Afterlight Page 3

  I met those ancient brown eyes with a stare of complete confidence, scrutiny, and an air of arrogance, and we continued our stare-off in silence until Estelle bustled into the nook.

  “Ah, you two fools, stop wit da starin’ dis mornin’!” she said, laughing. “Don’ you ever git tired of playin’ dat game? Sit down, girl, before I take a switch to dat skinny backside. I already ate, so dig in.”

  A small twitch in Preacher’s lip made me laugh, and the game was over. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, and did as I was told. Estelle set a platter of thick fried bacon and biscuits on the table between me and Preacher, along with a bottle of cane syrup. A pot of tea sat steaming and ready.

  Preacher grinned, a large white smile similar to his wife’s. He stared at me a bit longer, then nodded at my plate. “Eat up so I don’ have to listen to your stomach cry,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Don’t have to ask me twice,” I said, and dug in. We ate in silence for a few minutes, and after two biscuits drenched in cane syrup, and three slices of bacon, I pushed my plate aside and, dumping in a couple of spoonfuls of brown sugar and a splash of cream, started on my first cup of tea. The whole while, Preacher seemed to watch me with more depth than usual. Maybe that was guilt speaking for not telling him immediately about da hell stone. I brushed it off the best I could and sipped my tea. The pungent mix of odd and mysterious Gullah herbs at first stung my throat, as always, and then an irresistible smoothness settled in and warmed my insides. I glanced at Preacher over the rim of my cup, and he sipped his own brew—straight black.

  “You send dat brodder of yours over dis afternoon,” he said, his voice deep and silky. “He can paper da walls upstairs for me, and I’ll pay him. Can’t give dem wudus idle eyes, and dat old paper up dere is fallin’ down in places.” He sighed and rubbed his neck. “I been meanin’ to replace it, but I’m gettin’ old, girl. Joints are achin’.”

  I leaned back in the chair with my tea and frowned. Wudus was Gullah for evil spirits, something Preacher believed in wholeheartedly. I can’t say that I totally bought it, but I wasn’t completely opposed to the idea. I scrutinized him for several seconds. “My ass you’re getting old. You look exactly like you did the first time I met you.” I wiggled my brows. “You’re hot, Preacher man. Seriously.”

  Estelle’s high-pitched cackle rattled the pots hanging from the rafters. “Ha! Oh, girl, for shame!”

  “You are a crazy painted white girl,” Preacher said, his eyes smiling. “I love ya like you was my own child, you know dat? Seth, too.” He watched me closely, and I felt clear to my bones that he suspected something was up. Even if you didn’t believe in Gullah ways, there was no getting around the power Preacher radiated. It was what saved me as a punk kid, dragged me from a total path of self-destruction.

  That was what the Gullah called me, because of my inked skin: painted. I’d always loved it, and thought it fit me to a T. I drained my teacup, got up, and walked over to Preacher, who in fact did look a little tired today, and to be honest, that fact bothered the hell out of me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. “Yeah, I know, and we love you, too.” I kissed his cheek, his unique, familiar scent of homemade soap and Old Spice wafting to my nostrils. “I don’t know what we’d do without you and Estelle.” I met his gaze. “You guys saved my life. Mine and Seth’s.” They knew it, too, and it wasn’t the first time I’d told them. For some reason, the need to assure them that I still felt that way overtook me, and they allowed it.

  Preacher sat silently, as was his way, and we stared at each other for what seemed like a long, long time. He and Estelle and their extended community were the only family Seth and I had. Our father? I remember only vague glimpses of him, and I’m as glad as hell. He left us right after I’d turned ten, and Seth was a baby. I remember Mom crying for hours on end, days on end, and I’d always hated him for that. Effing idiot. Last I heard, he was somewhere in the Louisiana prison system. I didn’t care if I ever laid eyes on him again. Sometimes, though, Seth asked about him, and I figured he was at that age when his curiosity was getting at him. Every guy wants a dad—even if that dad was a total fuckup.

