The Prophet (22 page)

“You lied to the police. Some might say that’s going above and beyond the call of friendship.”

A frown flitted between his brows. “It was a bad time for all of us. We needed to stick together. John wasn’t the only one suffering, you know.”

“I’m sorry. I’d forgotten that Shani was your godchild. You must have been devastated when you heard about the accident.”

“To say the least.”

“And Mariama lived with you and Dr. Shaw when she first came to Charleston. The two of you must have been close, as well.”

He turned to stare out the window. “Mariama was a very special woman.”

“Anyone who crossed her path fell in love with her,” I murmured.

He turned with a jerk. “What?”

“I heard someone say that about her once.”

“John?” His eyes flared. “That doesn’t sound like something he’d say. Toward the end, I think he’d almost grown to hate her.”

“Hate is a very strong word,” I said.

“Mariama elicited strong emotions. The one thing she couldn’t abide was indifference.”

“That day at Oak Grove you told me that John left town after the accident. He took a leave of absence from his job and just disappeared.”

“Rumor had it he checked himself into a private sanitarium somewhere in the country, but who knows if there was any truth to it? I’ve never asked him about it. All I know is that he came back a changed man. I can’t imagine what he must have gone through, but I’ve always believed he was dealing with more than grief. If I didn’t know better…” He trailed away, his gaze still riveted on the traffic outside the window.

“What?”

He seemed to shake himself. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago and digging up all those old memories is painful for everyone involved.”

“As I said, I’m just trying to understand him.”

“There is no understanding John Devlin. I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out by now.” His voice sounded strained as he put his hand on mine, peering intently into my eyes. His skin was very cold and it was all I could do not to draw away with a shudder.

* * *

The conversation shifted when Temple arrived, which was a good thing. My questions had put Ethan in a funk. Even Temple’s recounting of Ona Pearl Handy’s attempt to thwart the cemetery relocation brought only a halfhearted smile from him. Finally, she gave up and ordered another glass of wine.

“What is going on with you two?” she demanded as our salads arrived. “Seriously, I’ve had more fun at a funeral.”

“I’m just tired,” I said. “It was harder going back to Oak Grove than I thought it would be.”

“I knew it. You’ve been sitting there brooding this whole time, haven’t you?”

“I’ll get used to it.”

“I hope you didn’t let Father coerce you into going back,” Ethan said. “He can be as stubborn as a mule when he gets something in his head.”

“All he did was ask. The decision was mine.”

“Speaking of Rupert,” Temple said.

I shot her a warning look, but she ignored me. “How is he these days?”

“Amelia and I were just talking about him earlier,” Ethan said. “Apparently, he had some sort of episode during her visit yesterday.”

“You don’t say? Any idea what it could be?”

“None,” Ethan said. “But he is getting on in years. I suppose I should make more of an effort to check up on him these days.”

Thankfully, the discussion moved on to other topics, and I found myself tuning in and out all through the meal. I was still preoccupied with everything Fremont and I had talked about. His revelation about Dr. Shaw, not to mention his premonition about Isabel, had thrown me for a loop. I was anxious for the evening to end so that I could go home and mull over these new developments.

Everyone must have felt the same way because we didn’t linger over coffee. Temple and I said goodbye to Ethan at the restaurant and then walked back to our cars together. The night had grown chilly, and I was glad for my jacket. I pulled it around me as the breeze off the river swept back my hair.

“Brrr,” Temple said. “Winter’s just around the corner.”

“I don’t want to think about that. Cold weather depresses me.”

“Speaking of depressing, what was up with Ethan? He seemed positively morose and he’s usually so upbeat.”

“I’m afraid that’s my fault. We were talking about Mariama and Shani before you arrived.”

“That is a depressing subject,” she said. “Ethan was very close to them.”

I nodded. “I’m glad you didn’t mention your theory about Dr. Shaw’s dizzy spells.”

“I’m not quite that callous,” she said. “But I stand by what I said. I’ve known Rupert for a long time, and from the way you described his behavior, I’m willing to bet he thinks he’s been hexed.”

