From the empty second floor, I heard the unmistakable sound of a man’s boot step.
My hand went to the agate necklace at my throat. Last night, after Teag and I had chased off whatever attacked the house, I had placed the necklace in the moonlight to recharge it. I hoped that would be enough to let Jeremiah Abernathy and any of the other rogues know that I was not someone they wanted to mess with.
Unfortunately, I had neither Alard’s walking stick nor my grandmother’s wooden spoon, though Bo’s collar was still twined around my left wrist.
Too bad it’s too warm to have worn my jacket. I’m pretty sure Teag filled the pockets with salt, I thought. Then again, I had no idea how I would have explained it to Mrs. Morrissey if she found me standing in a circle of salt.
Maybe Abernathy’s ghost is just putting on a show, I thought. After all, he seemed like the bullying type.
Upstairs, I heard more footsteps. I decided Abernathy could walk around all he wanted, so long as he stayed on his own floor.
The music box was still playing. I heard a woman’s laugh, and remembered the display dedicated to Lavinia Fisher, the serial killer. She was not someone I wanted to meet in person. I hoped she and Jeremiah would keep to themselves upstairs and leave me alone.
The temperature in the foyer plummeted. When Mrs. Morrissey had shown me through on the way upstairs, it was comfortably cool. Now, it was as if I had stepped into a refrigerator, enough to raise gooseflesh on my arms. Not a good sign of things to come.
Upstairs, the heavy footsteps sounded again, closer this time. Before, they had been muffled, as if someone were moving around the exhibit room. Now, the steps were in the upstairs hallway, and coming toward the landing.
I was torn between keeping my eye on the top of the stairs and moving closer to the door to the outside. Maybe I could stand on the Archive’s wide piazza and welcome Mrs. Morrissey’s visitor out there, I thought, crossing to the door in a few quick strides.
I turned the knob. The door wouldn’t budge. The deadbolt had been unlocked when I came in, and Mrs. Morrissey had only locked the handset when we went upstairs, I was sure of it. I knew for a fact that I had only locked the handset after she left, since I didn’t have a key to the deadbolt. But no matter how I turned the knob or clicked the button in the handset, the door refused to open.
“Maybe it sticks,” I muttered to myself, grabbing the knob with both hands and pulling. Nothing happened.
Behind me, the footsteps were getting closer to the top of the stairs.
I was sure the Archive must have a back door, and I thought about checking the kitchen, but that would mean going past the main stairs. I could get trapped in the back of the house if Abernathy’s ghost actually descended to the first floor, and I had no assurance that the kitchen door would open. For all I knew, it was locked with a deadbolt, too. I couldn’t count on getting out that way.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, and stared at it in outright amazement. Though I was right in the middle of the Charleston Historic District and only a few blocks from my store, the display said ‘no signal’. I tried to call Teag, although I had no idea what he could do to help, but the call wouldn’t go through. Shoving my cell phone back into my pocket, I grabbed for Mrs. Morrissey’s desk phone, but when I raised the receiver to my ear, there was no dial tone.
Jeremiah was playing with my mind.
My watch said I still had at least ten more minutes before Mrs. Morrissey got back, and that was assuming she would be on time. I’d never run an errand to the Chamber that quickly, and I wasn’t counting on punctuality.
The foyer had grown even colder, and when I glanced up to the top of the stairs, I realized something had changed. Before, I could glimpse the ceiling and a little of the walls of the upper floor. Now, the top of the stairs was completely dark, darker than it should be in the middle of a spring afternoon in a building that had plenty of windows. Much darker than it had been just moments ago. And as I watched, the darkness swallowed the top step. I heard the scuff of boots and the thunk of a walking stick.
Jeremiah was coming.
A knock sounded at the door, and I turned for an instant to look in that direction.
In that moment, Jeremiah struck.
The darkness tumbled down the stairs like floodwater, roiling and rolling as if it had weight and substance. Every fiber in my body screamed a warning. As the darkness flowed closer, even without touching it I knew it was unclean, filthy with hatred and the need for vengeance, polluted with cruelty and a casual disregard for light and life.