  Estelle bustled back into the nook and swatted me on the rump, breaking my hateful thoughts. “You’d best git, girl,” she said, gathering plates before I even had a chance to pick mine up. “Unless you plan on paintin’ folks in dem high shorts, dere.”

  I laughed, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and smiled at Preacher. “Peace out, Preacher man. I’ll send Seth over in a little while.”

  Preacher gave a single nod, and I was already at the blue curtain before he said anything. “When you feel like sayin’ what it is you don’t wanna say right now, come on back,” he said. “I got ears for you.”

  I looked at him over my shoulder and stared in wonder. I knew he could tell something was up. “How do you do that?” I asked. Seriously. I had one major poker face, and he still could tell I was keeping something from him. Damn.

  Preacher merely lifted one plaid-covered shoulder. “You come back den. We’ll talk right.”

  I met his gaze. “I will.” I scooted through the curtain and left Da Plat Eye fast. There was hardly anything worse than Preacher knowing something was up, and that he had endless patience waiting for you to spill the beans. Trust me when I say he reveled in knowing he made you squirm—even if it didn’t show on the outside. It made me feel guilty as hell for withholding info, but I needed to see exactly what the boys had done at da hell stone. It was a big deal, and I knew it would be to Preacher.

  I made my way back to Inksomnia, stepped inside, and glanced at the Kit-Cat Clock (eBay, Classic Black, seventy-fifth-anniversary edition, $49.99 with free batteries and shipping!) on the wall: eight forty-five. I had time to run over to Bonaventure, check out the damage, and get back in time to shower and get ready to open shop. My first appointment was at eleven thirty, so no sweat. Grabbing my keys, I listened for a minute, heard nothing, so figured Seth was still crashed upstairs. “Chaz, come on, boy,” I hollered, and Chaz came trotting down the steps, anxious to go for a ride. We hurried out the door and in minutes were on Bay Street, heading toward Abercorn. Chaz sat in the passenger seat, the wind blowing his ears back, as happy as a puppy. He was smart and completely obedient. Great dog.

  Being that this was the first Saturday of the month, the historic district was already crowded with tourists and local shoppers on foot. The first Saturday included outdoor music, sidewalk shopping (the stores pulled merchandise out onto the sidewalk to sell), and food vendors along the river walk (I reminded myself right then to get a funnel cake later), and to top it off school would be starting up soon, so people would be grabbing their last little bit of vacation time. By noon there wouldn’t be a single cobble visible, which was okay by me. There were always tourists who got a burr in their Levi’s to get a spontaneous tattoo, and if I had an available spot, I’d give them a one-of-a-kind piece of body art.

  As I rounded LaFayette Square, I saw Capote knelt down by a park bench, pulling his sax from its case. I knocked the horn twice, Chaz let out a bark, and Capote glanced up, waved, and flashed a broad, white smile. He was Gullah, one of Preacher’s cousins; he lived in a tiny apartment on Gaston Street. What a sweetheart that old guy was, and he could play the sax like a raving mofo. I’d asked him once why he’d never gone professional, and his simple answer was I don’t need all dat fancy stuff, girl. He was a permanent Savannah fixture, Capote.

  The closer I got to Bonaventure, the heavier the marsh scent became, and with the top off my Jeep, it surrounded me; I inhaled a lungful. Some hated the smell of brine, but I liked it. It reminded me of my childhood, the innocent part, after we’d gotten over my dad leaving, and before I’d turned into a head-banging wild child. God, how I wished I could take all that crap back. I gave my mom hell, and she so hadn’t deserved any more hell. The pain of that last moment with her, while she lay dead, lifeless in my arms, still haunted me, even in my sleep. I missed my mom so b
ad it hurt my chest to think about it, and yeah, I thought about it every damn day, even if I didn’t want to. It just happened, invaded my gray matter and made me remember things I didn’t necessarily want to remember. My penance, I suppose, since I was to blame for my mom’s death. Probably why I’d partied every last drop of craziness out of myself back then. I might look like I party hard now, but I’m as domesticated as they come. An occasional drink at Molly McPherson’s is all I’m good for anymore. I left that wild life far behind, and only scars and remnants of my past were still visible and present. And all that by my ripe old age of twenty-five.

