The Awakening

“Well, that’s a rather sleazy concept, isn’t it?” Temple’s eyes gleamed and I could tell that I’d hooked her in a way that I hadn’t been able to engage Dr. Shaw. She was itching to know more, but we both fell silent as the waiter approached and the table was cleared. We ordered after-dinner drinks—a cordial for her and a cup of tea for me. Once we were alone again, she leaned in. “Go on. I want to hear more about these buried secrets. You know how I relish the salacious.”

“At least you admit it.” I cast a quick glance around, more out of habit than any real fear of being overheard. “Mr. Lamb said that’s the reason Woodbine has so many unnamed graves. The wealthy benefactors bought the finest monuments to commemorate the passing of their loved ones, but they wouldn’t allow their names to be inscribed in the stones. Whether any of it is true or not...who knows?” I looked up with a smile as a cup of tea was placed before me.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Temple said, cradling her glass. “Image and reputation were once everything to the blue bloods in this city. People would do anything, including commit murder, to protect their status. To be honest, I’m not sure times have changed that much.”

Dr. Shaw had said much the same thing, but I didn’t want to get into the Congé can of worms with Temple. I had no idea how to go about explaining the organization to a nonbeliever.

“I’m inclined to agree, especially since I can’t seem to locate some of the records. If I were the suspicious type, I might think someone had purposely removed them.” I sipped the tea absently as my thoughts drifted back to the cemetery. “I ran across one of the unnamed graves the other day, that of a little girl who died at the age of two. I haven’t been able to find out who she was.”

“Hers are the missing records?”

I nodded. “I may be jumping to conclusions. It’s possible her birth and death were recorded in another county. But, Temple...” I paused on an inexplicable shiver. “Something about her burial won’t let me go. I know it sounds strange, but finding her grave has had a powerful effect on me.”

“In what way?”

“I can’t explain it, really. Maybe it’s because she died so young or because her memorial is shaped like an old-fashioned baby crib. There’s even an embedded portrait of her beneath the hood. The whole presentation haunts me.”

“How very sad it sounds. But you know why it haunts you, don’t you? It’s our inherent fear of children.”

“What?”

“It’s true. We all have it. We fear their vulnerability because it forces us to face the prospect of our own mortality. If a child can die, what’s to bind the rest of us to this mortal coil?”

“That may be profound and a bit muddled all at the same time,” I said. “I do agree that every tiny grave is affecting. This one, though—” I broke off, still trying to analyze my reaction. “It almost seems as if I have a personal connection to her. I don’t see how. She died long before I was born.” Although in my family, the impossible was never out of the question, and I labored under no delusion that all our secrets had been uncovered.

“And there’s nothing else on the stone to identify her?”

“Just her birth and death dates and an inscription that reads Shush... Lest She Awaken.”

“You’ve given me goose bumps.” Temple held out her arm so that I could see her pebbled flesh in the candlelight.

“I know. The phrasing is unsettling,” I agreed. “But sleep and rest references are common on graves, especially those of children. I mean, think about where the word cemetery comes from. Literally, dormitory or sleeping place in Greek.”

“That doesn’t make the epitaph any less creepy.”

“No, but it helps to put it in context. Remember, rural cemeteries were originally designed as parks where families could congregate with their children. In that context, sleep imagery was considered more appropriate for young eyes. I’ve been researching infant burials in general and...” My words faded as I realized I’d already lost her attention.

Her focus had once again shifted to the entrance and something about her expression, a subtle flicker of emotion, made me turn to see who had come in. A man stood just inside the doorway, his imperious gaze sweeping the dining room. He seemed to vector in on our table and something unpleasant crawled up my spine as our gazes briefly locked.

Until recently, I had never considered myself clairvoyant or psychic or even particularly intuitive, but the evolution of my gift had introduced me to any number of new sensations and abilities. For that reason, I didn’t discount the uncanny premonition that suddenly gripped me. My heart thudded as I stared back at the stranger. His features seemed to eerily morph into the beady eyes and gaping beak of the corpse bird Prosper Lamb had plucked from the stone crib. I even detected an iridescent gleam in his dark hair. It was a very disconcerting vision and I quickly blinked to dispel the image.

The man’s face settled back into its normal appearance, but my nerves bristled with unease. He looked familiar and I wondered where I might have met him. He was tallish and trim and I judged his age to be mid to late fifties. I could see a sprinkling of silver throughout his dark hair, and his face was a healthy golden shade that no tanning bed or spray could replicate. I couldn’t place him, but I recognized the cut and drape of a well-tailored suit and the carriage of a man who had unquestionably been raised in the lap of luxury.

He gave a surprised, pleased nod when his attention moved across the table to Temple and she looked suitably taken aback by his arrival even though I suspected he was the reason we had come to this restaurant in the first place.