Bo’s ghostly form appeared in front of me, snarling and snapping like an insane guard dog. But Jeremiah wasn’t afraid of ghost dogs, and his darkness slammed Bo’s spirit out of the way.
Jeremiah was a man who wouldn’t let anything stop him from getting what he wanted, even if that meant bending a demon to his will. The darkness inched toward me, backing me up against the wall, hungry for my warmth, my life. Tendrils of darkness clutched at me, just like the shadows in the Covington warehouse, and I felt the cold take my breath. Bo’s ghostly barking seemed far away. The agate disk struggled to hold back the evil and I could tell its power was fading fast.
Since running was out of the question and there was no good place to hide, I looked around for a weapon, something to fend off the darkness. I saw the shaman’s staff hanging on the wall and dove for it, grabbing it down just as the darkness lifted me off my feet and threw me across the room.
I hit the opposite wall hard enough to knock some framed pictures from their places. I banged my head, striking one of the spots where the falling crates had nicked me the night before, and the world swam.
In the tide of darkness, I could hear Jeremiah’s boots coming down the stairs, closer every minute. I forced myself to climb to my feet, trembling against the unnatural cold, frightened and angry and determined to give him a fight.
I closed my right hand around the shaman’s staff. The wooden staff was wrapped with layers of colored string dyed in shades of plum, dark orange, blue, and green. Feathers, bits of metal, bone, and shell hung from leather ties, and a hunk of agate had been set into the top of the pole and securely wrapped with sinew. The staff felt comfortingly heavy in my hand, and I could feel the tingle of remembered power as my palm closed around the worn ash handle.
Instinctively, I flung the staff out in front of me like Moses parting the Red Sea, a futile, gut-level gesture. And as I leveled the staff at the darkness, memories flooded through me as my gift roared to life. I could feel all the shamans and seers, who had possessed the staff generation after generation, feel their lives and memories wash over me and fill me, and their power roar through me.
I closed my left hand around the agate necklace, and Bo’s ghost appeared again, lunging at the darkness, barking loudly.
Out of my arsenal of new ‘weapons’, Alard’s walking stick spewed fire, and Grandma Sarah’s wooden spoon sent out an opalescent protective field, but the shaman’s staff was different. I didn’t have either the walking stick or the spoon with me, but the staff had power of its own. I felt a force of will, the determination of a people who had faced great hardship and overcome it. I felt the long-ago shaman’s magic, power and defiance, and it gave me strength to hold the staff against the dark onslaught.
I could feel the darkness resisting, fighting the staff, unwilling to yield. Memories continued to pour through me, binding me to the staff. I had no idea how to control the staff’s power or do more than hold the darkness at bay.
The door to the outside slammed open, shaking the glass in the windows. I felt the magic before I caught a glimpse of Lucinda’s face; it was wild like a hurricane and powerful as a storm at sea. Lucinda was chanting in a language I did not understand, but the power behind her words thrummed through my body and resonated with the magic in the staff.
Lucinda swept into the foyer, and out of the corner of my eye, it was as if another image was superimposed over her face, a bent old man w
ith a straw hat who smelled of pipe tobacco. Outside, I could hear the frantic barking of dogs.
Lucinda stretched out her hand toward the stairs, and powerful magic flowed from her, ripping the darkness asunder. The shadows recoiled, disappearing back up the steps until once again I could glimpse the ceiling and hallway wallpaper. Abruptly, the music box fell silent.
I did not move. I was shaking, still holding the shaman’s staff outstretched, trying to remember to breathe. It took a few breaths before I could lower the staff. The images in my mind reverberated with Lucinda’s magic as if her power and its magic were of old acquaintance. I felt its reverence for the spirit I glimpsed of an old man who tipped his hat and vanished. Gratitude threatened to overwhelm me. I did not want to imagine what would have happened if the darkness had taken me.
“Thank you,” I said. My voice was trembling. “How did you know I needed you?”
Lucinda’s laugh was warm and full. “I didn’t know, child. I had an appointment with Mrs. Morrissey. I should have been here twenty minutes ago, but everything seemed to go wrong. That’s when I knew I had to hurry, because it felt as if something was preventing me from coming. And when I came up on the piazza, I could feel the power of that darkness and I knew someone was in trouble. So I just did what I do.”
