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She lifted a tiny finger to her lips.
“What’s wrong?”
She seemed to fade as the air in the garden trembled and shifted. My heart was still racing, and I could see the rime of my breath mingling with a milky vapor that curled up out of the shadows. There was an odd copper taste in my mouth as if I had bitten my tongue. I felt no pain. I felt nothing at all except an icy fear that metastasized from my chest down into my limbs, paralyzing me.
The jasmine slipped through my numb fingers as the hair at my nape bristled. The night went deadly silent. Everything in the garden stilled except for that coil of mist. I watched, mesmerized, as it slithered toward me, twisting and writhing like a charmed cobra. The tension humming along my nerve endings was unbearable, as if the lightest touch could shatter me.
But when the contact came, it wasn’t light at all. The blow was quick and brutal, propelling me backward with such force, I lost my balance. Tripping over a small garden statue, I went sprawling. The ceramic cherub shattered on the stone pavers, and a moment later, the sound of voices inside the house dimly registered. A part of me knew the residents must have heard the racket, but my attention was still riveted on the walkway. Another entity had formed in the garden, and she hovered over me, dead eyes blazing in the deepening twilight.
Mariama. The ghost child’s mother. Devlin’s deceased wife.
In one petrified moment, I took in the filmy swirl of her dress, the bare feet, the hedonistic spill of curls down her back. And that mocking smile. Terrifyingly seductive. Even in death, Mariama’s mystique was pervasive, palpable. And so was her cunning.
Something Devlin had once told me about her flitted through my mind. According to her beliefs, a person’s power wasn’t diminished by death. A bad or sudden passing could result in an angry spirit wielding enough force to come back and interfere with the lives of the living, even enslave them in some cases. I had always wondered if that was her intent. To keep Devlin shackled to her with his grief and guilt. She sustained her existence on this side of the veil by devouring his warmth and energy, but the moment he let her go, the moment he started to forget, would she simply fade away?
I huddled there shivering, scolding myself for having followed Shani’s voice and that strange songbird. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be lured into that garden. This was Mariama’s doing. I understood that now. She was interfering in my life, warning me to stay away from Devlin.
I felt a sting and looked down to find my hand covered in ants. I shook them off as I scrambled to my feet. In that brief moment when my eyes left the ghosts, they’d vanished, leaving nothing but a lingering frost in their wake.
The back door opened, and a woman stepped out on the porch. “Who’s there?” she demanded. She didn’t sound frightened at all, merely annoyed.
I didn’t know how to explain my presence in her garden so I grabbed my shopping bag and ducked behind a stand of azaleas even though I felt like a coward for doing so. I saw her shiver as she pulled a sweater around her body and gazed out into the shadows.
If I hadn’t still been so shaken by the ghostly encounter, I might have made my presence known instead of skulking in the bushes like a thief. I could have made up some story, told the woman that I’d chased my cat through her gate, then offered to pay for the broken statue. I was on the verge of doing exactly that when I spotted the silhouette of a man behind her in the doorway.
“I thought I heard something,” she said over her shoulder, and then he came out on the porch to join her.
My heart contracted as though from another powerful blow. I recognized the man, her companion. It was Devlin. My Devlin.
Now I knew why I had been enticed into this garden. I had been meant to see this.
Mariama appeared at Devlin’s side, and I could feel her glacial eyes on me, taunting and mesmeric. Her hair tangled in the breeze, and the gauzy hem of her sundress wrapped snakelike around her legs. I could see right through her, and yet, she seemed at that moment as vital as any living thing.
Her hand lifted to Devlin’s face, and she stroked his cheek, slowly, possessively, her gaze focused on mine. I didn’t hear her in my head the way I’d heard Shani, but her message was clear just the same. She would never let him go.
My chest contracted painfully, as though an invisible hand had reached inside my chest and gripped my heart. I sucked in air, willing my heartbeats to slow even as my legs trembled and weakened. Something horrifying was happening to me in that garden. I was being drained, my warmth and energy usurped by an entity that had made me her enemy.
