The Awakening

On the surface, his words seemed hopeful, but for me, they dropped like anvils and I felt a keen sense of loss for something that had yet to go missing. “I’m not sure that interpretation makes me feel a good deal better.”

“Letting go is a very hard thing,” he said. “Grief and guilt, even loneliness, can become a comfort. A touchstone. The road behind us, littered as it is with mistakes and heartache, can often be more appealing than the open road in front of us.”

“I hear what you’re saying and I don’t disagree, but in this case, I can’t help thinking the omen may have a more straightforward implication. I’ve been having strange dreams. Premonitions. The corpse bird can be interpreted literally, can’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, still toying with the letter opener. “A dead bird can most definitely be the harbinger of a physical death.”

Five (#ub0e52320-9b52-50ae-8f54-f926e647d306)

I shook off the lingering effects of that unsettling conversation and rewarded myself with another long afternoon of research. Seated in my office with my back to the windows, I switched my focus from “The Loneliest Graves” to the business of restoring Woodbine Cemetery. I’d located a map in the local archives and had already begun a preliminary perusal of the records through the online databases of the main library and the county clerk’s office. But the unnamed graves would require a more thorough digging.

As I worked, I was drawn back time and again to that stone crib hidden in the willow trees. I had the child’s birth and death dates, so I felt certain I could eventually uncover her identity. But after a few hours at the computer, I remained stymied. Either the databases weren’t up to date or her birth and death had been recorded in another county. Or—a more troubling prospect—the official records had been purged. That seemed a drastic action but one that might corroborate Prosper Lamb’s assertion about the well-to-do and their buried secrets.

I kept at it until early evening, when a phone call from Temple Lee drew me back out of the house for dinner. I’d once worked for Temple at the State Archeologist’s Office in Columbia and we’d remained close after my relocation to Charleston to start my own business. I didn’t often go out on weeknights, but a diversion was just what I needed, and Temple was always an entertaining dinner companion.

By the time I left the house, the rain had finally stopped, and the dripping city basked in a golden glow as the sun sank below the church spires. I decided to walk over to Meeting Street, taking time for a brief stroll through one of the city’s churchyards before arriving at Rapture, a restaurant housed in a beautiful old building that had once been a rectory. I had learned on a previous visit that the place had been built on hallowed ground. No ghost could touch me inside and I was more than happy to leave the dead world behind me if only for the space of a meal.

But all through dinner, my mind kept straying back to that nameless grave and to the ghost child that had hovered nearby. I couldn’t help wondering if she had manifested near the crib for a reason. She and the infant had a connection—to each other and possibly to me—that I had yet to discern. No matter how badly I wished to escape another netherworld puzzle, I could already feel the chill of her pull.

Thankfully, Temple seemed equally distracted and paid no attention to my pensive mood. The restaurant was crowded for a Wednesday night and even as she regaled me with a tale from a current excavation, her gaze darted now and then to the entrance and she seemed uncharacteristically fidgety. Lately, I seemed to have that effect on people.

Finally I put down my fork as I followed her gaze. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No, why?” she asked innocently, tucking back her hair. She was dressed in teal silk tonight, a lovely bold shade that complemented her coloring. Gold earrings dangled from her lobes and it seemed to me that she’d taken extra care with her makeup. She always looked fabulous but I didn’t think her fine-tuning was for my benefit.

“You keep watching the door,” I said.

She smiled and shrugged. “Just checking out the scenery. No harm in that, is there?”

“No, but I’m not sure I believe you. You have the look of someone who’s up to something. Or hiding something.” I was only half joking. Canting my head, I pretended to study her. “What’s going on with you? The way you keep watching that door makes me wonder if you had an ulterior motive for your last-minute dinner invitation. And why, out of all the restaurants in Charleston, you asked me to meet you at this one.”

“I didn’t feel like eating alone and as to the restaurant...lovely atmosphere, impeccable service and—” she motioned to her plate “—the best shrimp and grits in the city. Not to mention the lavender ice cream. Why wouldn’t I choose Rapture?”

“I can think of one reason,” I murmured uneasily, picking at my mushroom crepe. The rustic restaurant truly was beautiful. Candles flickered from wall sconces. Soft music played in the background. Our table looked out into the garden, where glowing lanterns seemed to float down from the tree branches. Without any hovering ghosts, the setting was dreamy and peaceful, but I couldn’t stop thinking dark thoughts.

“Do you remember the last time we came here together?” I asked with a shiver. “You invited Ethan Shaw to join us. He’s been on my mind today.”