  I pulled the Jeep into the left-hand-turn lane at the Victory Drive traffic light and threw it into neutral as I waited. The sun beamed down through the canopy of live oaks and Spanish moss with ferocity, making me squint through the tint of my shades—and it was only nine a.m. I was neither a morning person nor a night person—I dealt with both times of the day equally well. But as my lily-white skin revealed, I wasn’t particularly fond of the sun. I burned fiercely. A thin sheen of part sweat, part humidity covered my exposed skin, and the slightest of breezes cooled me off. I watched patrons and traffic as I listened to the sounds of early-morning Savannah mixed with horn blasts, lost in my thoughts until a smooth voice from the car beside me interrupted.

  “Hey, babe, nice dog. Really nice tats.”

  I stared straight ahead, uninterested. A low growl sounded deep in Chaz’s throat, and though the double rejection probably pissed the guy off, he didn’t show it. I could feel his eyes on me, though, and I hadn’t even spared him a single glance yet. It was just a creepy feeling I’d come to pick off rather fast, and ignore even faster.

  “Hey, don’t be shy, baby,” he said, as if I had a shy bone in my body. “You want to meet later? Show me all your tats?” He laughed. “You can leave your dog home.”

  My arrow turned green, and I threw the Jeep into first gear. I held the clutch for a second as I glanced over at the guy and peered at him over the rim of my shades. Figured. A smart-dressed older guy in a new Lexus, wanting to get it on with something he probably thought was freaky—me. He probably had a wife and kids at home. He was so not on my agenda—now or ever. For some reason, guys seemed to think alternatively dressed and inked skin equaled an easy lay. Funny thing was, I really wasn’t anything, as in, I wasn’t Goth, or any other sort of character. I just had a . . . quirky, artistic sense of style. I smirked, then shook my head in amusement, because to me he was a sick freaking idiot. “You wish, gramps,” I said. Chaz barked, and I made the turn. I heard him call me a bitch, and for some reason it made me laugh. Even Chaz looked like he was smiling, with his tongue hanging out of his open mouth, the wind picking it up and flopping it all over. I’d been called way worse; you can believe it. Sticks and stones, baby. It took a lot more than a little name-calling to hurt my feelings anymore.

  Through the small community of Thunderbolt, I weaved my way down Bonaventure Road, to the front gates of the cemetery. Although they’d been open since eight, the place looked totally deserted—strange for an August morning. Usually, the tourists were wandering in and out of the keeper’s building, meandering through the grounds, and checking out the famous monuments and infamously interred. I pulled in slowly past the keeper’s redbrick building, following the path to the far right, and crept along in second gear to the rear of the property. Bonaventure was the epitome of the South, with towering, two-hundred-year-old live oak trees draped in wispy moss, and dozens of narrow dirt roads leading back into the white marbled statues and gray headstones of the graveyard. In the spring, pink, fuchsia, and white azaleas lined the dirt lanes, and vines of wisteria hung like grape clusters. Quite pretty, actually. A slight salty breeze always seemed to be passing through, rustling the leaves and anything else that got in its way. The cemetery itself overlooked the Wilmington River and salt marshes, and I guess if I had to die and be buried somewhere, Bonaventure would be an okay eternal resting place. As long as it was far away from da hell stone, thank you.

  I pulled the Jeep over, killed the engine, threw it into first gear, and set the emergency brake, then just sat for a moment as I took in the area. Something felt . . . funny. A slight breeze wafted through the leaves of the live oaks, and the faint rustling was the only sound in the cemetery. I scanned the rows of headstones, the white marbled statues and aged crypts, and realized it was way too quiet—even for a graveyard. Not one cricket, bug, or bird made the slightest of sounds. It was totally silent, and it weirded me out. And I don’t usually get weirded out. I glanced over at my dog, who had his nose lifted and was sniffing the air. He felt it, too. “Stay, Chaz,” I commanded. He whined but firmly planted his backside in the seat. He wouldn’t budge until I told him to.