Papa had cautioned me so many times:
What the dead want more than anything is to be a part of our world again. They’re like parasites drawn to our energy, feeding off our warmth. If they know you can see them, they’ll cling to you like blight. You’ll never be rid of them. And your life will never again be your own.
The ghost laughed at me now as though she’d heard Papa’s warning, too.
Shani materialized on the other side of her father and tapped his leg, willing his attention. He never looked down, never so much as flinched. He couldn’t feel her. He hadn’t a clue she was there. His focus was entirely on the brunette. He came up behind her and slipped his arms around her narrow waist. Her head dropped back to his shoulder, and the intimate murmur of their voices drifted across the garden to where I crouched in my hiding place.
He didn’t kiss or caress her the way a lover might. Instead, he just stood there holding her as his ghosts floated around them.
I couldn’t move or breathe. I couldn’t look away even though it was quite possibly the worst moment of my life.
* * *
After a few moments, Devlin went back inside and his ghosts vanished. But the woman lingered, her gaze scanning the twilight as though she could sense my presence. I didn’t dare move for fear of drawing her attention, but I was dying to get a better look at her. I could see little more than a shapely silhouette with a spill of dark, glossy hair over her shoulders. I knew she was attractive, though. She had an air about her, a certain vibe common to beautiful women.
She remained on the porch for several long minutes before following Devlin inside. I waited breathlessly to make sure neither of them came back out, then bolted from the garden and fled down the alley with barely a thought to my previous stalker.
I was so distraught by the sight of Devlin with another woman that I let down my guard and that wasn’t at all like me. Living with ghosts necessitated vigilance, but as I hurried toward the street, my mind remained in that strange garden and the lapse cost me. The looming shadow appeared out of nowhere and the next thing I knew, I was grabbed roughly and shoved up against the stone wall, a forearm jammed to my throat.
The pressure on my windpipe precluded a gasp, much less a scream, but the attack was over in the space of a heartbeat. Even as I flailed for the mace I carried in my pocket, the assailant was already backing away. The arm dropped from my throat and I heard a sharp intake of breath. Then incredulously, “Amelia?”
Devlin.
I was so gobsmacked by his nearness, I couldn’t utter a word. It had been months since I’d last seen him, but he’d visited my sleep nearly every night of our estrangement. Those dark, lush dreams allowed me to play out my every fantasy about him, but now I realized what a pale substitute the visions had been. Even with him standing there looking down at me so warily, I could think of little more than how much I still craved his touch. How much I’d missed his kisses.
“Are you all right?” he asked quickly.
Oh, that voice! That low, silky, old-world drawl that would always be my undoing.
I swallowed with some difficulty. “Yes, I think so.”
“What on earth are you doing out here? And why didn’t you say something? I might have hurt you.” He sounded a bit rattled himself.
“You didn’t give me a chance,” I said defensively. “Do you always grab people without reason?”
“I had a reason. I was visiting a friend and we thought we heard someone in the garden.”
“You mean a prowler?” How completely innocent I sounded.
There was a curious hesitation, then, “Yes, a prowler. I circled around to head him off.” He glanced past me up the alley. “You didn’t see anyone come out of here, did you?”
I shook my head as my heart continued to hammer.
“What about on the street? Did you notice anyone lurking about?”
“I didn’t see anything.”
His gaze was still on me, dark and probing. “Your turn, then. What are you doing here?”
“I…was just on my way home from the market.” Lamely, I held up my shopping bag.
“You’re a little off course, aren’t you?”
“You mean the alley?” I moistened dry lips. “I heard something, too, so I decided to investigate.”
His head came up and I sensed a sudden tension. “What did you hear?”
“It sounds crazy now,” I said reluctantly.
He took my arm and a chill went through me, half alarm, half desire. “Tell me.”
“I heard a songbird.”
“A songbird?” Under other circumstances, his utter bewilderment might have been amusing.
“It sounded like a nightingale.”