Temple grimaced. “Such a charming, elegant man, or so he seemed. Who would have ever guessed he had that kind of darkness inside him? I knew him for years. We worked together on a number of excavations and I never had an inkling.”

“No one did. That’s what made him so dangerous. And tragic.”

She gave me a strange look. “John Devlin was here that night, too, remember? You’d only just met, but I could tell you were already falling for him. And I knew he would be trouble. I warned you about getting involved with someone like him.”

“Someone out of my league.”

“Someone with his past,” she corrected. She searched my face in the candlelight. “Given how things turned out, do you ever wish you’d taken my advice?”

“That’s a complicated question.” And one I’d pondered often on sleepless nights when the house seemed too quiet and my bed too empty.

“Well?” Temple prompted as she regarded me across the table.

I drew a long breath and released it. “No, I’m not sorry. Not at all. Despite everything, I wouldn’t trade a moment of my time with Devlin.”

“Spoken like a hopeless romantic.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It can be.” She picked up her wineglass but didn’t drink. Instead she stared into the dregs as if trying to divine an acceptable explanation. “You’ve created a fairy tale around that man. A romantic fantasy with which no ordinary mortal can compete. That’s why you can’t move on. This fascination you have for him has never been good for you, Amelia. I hope you can see that now.”

Her words stung more than they should have, perhaps because they hit a little too close to home. “I did try to move on, and look where it got me.”

She winced. “The police detective, you mean. The one down in Beaufort County. Yes, that was unfortunate.”

Unfortunate? The man had tried to kill me. “Devlin’s engaged now. I’ve accepted that.”

“Have you?” A smile flitted. “You sound convincing, but I’ve known you for a long time and you’ve always been adept at putting on a good face.” She paused as if contemplating whether or not to push on, but Temple had never been one to hold back. “Have you seen him since you’ve been back in Charleston?”

“Only in passing.” I continued to pick absently at my food as I pictured him on that third-story balcony. Memories stirred yet again but I batted them away.

“He hasn’t tried to contact you?”

“No.” At least not in the way she meant.

“Doesn’t his silence tell you something? You just came through a harrowing ordeal. You were nearly murdered by a madman and he can’t be bothered to call and see if you’re all right? Does he even know what happened to you?”

I shrugged off the question, murmuring something purposefully vague, but I knew Devlin was fully cognizant of the dangers I’d encountered during my last restoration. He had even whispered in my ear to warn me. I couldn’t explain the how or the why of it to Temple because she would ridicule the concept of an astral traveler—someone who could separate the spiritual self from the corporal body.

My belief about Devlin’s astral wanderings stemmed from something Dr. Shaw had told me during my Seven Gates ordeal: I knew a young man once, a traveler who claimed to have looked into a hellish abyss. He was so shaken by the sight that he tried for years to convince himself what he experienced was nothing more than a nightmare. I don’t think he ever traveled again—at least not consciously. He had a fear of being trapped in such a place.

It was possible Devlin wasn’t even aware of his ability, but it would explain so much about his younger days at the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies and his subsequent rejection of all things paranormal. It would explain so much about him.

I rubbed a hand up and down my chilled arm. “This conversation has taken a bad turn.”

“Yes, we’ve grown morose,” Temple agreed. “Let’s talk about something else, something pleasant. Tell me about this new project of yours. You said the cemetery is local, correct?”

I nodded and started to relax as our wineglasses were replenished and we drifted into more comfortable conversation territory. “It’s located at the end of a narrow street off Algonquin Road, practically in the shadow of Magnolia Cemetery. But Woodbine is much smaller, only a few acres. And unlike the other cemeteries in the area, it’s been badly neglected for decades. The fence is so overgrown with honeysuckle vines, you’d never know a cemetery lies behind it if not for the taller monuments.”

“But didn’t you mention something about a caretaker?” Temple asked as she shot another glance toward the entrance.

“That’s what I was told, but now that I’ve met him, I think that job description was greatly exaggerated. By his own admission, he doesn’t touch the graves. He’s more of a watchman. According to him, he’s there to chase away the riffraff.”

“Which may not be a bad thing if the cemetery is as isolated as you say,” she pointed out.

“True. But I don’t know that Prosper Lamb’s presence makes me feel a good deal safer.”

“Prosper Lamb. What an interesting name.”

“He’s an interesting man and he does seem to know quite a lot about the cemetery. He told me that Woodbine was once used by the well-to-do to bury their secrets. Their mistresses and bastards, people they kept on the fringes of their lives.”