Now that I had a moment to collect my wits, I realized that Lucinda wore a business suit, instead of the flowing skirt and shawl she had on when she had warded my home. “You’re the professor Mrs.
Morrissey said was coming, the expert on African myth and folklore,” I said, belatedly putting the pieces together.
“The same,” she said with a wide smile. “Dr. Lucinda Walker, College of Charleston Humanities Department, at your service.” She winked at me. “You didn’t think I spent all my time blessing houses in the dead of night, did you?”
I was still so rattled I wasn’t sure what to think. “I’m glad you had an appointment today. I don’t know that I could have held off Jeremiah by myself for very long.”
“Humph. That shadow wasn’t going to get close to you when you were using my grandmother’s staff.”
I looked from Lucinda to the staff that was still clutched, white-knuckled, in my hand. Slowly, I held it out to her, and she took it reverently, then kissed the agate stone and murmured something I did not hear, something that sounded like a blessing or endearment. She carefully replaced the staff on the wall in its holder.
“Your grandmother’s staff?” I echoed.
Lucinda nodded. “I loaned the items for the root worker exhibit, some from my family and some from around. I’m the eighth generation to do root magic in my family. It’s an ancient and proud tradition.”
Knowing Mrs. Morrissey was due back any moment, I gave Lucinda a quick recap of what had happened. She nodded as if such a story was the most natural thing in the world.
“Spirits like Jeremiah Abernathy were bad news when they were alive, and they’re no better after they’re dead,” Lucinda said when I finished. “He could have thrown you for a turn if he had gotten to you. And that Lavinia Fisher was pure evil. You sure don’t want to mess with her.”
“I thought I saw an old man, with a hat. He smelled of pipe smoke.”
Lucinda smiled broadly. “Ah, that’s Papa. Papa Legba, one of the most powerful Loas. I asked him for protection when I knew there was evil inside and someone needing help.”
“Please tell him thank you for me,” I replied. “I’m glad both of you showed up when you did.”
“I’ll bring him some rum and sweet potatoes and tell him they’re from you,” Lucinda promised. “I’ll make an offering tonight, and add a few gifts of my own. I tell you true—I felt better for both you and me when I knew Papa was with us.” Together, we hung the pictures back on the wall that had fallen when Jeremiah’s spirit attacked.
“I see you’ve met.” Mrs. Morrissey’s voice startled me. She had come in the open door behind us, and looked a little flushed from the heat outside. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“I just got here,” Lucinda said. “And Cassidy and I were just making introductions.”
Mrs. Morrissey looked at me. “Thank you for watching the office while I was gone. Did you need to go back up to the stacks today?”
I managed to repress a shiver. “I think I’d better get back to the shop,” I said. “Thank you for your help.” I paused. “With all the old items in the Archive’s collection, have you ever seen ghosts here?”
Mrs. Morrissey nodded. “Hard to find an old home in Charleston that isn’t haunted,” she replied. “But I’ve never felt frightened, at least, not until we created the Rogues exhibit.” She managed a wan smile, but I could see that something had rattled her. “To tell you the truth, it gives me the creeps. I’ll be glad when those pieces go back into storage.”
MY HEAD WAS still spinning as I headed back to Trifles and Folly. A water main break was tying up traffic, so fewer tourists than usual milled around the streets window-shopping. Even so, several people were browsing in the shop when I returned, and so I headed behind the counter to answer questions and help them find what they were looking for. Conversation with Teag would have to wait.
The shoppers made their purchases and left the store. Teag shot me a victorious grin.
“That was a five-hundred dollar sale.”
I gave him a tired smile in return and sat down at the stool behind the counter. “I made a three hundred dollar sale – and was menaced by the ghost of Jeremiah Abernathy.”
Teag’s grin faded. “At the Archive? Damn. Are you okay?” I nodded tiredly. “I am now – thanks to Lucinda.”
“What was Lucinda doing at the Archive?”