“Did you know his wife?”

“Sylvia? I never met her, but it was common knowledge around school that she was terribly ill and had been for years.”

“Her death wasn’t unexpected, then.”

“Not unexpected, but it was still devastating. Especially for poor Ethan. He took it very hard.”

“This was before Mariama came to live with them, right?”

“I would think so.”

“Do you remember that dinner last spring when Ethan first told us about Mariama? He had this faraway look in his eyes and his voice softened every time he mentioned her name. I’ve always wondered if he had feelings for her. Other than friendship, I mean.”

“They lived under the same roof for a time, so I wouldn’t be surprised,” Temple said. “How could he not?”

“Even after she and Devlin married?”

Temple shrugged. “You can’t turn your emotions on and off like a faucet. I know Ethan pretty well, though. He would never have acted on his feelings. Of course, he wasn’t Mariama’s type, anyway. I don’t think he could have handled a woman like her.”

“I seem to recall you saying almost the same thing about me. You thought Devlin was out of my league.”

She gave me a sidelong scrutiny. “Maybe I was wrong. I don’t know what it is exactly, but you seem different. Like you’ve been through something and it’s changed you. If Mariama was still alive, I think you just might be able to give her a run for her money. But I guess that’s something we’ll never know, will we?”

The notion of tangling with Mariama, dead or alive, made me shiver.

We parted at the corner of East Bay and Queen, and alone, I picked up the pace. I walked with my head bowed, hands in my pockets, and maybe I was just a little too preoccupied because the man was almost upon me before I noticed him. There were other people about, so I wasn’t overly concerned even when I saw that he was staring at me. It was only when I recognized him as the lurker from the cemetery that my internal alarm went off. I was certain he and the man I’d spotted on King Street were one and the same. He was obviously following me.

My hand closed around the mace in my pocket as he approached. He was smiling, but I didn’t get the sleazy vibe I’d picked up on that morning. Now there was something very cold and calculating about that smile. About his eyes.

“Good evening,” he said.

I nodded, still hoping he’d pass on by. Out of the corner of my eye, I searched for other pedestrians. It seemed as though the streets had cleared all of a sudden. Where was the couple that had been strolling along in front of me? The family that had been behind me since Queen Street?

By this time, I had the top off the mace and my finger positioned on the nozzle. The man was still a few feet away, but as I surreptitiously scouted my surroundings, I spotted another silhouette lounging in the shadowy doorway of a building. He was tall and thin and I could feel the power of his gaze in the darkness.

He lifted his hand to his mouth and blew something into the night. Mesmerized, I watched the shimmering particles hang in the air for a moment until the breeze swept them toward me.

From high in the treetop, a nightingale started to sing. Strangely, it was that lyrical trill that frightened me more than anything. Because it couldn’t be real. Was I dreaming?

I tried to remove the mace from my pocket, but my arms and legs felt boneless. I couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out for help. I could do nothing but stand there helplessly as the nightingale serenaded me and those tiny blue stars rained down upon me.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I
awakened to the murmur of voices.

Awakened was perhaps the wrong word. I was conscious, but I seemed to be floating in some sort of dream state. Everything appeared very hazy and surreal, but that might have been due to the bad lighting, I decided as I gazed up at the bare lightbulb swaying above me.

I was seated in a parlor that was totally unfamiliar, and yet, I knew exactly where I was—in the blue Victorian on America Street. The room was furnished with shabby antiques and faded rugs, and the only illumination seemed to be from that low wattage bulb overhead and dozens of candles. The flickering flames cast giant shadows on the water-stained wallpaper, and I felt almost hypnotized by the movement. It was only with some effort that I shook off the lethargy and continued my survey.

A large archway led into the foyer, and I could see the front door just beyond. It stood open to the night, and an endless stream of people drifted in and out.