His grasp tightened almost imperceptibly and I could have sworn I saw a shadow sweep across his handsome features. Impossible, of course. Dusk was upon us and I could make out little more than the gleam of his eyes, but I had the distinct impression that my words had touched a nerve.
“There are no nightingales in this part of the world,” he said. “You must have heard a mockingbird.”
“I thought of that. But when I was in Paris, nightingales sang almost every evening in the courtyard of my hotel. Their trill is very distinct.”
His tone sharpened. “I know what they sound like. I heard the damn things often enough in Africa.”
Yet another detail I hadn’t known about him. “When were you in Africa?”
“A lifetime ago,” he muttered as he tilted his head to stare up into the trees.
Now I was the one utterly mystified. “Why does it matter what kind of bird it was?”
“Because if you heard a nightingale in Charleston—” He broke off, his head snapping around at the soft snick of a gate. Then he drew me to him quickly, dancing us both back into the shadows along the fence. I was too startled too protest. Not that I had any desire to. The adrenaline pulsing through my bloodstream was intoxicating, and my hand crept to the lapel of his jacket, clinging for a moment until a woman’s voice invaded our paradise.
“John? Are you out here?”
When he didn’t immediately answer, I slanted my head to stare up at him. Our faces were very close. So close I had only to tiptoe to touch my lips to his—
“I’m here,” he called.
“Is everything okay?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes, fine. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Hurry in.” I heard the gate close behind her and a second later, the back door of the house slammed. But Devlin and I were far from alone. A breeze stirred, whispering through the leaves, and I felt the unnatural cold of his ghosts. I couldn’t see them, but they were there somewhere, floating in the shadows, driving a wedge between us just as surely as the unknown woman’s husky voice.
Devlin still held me, but now there was a distance between us. An uncomfortable chasm that made me retreat into myself. “I should be going.”
“Let me drive you home,” he said. “It’s almost dark out.”
“No, but thank you. It’s only a few blocks and this is a safe neighborhood.”
“Safe is a relative term.”
How well I knew.
“I’ll be fine.” I was already walking away when he said my name, so softly I was tempted to ignore the entreaty for fear I’d only imagined it. I turned and said on a breath, “Yes?”
His dark eyes shimmered in the fading light. “It was a mockingbird you heard. It couldn’t have been a nightingale.”
My heart fell and I nodded. “If you say so.”
Chapter Two
Devlin didn’t call out to me again and I never glanced back. But the warmth of his touch lingered as did the frost of his ghosts. I’d spent many a sleepless night trying to convince myself that as long as I kept my distance, his ghosts wouldn’t be a threat to me. After tonight I could no longer delude myself. I had done nothing to lure them back into my life. They had come despite my best efforts, and I hadn’t a clue how to rid myself of them.
Shani had implored me to help her, and even now the memory of her voice in my head tore at my resolve. But I had to maintain a distance, my perspective. Whatever she needed, I couldn’t give her. Whatever she wanted, I couldn’t help her. I wasn’t a medium. I didn’t communicate with the dead—at least not intentionally—nor did I guide souls into the afterlife. Ghosts were dangerous to me. They were ravenous parasites. Hadn’t Mariama just proven that?
If I were smart, I would ignore Devlin’s ghosts just as I had ignored the hundreds of other manifestations I’d seen throughout the years. I would cling to the remnants of Papa’s rules for dear life because, without them, I had little protection from any of the netherworld beings that crept through the veil at dusk.
Best just to put the whole disquieting episode out of my mind.
But…even if I somehow managed to disregard the ghosts, I knew the image of Devlin and that strange woman would torment me. I had no right to feel betrayed. I was the one who had broken things off with Devlin, and I’d done so without even a proper explanation. But how could I tell him that our passion had opened a passageway into a terrifying realm of specters that were colder and hungrier than any I’d ever encountered?
Drawing a shaky breath, I tried to soothe myself. I should be grateful that he’d found someone else. The sooner he moved on, the safer he would be. The safer we would both be. Hadn’t I tried to do the same with Thane Asher?
