The Awakening

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

Five

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.”

“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

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.

He said, “This seems to be quite the popular place tonight.”

“Doesn’t it?” My smile turned wry and I added an edge to my voice. “I’m still reeling from the coincidence of it all. You. Me. This alcove.”

“One would almost think it planned.”

And just like that, poise shattered. I made a nonsensical gesture toward the archway. “I was just on my way back to the table.”

He made no move to allow me passage. “You look good,” he said, searching my face and then dropping his gaze for a more subtle scrutiny.

Good, not well. I hated myself for taking note of the distinction.

I had on a simple black dress with my mother’s pearls. Perfectly safe and acceptable attire, but that dark gaze made me feel as if I had on nothing at all.

“You, as well,” I said. “I mean, good. You look good. Different, but...good.” Why did that scruff on his lower face appeal to me so? Or those silver strands at his temples? I had the strongest urge to run the back of my hand against the stubble and then plunge my fingers into his hair. Instead, I toyed with the string of pearls at my neck. I could feel my great-grandmother’s key beneath my dress and I wondered if I should pull it free and hold it in front of me to ward off Devlin’s magnetism.

As we stood there with very little else to say to one another, it occurred to me that perhaps this moment was the essence of Dr. Shaw’s explanation of a death omen. Not a literal passing, but the end of something I’d been hanging on to. I’d been carrying a torch for Devlin for far too long and I waited for that moment of supreme revelation when the weight of unrequited love lifted miraculously from my shoulders, saving me from all those sleepless nights and liberating me for the open road ahead.

Instead, I found myself jostled by someone passing by in the corridor. I was pushed up against Devlin and my heart jolted.

His arm came around me, so fleeting I might have imagined the caress. But for a moment, I felt the pressure of his fingers against the small of my back and I closed my eyes, drawing in that delectable, indefinable essence that was so uniquely John Devlin.

“Sorry,” I mumbled and pushed away.

“You’re here with Temple,” he said.

“And you? You aren’t dining alone tonight, are you?”

The question was a throwback to that first night when he had come to the restaurant alone, but I instantly berated myself. What a stupid thing to ask of an old flame that had recently gotten engaged. I’d momentarily forgotten about his betrothal. Now it all came rushing back to me and as an image of Claire Bellefontaine’s perfect face flashed before my eyes, I did have a revelation.