Teag listened intently as I recapped what had happened. I filled him in what on I had learned in the stacks before the ghostly attack, and finished off with a detailed description of the incident in the foyer – complete with Lucinda’s dramatic entrance and scholarly alter-ego.
“I’m beginning to think it’s not safe for you to go anywhere alone until we get this straightened out, Cassidy,” Teag said, worry clear in his voice.
I sighed, fearing he was right. “That goes for you, too,” I reminded him.
“Something happened today that gave me an idea,” I went on. “We’ve usually encountered my gift with items that have strong negative energy. Maybe because those tend to be the problem items. But when I grabbed the shaman’s staff that belonged to Lucinda, its power connected with my gift. It helped keep Jeremiah at bay. Like the walking stick that Sorren lent me.
“I think it would be a good idea to start a new collection of weapons,” I said, leaning back against the wall and closing my eyes. “Maybe get some kind of paranormal spook bazooka or something. It would be nice not to feel as if I’ve been wrung dry.”
“Hold on a moment.” I heard Teag leave the front of the shop, and return a moment later. He pressed a cup of coffee into my hands. “Drink up. I made it just the way you like it. You look like you’ve been through the mill.”
“I feel like it,” I agreed, and sipped the coffee. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Teag replied with a grin. “I’ve been waiting to tell you about what I found out while you were gone. Of course, your story is more exciting.”
“Lucky me. Have you heard anything from Sorren?”
Teag went to retrieve a piece of paper from the office, and gave it to me. “I found this on your desk this morning,” he replied. The paper was written in long-hand, in a style of penmanship all but forgotten in today’s text message society. Bold, swift strokes filled the small note in a decidedly masculine style.
Feeling better. Stepped out for a bite. See you soon.
“His idea of a sense of humor?” Teag asked.
I chuckled tiredly. “Appropriately macabre, don’t you think? But it means he’s up and around, and if he feeds well he should be good as new in time for our next outing.”
“Outing,” Teag echoed. “You know, that word sounds
a lot more fun than what happened at the warehouse. An ‘outing’ should involve a picnic lunch and a sunny day at the park, not killer shadows and falling crates.”
I chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Another sip of coffee fortified me. “So tell me the rest of your news.”
Teag leaned back against the counter. “I called Alistair over at the museum,” he said. “On a hunch that the salvage guys who disappeared might have had some pieces on exhibit over there.” He grinned. “And it turns out, they did.”
I sipped my coffee as he warmed to the tale. “Alistair only knew the main man, the salvage team’s owner and research director, Russ Landrieu. Tulane graduate, worked on the expeditions to find the Titanic and the Hunley,” he added. “Pretty well-respected guy, knew all the big players in the sunken treasure business. A couple of the team’s adventures made it onto the History Channel.”
“Did Alistair have any scoop for you?” Alistair McKinnon, Curator of the Lowcountry Museum of Charleston, was as well connected as Mrs. Morrissey, both to Charleston’s donors and to the pulse of what was going on the city. Trifles and Folly often loaned pieces to the museum for use in period displays or tableaus.
Teag nodded. “Back when the Hunley was found, everyone was fascinated with shipwreck explorers.” I remembered. The H.L. Hunley was a Confederate submarine that had been missing for more than a hundred years before it was finally re-discovered and painstakingly salvaged. It had been the talk of Charleston for months, and made national headlines.
“Alistair wanted to round out their shipwreck exhibit with some lesser-known finds, and he contacted Landrieu. Landrieu and his team were happy to provide artifacts, photos, video – even some personal effects like jackets and diving gear.”
“You’re not going to suggest that we go over to the museum, are you?” I asked testily. I had always considered the Historical Archive safe – before today – because it was mostly books and clippings. The museum, on the other hand, had artifacts. Artifacts tended to trigger my gift, with embarrassing consequences. Teag and I had attended an exhibit at the museum a few years back on antique china settings and silver items, which had seemed like a safe excursion. We took a wrong turn, and I ended up in the ‘Plagues and Pestilence’ exhibit on all of Charleston’s many epidemics. The impressions and resonance overwhelmed me, and I passed out cold. I hadn’t been back since.
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