On the other side of the room, another opening led into the dining room. A man with dreadlocks was seated at the table eating something from an earthenware bowl. Layla stood over his shoulder sipping a glass of red wine. Only, she didn’t look so much like Layla anymore. Gone was the tailored, sophisticated attire of Dr. Shaw’s assistant, and in its place, she’d donned a purple caftan with intricate embroidery at the neck and around the hem. She was barefoot, and her hair was unbound, spilling over her shoulders in a cascade of tight, wiry curls. She and the man were laughing, and even though I willed their gazes, neither of them paid me the slightest attention.

The man from King Street sauntered into the room then, followed a moment later by Tom Gerrity who seemed to be on some urgent business. A metal box was tucked underneath one arm, and his eyes, even in the candlelight, looked overly bright. Both men disappeared into the dining room, and I didn’t see them again.

More people strolled in while others left, not one glancing in my direction. I observed the endless parade for several minutes before it came to me that I could get up and drift out with them. I wasn’t bound in any way and no one had even noticed me. I could just float on out the front door and be on my merry way.

When I tried to move, though, I experienced a curious boneless effect, and I realized that I was very much a prisoner even though no ropes or shackles constrained me. Why this didn’t cause me great panic, I had no idea. I seemed to be disturbingly accepting of the situation.

I turned my gaze back to the candles, watching the flickering light for the longest time. I could smell eucalyptus and camphor and a tinge of something that might have been sulfur. I didn’t find the scent unpleasant, nor did it distress me.

After a time, a hush fell over the room. All eyes turned toward the foyer where a newcomer had just come through the door. He stopped to chat with a woman in tight-fitting jeans, and as his voice drifted in through the arch, I felt a shudder go through me. The sound was deep and melodic. Utterly captivating.

A moment later, he strode into the parlor, and I was taken aback by his appearance. He was very tall, six feet five, at least, with skin the color of polished mahogany. Despite the cooler weather, he wore linen slacks and that same loose shirt I’d seen before, but now I noticed the silver embellishment. The neck was open, and a medallion gleamed at his throat. I thought him unnaturally handsome. Godlike, I would almost say.

He spoke to a few more people, and then the room seemed to clear as he came over and drew up a chair facing me. He sat leaning forward, elbows on knees, chin on folded hands, as he peered directly into my eyes. The effect was oddly calming.

“You’re the one they call The Graveyard Queen.” His voice reminded me of the nightingale song, lyrical and infinitely mysterious.

I nodded.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Darius Goodwine.”

“So you’ve heard of me.”

“You came to visit me last night.”

He merely smiled.

I glanced around the candlelit room. “Why am I here?”

“I thought it time we had a proper introduction.”

“Why?”

“I understand you have an interest in something I possess.” He sat back in the chair, seemingly relaxed, but his gaze was very intense. His eyes were an odd shade of gold, I noticed. Almost like glowing topazes. The color was very striking against his dark skin.

He glanced away as someone moved through the room, and for the first time, I noticed a deep scar beneath the jaw line where a crude blade had just missed his jugular. How I knew this, I had no idea. There was another scar on the back of his right hand, and I searched for more wounds because those marks made him seem a little less godlike to me.

“What do you know about gray dust?” he asked me.

“It stops the heart and people die.”

His smile turned numinous, like that of a witch. “It does more than that,” he said softly.

“It allows you to enter the spirit world without the crutch of hallucinations.”

“Aw.” The topazes glittered. “Dr. Shaw has informed you well. Now I need to know who else you’ve talked to about this.”

“No one else. Only Robert Fremont.”

His brows soared. “The dead cop?”

“Yes.” I had no idea why I mentioned Fremont’s name. That wasn’t at all like me. I never talked about the ghosts. But I seemed incapable of subterfuge at that moment, and I had to admit, I took a certain amount of satisfaction in the surprise that flashed in those golden eyes.

“Do you mean you go out to the cemetery and talk to his corpse?”

“No. I talk to his ghost.”

“You can cross over?”

“I don’t have to. He’s here. In the living world.”

I could have sworn I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes before he leaned forward once again, trapping me with his gaze. “What does he want?”

“He wants to know who killed him. He means to have justice before he moves on and I’m going to help him get it.”