaking when I turned the key in the lock. I paid close attention as I touched the doorknob, using my magic to sense whether anyone else had tried to open the door since I left, but it was undisturbed. Thanks to Sorren, our friend Lucinda the Voudon mambo had placed wards around my house and Teag’s place, to keep bad things at bay. I wondered whether Sorren’s people in Boston had similar wards, and whether our protections would be any good against whatever was eating ghosts. I shivered, even though the night was warm.
“All right, all right,” I said as Baxter jumped and danced on his hind legs. I set down my purse and scooped Bax into my arms, getting my nose licked in the process. My senses were on high alert as I took Baxter around the block, even though it was still light outside and plenty of people were making their way home from work or out for a stroll. Once we got home, Baxter ate his kibble enthusiastically while I heated up a slice of leftover pizza and changed into jeans and a t-shirt.
“Ready, Bax?” I asked, and he pirouetted on his hind legs. “Save the fancy tricks for the old ladies,” I said, tussling his fur as I put his harness on him. “They like it when you show off.”
Baxter enjoys riding in the car, and I have a carrier seat for him so he can ride safely and still see out the window. We didn’t have far to go. Palmetto Meadows is one of Charleston’s most popular ‘active living’ communities, and from the outside, it looked like a big turn-of-the-century seaside inn. On the inside, some parts of the building looked like a fancy condominium with apartments for the most mobile residents, other sections resembled a hotel with single rooms and a big dining hall, and a third wing had more of a hospital feel.
We headed up the walkway, past the manicured front lawn. Halfway along the sidewalk, I felt a familiar frisson of energy. Baxter sensed it too and looked up at me. Who raised wards around an old folks’ home? I wondered. Because that was exactly what the energy felt like. Very, very odd.
Everyone waved to Baxter and me as we checked in at the front desk and headed for the third wing. When Baxter and I had gone through therapy dog classes, he had done exceptionally well with Alzheimer’s patients, so that was where we spent most of our time.
“Hey Cassidy! Hey Baxter!” Judy, one of the nurses, greeted us and buzzed us into the secure unit. “What’s up? This isn’t your usual night.” She winked at me. “Although I had a feeling you might be coming.” I’d talked enough with Judy to know she had some magic of her own, including a bit of foresight.
I nodded. “Had an appointment last night, so I checked with the front office to make sure we could come tonight,” I replied. “We’ll be back on schedule next week.”
Judy laughed. “I don’t think anyone here would mind if Baxter came every day,” she said. “He’s a popular fellow.”
I swear Baxter strutted as we headed for the social room, as if he knew he was a furry little celebrity. The residents’ faces lit up when they saw him. Mrs. Macallen always saved pretzels to give Baxter, and she would slip them to him when she thought no one was looking. Mrs. Talheimer kept a bit of apple or a bite of broccoli for him. Baxter made out like a bandit, and I figured that as long as he didn’t get sick, it was fine for him to get a few treats since he made everyone so happy.
“It’s good to see you, Baxter.” Mrs. Peterson’s voice was shaky, but she had no trouble leaning over in her wheelchair to scratch Baxter behind the ears as he put his paws on her legs. He weighs all of six pounds, so he’s not going to knock anyone over, and he seems to know which of the residents like to have him jump up and which don’t.
We made a slow circle around the social room, making sure everyone who wanted to pet Baxter got their turn. Big glass windows opened onto a nice patio and walled garden, a safe place for the residents to get fresh air without any danger of wandering away. Baxter and I had gotten about halfway around the room when I spotted a couple sitting on a bench out on the patio. I recognized the woman from our weekly visits. Mrs. Butler was ninety-four, and she was talking animatedly with her visitor. I stopped dead in my tracks. Sorren was sitting in the moonlight next to her, holding her hand.
For a moment, I couldn’t stop staring. Sorren was chatting with Mrs. Butler and looking more natural, more relaxed, more alive, than I had ever seen him. It was obvious from their body language that they knew each other very well. The tilt of the woman’s head, the way she reached out a veined
hand to touch his arm, they weren’t the touch of a grandmother to a great-grandson. They were the flirtation of a young woman to her beau.
Suddenly, I felt as if I were intruding, and I turned my back to the window, in part so I would stop staring, and also because I didn’t want Sorren to sense me there. He was so happy, an adjective I can’t usually use to describe him. Six hundred years, give or take a few decades, weighs on a person. He’s seen a lot of history first-hand, much of it tragic, and lost a lot of people who were friends and colleagues. Sorren is an old soul in the body of a grad student. And while I knew it was none of my business, I couldn’t help but be filled with questions.
“He’s such a good boy.” Mr. Thompson’s thready voice cut through my reverie. He was a stoop-shouldered man in a striped bathrobe, t-shirt, and sweatpants, with corduroy slippers trodden down on the heels. A wooden cane was tucked into the seat of the wheelchair next to him. Long ago, he must have been built like a linebacker. Now, he was all bones and angles, with skin that no longer fit. Behind his thumbprint-marred reading glasses, Mr. Thompson’s blue eyes were watery, but I saw a flash of something in them as he petted Baxter, something that might have been a memory of the person he used to be.
“What? Oh. Baxter. Yes, he is a very good boy,” I replied, pulling out of my thoughts. “He’s taken quite a shine to you.”
Mr. Thompson laughed, something between a chuckle and a wheeze. “Well, I always had dogs, you know,” he said. “All my life, until I came here. I wouldn’t let them bring me here, you know, until Tilly died. Little rat terrier, lived to be fifteen years old. Fifteen. You know, in dog years, that’s one hundred and five.” He smiled. “Believe it or not, that made her even older than I am!”
I reached down to ruffle Baxter’s ears, and Mr. Thompson’s hand brushed mine. I felt a sharp tingle like an electric shock, and drew back. From the surprise in his expression, he felt it too. “Sorry. Static electricity,” I murmured. But I didn’t believe it. I know magic when I feel it, and that was what had zapped me, I was certain of it.
Vendetta (Deadly Curiosities Book 2) Page 5