“Who is that?” I asked, thrown off guard by the man’s disquieting presence and by my bizarre reaction to him.

Temple glanced at me in surprise. “You don’t recognize him? That’s Rance Duvall.”

His back was to me now as he turned to greet someone beyond my view. Released from his gaze, my pulse steadied, but I still felt quite shaken. “Rance Duvall,” I mused. “Why do I know that name?”

“In Charleston, you would be hard-pressed not to know his name.” Temple lowered her voice. “He’s one of the Duvalls. As in Duvall Island. His family has been around for generations.” She waited for me to make the connection and when I appeared suitably impressed, she continued. “He’s also active in local politics, especially on issues regarding zoning and historic preservation. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your paths had crossed at some point.”

I watched as others joined him and the party was guided into a private dining room. “He does look familiar, but I can’t remember when or where we may have met. How do you know him?”

“One of the burial mounds we’re excavating is located on Duvall Island. He’s given us unlimited access and even arranged for the use of some very expensive equipment. Considering all the resistance and red tape that we’re usually up against, his cooperation has been refreshing, to say the least.”

Somehow I didn’t think professional collaboration or cooperation was the extent of Temple’s appreciation for Rance Duvall. I felt the need to warn her about what I’d seen in his visage. But what had I seen—or sensed? “Did you know he would be here tonight? Is that why you chose this restaurant?”

She smiled. “Happy coincidence.”

“Sure it is. And your fixation on the entrance was just my imagination.”

“It was.” But she didn’t try very hard to convince me. If anything, her smile turned self-satisfied as she picked up her napkin and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “As long as we’re both here, you don’t mind if I go say a quick hello, do you?”

I did mind but I could give her no good reason for my objection. “Would it do any good if I said yes?”

She scooted back her chair and stood. “None whatever.”

“That’s what I thought. Temple—” Her name came out harsher than I’d meant it.

She lifted a querying brow. “What?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Be careful.”

She gave me an odd look before turning away from the table.

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

I used Temple’s absence for a trip to the ladies’ room, where I applied a layer of lip gloss and tightened my ponytail. I examined my reflection as I washed my hands and dried them on a paper towel. Like Dr. Shaw, I had dark circles under my eyes from stress and lack of sleep. A ghost visit always took a toll and I didn’t think I’d seen the last of this one. A part of me did wish she would fade away without further contact, but my curiosity had been roused despite my dread.

Leaning in, I stared at those dark circles as if I could somehow wish them away. And then I focused even more intently until the tiny motes at the bottoms of my pupils took on the look of keyholes. How many times had I wished for the ability to see into those openings, to peer so deeply into my psyche and soul that I could somehow divine my destiny?

The prospect of knowing the road ahead was at once intriguing and terrifying, I backed away from the mirror, turning my attention once again to the smudges beneath my eyes. Poor Dr. Shaw. I’d tried not to dwell on our conversation, but his mannerisms and vague musings about wrong turns had left me disquieted. And then how strange to already have Ethan Shaw on my mind when Temple had called to invite me to the very restaurant where the three of us had spent our first evening together.

The universe was aligning in strange and disturbing ways, and somehow at the center of it all was Woodbine Cemetery. Ever since I’d been awarded the project, there’d been so many references to my past.

I was still brooding about all those niggling moments as I left the ladies’ room, but none was quite as unnerving as the sight of John Devlin standing in the alcove blocking my path just as he had done once before, in this very space, in this very restaurant. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and managed to look surprised, but my suspension of disbelief only extended so far. He must have seen me leave the table and followed me into the alcove to wait for me. Why, I couldn’t imagine, but a happenstance meeting this was not.

I faltered, but only for a moment. Then I mentally braced myself as I moved forward, already feeling the heady pull of his orbit. His eyes were just as dark and perhaps even more mesmerizing than I remembered. He was tall, lean and still otherworldly handsome though his looks had changed. The five-o’clock shadow had become a perpetual feature, it seemed, as had the longer hair and his more casual attire.

My throat tightened as I approached and I hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself, either by being tongue-tied or blurting something far too revealing.

As it happened, Devlin was the first to speak. “Amelia,” he drawled. “Just like old times.”

He spoke softly, intimately, and yet I had no trouble at all hearing him over the din of the restaurant. His voice drew a quiver and I closed my eyes briefly, steeling myself against his unfair ambush.

“Hello” was all I could manage, along with a brief smile. I clung to my poise, but it was a feat hardly worth celebrating because I should have been over John Devlin a long time ago. I should have been dining with a new lover rather than an old friend, and I set my chin with an accusing jut, as if the blame for my bleak love life rested solely on Devlin’s shoulders.