But no amount of rationalization could ease the pain in my chest, nor did the sight of my home offer solace, though it was more than just a residence. It was a hallowed sanctuary, the one place in all of Charleston where I could sequester myself from the ghosts and hide from the rest of the world.
Rising from the remains of an orphanage chapel, the narrow house was built deep into the lot with upper and lower balconies and front and rear gardens in the Charleston tradition. I had the ground level to myself and that included access to the backyard and the original basement. A medical student named Macon Dawes rented the second floor. He was away at the moment, which gave Angus, the abused stray I’d brought home with me from the mountains, a chance to acclimate to his new surroundings before having to deal with a stranger.
Angus must have sensed my return because I heard him bark from the rear garden to welcome me home. I called out to him as the gate swung shut and I stood for a moment letting the scent of the tea olives settle over me. Later, we would sit out back together watching my white garden come to life as the moon rose over the treetops. It had become a nightly ritual, the only time that I actually welcomed the darkness. I had always admired the walled gardens of Charleston, but I enjoyed mine especially by moonlight when the moths stirred and the bats took flight. Sometimes I felt as if I could sit out there forever, dreaming my life away.
The old southern graveyards I restored held much the same fascination with their dripping moss, creeping ivy and, in the spring, the lavender gloom of their lilacs. Summer brought sweet roses; winter, luscious daphne. A perfume of death for every season. Each unique, each invoking a different emotion or a special memory but always reminding one of the past, of the fleeting nature of life.
I don’t know how long I stood there with eyes closed, drowning in melancholia as I drank in the evening scents. Misery still held a firm grip, so perhaps that was why I didn’t see him straightaway. Or even sense him.
When I finally spotted his silhouette, he was little more than a deeper shadow on the veranda, but somehow I knew who he was. What he was. I had the strangest urge to turn and dash back through the gate, but my muscles wouldn’t obey and so I stood there suspended in fear.
In all my years of seeing ghosts, I’d never encountered one quite like Robert Fremont. He could emerge from the veil before dusk and after sunrise, and he could converse with me. Or at least…he communicated in a way that made me think he was speaking. He wasn’t just in my head the way Shani had been. I could hear his voice. I could see his lips move. How he managed any of that, I had no idea. Nor did I understand how he could sit there so calmly on the steps of my sanctuary, a place no other ghost had ever penetrated.
That was the most frightening aspect of his manifestation. None of the rules seemed to apply to him, and so I was completely at his mercy with no way to protect myself from him.
The timing of his appearance couldn’t be a coincidence. Nothing about this evening was happenstance. Not the nightingale, not my run-in with Devlin, not even Shani’s disturbing nursery rhyme. Taken alone, each might seem incidental, but together they meant something specific. There was a word for such a string of events. Synchronicity.
And as I stood there staring through the deepening twilight at the murdered cop, I could feel myself being drawn into something dark and mystical. A supernatural puzzle for which there might be no earthly resolution.
Slowly, I walked through the garden, the crepuscular scent of the angel trumpets perfuming the air with an under note of dread. I came to a stop at the bottom of the steps to gaze up at him.
He looked much as he had the first time I’d seen him, his nondescript attire that of an undercover cop who needed to blend seamlessly into the criminal underbelly of Charleston. As always, his eyes were hidden by dark glasses, but I could feel the power of his dead gaze through those lenses. The sensation was chilling.
“Amelia Gray.” The way he spoke my name was like the prick of an icy needle down my spine.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“You know why. It’s time.”
The hair at the back of my neck lifted. “Time for what?”
“To make things right.” His voice was deep and hollow like a well, and I shivered again as he watched me from behind those tinted lenses. I tried to avert my eyes, but he held me enthralled.
I’d forgotten how handsome he was, how perversely charismatic even as a ghost. Despite his dark skin—and the fact that he was dead—he’d always reminded me of Devlin. Both possessed that same smoldering charm, that same dangerous allure. They’d once been friends, and I had a feeling it was my association with Devlin that had allowed Robert Fremont into my world.