  I slid from the Jeep and started walking up the dirt path, my flip-flops slapping my heels, toward the back of the cemetery where da hell stone was located. The closer I got to the crypt, the stranger I felt, and an odd sensation crept over my skin. It tingled for absolutely no reason, and I was acutely aware of it as though hundreds of tiny ants crawled over me. More than once I glanced over my shoulder, and again—up—just like the night before. As if my feet had a mind of their own, my pace quickened. Funny thing was, so did my heartbeat, my breathing. It all accelerated.

  Once da hell stone was in sight, I stepped off the dirt path and cut across the grass, the weird sensation growing stronger as I drew closer. Probably just my superstitions kicking in, but I was still jumpy, and I hurried even faster.

  I got close to the crypt and stared in disbelief. I slowly eased to the jagged opening, only it wasn’t jagged at all. The rusted gate was in place, unbroken. It was as though nothing had been disturbed. Squatting down, I lightly ran my fingers over the aged steel; the edges where it fit perfectly against the crypt’s opening even looked rusted into place. It was sealed tight. Untouched. Unbroken. What the hell? I continued to search the ground, the dirt, the stone, for any signs of what had happened the night before with Seth and his buddies. I didn’t even see a Converse footprint. I even inspected some close-by crypts, and they all seemed to be in the same shape. Old, yet intact. No signs of vandalism anywhere. Nothing to indicate a group of teenage boys horsing around and stumbling out of a crypt.

  Suddenly, I turned and jumped up at the same time, my hand flying to the back of my neck. It felt as though someone had breathed against my skin. I looked everywhere; no one was around. Far across the cemetery, I saw one of the workers pushing a wheelbarrow, but not a soul was close to me. Certainly not close enough to have blown on my neck. Not to sound like a baby or anything—I’ve been kickboxing for seven years and did plenty of street fighting before that—but I was done with my inspection of da hell stone. People? They didn’t scare me at all. I had handled the very worst of humanity, up close and way too personal. But spirits? Like I said earlier, I wasn’t completely convinced they existed, but Preacher was one hundred percent sure about the wudus, and that fact alone made me nearly break into a run. I hurried back to the Jeep, where my dog was waiting patiently, jumped in, and drove off like some big damn scaredy-cat. As I pulled through Bonaventure’s black pillared gates, I couldn’t help but feel like someone watched me, and twice I threw a glance over my shoulder. Very, very weird.

  I wondered whether I’d been at the wrong crypt last night. I didn’t think so; I grew up here. I knew Bonaventure like the back of my hand, and I damn well knew where da hell stone was. The groundskeeper could have fixed it, but that fast? The gate had been rusted into place. It didn’t look repaired. It looked . . . ancient. And that was why I knew I definitely had to talk to Preacher. Something wasn’t right, and I felt in my gut that only he’d be able to figure out what. I’d talk to him tonight, once I finished my last appointment. My thoughts continued to ramble as I made my way back to Factor’s Walk, and by the time I walked through the back door of Inksomnia, I still didn’t have an answer. It bugged the absolute hell out of me.

  Throwing the keys on the counter,
I hurried upstairs to shower, Chaz right on my heels. Nyx, my other artist and closest pal, would be here soon, and I was already running a little late. Before I hit the bathroom, I peeked into Seth’s room, and the moment I pushed open the door, a wave of heat and brine hit me. The bedroom window was thrown wide-open, stuffy warmth pouring in. Seth was sprawled over his bed, shirtless and still wearing the jeans he’d worn the night before. I walked over, closed the window, and shook his arm. A growl sounded from the doorway, and I turned to see Chaz standing there, the fur at his neck on end. “What’s wrong with you, boy?” I asked. “It’s just lazy Seth. Go downstairs and wait on Nyx.” He growled again, then turned and ran off. Totally strange, but I shook it off and turned back to my brother.

  “Hey, butthead, I’m not paying Georgia Power to cool off the riverfront. What’s up with the open window?” I asked. Seth’s dark brown hair was slick with sweat, his skin all sticky. I smoothed his bangs from his eyes and shook him again. “Hey, Bro—wake up.” He continued to sleep, hard, and just when I thought he wouldn’t answer, he did.