The Kingdom

Three

Disembarking behind the minivan, I pulled to the side of the road to reset my navigation system. My windows were down, and a cool wind swept through, carrying the verdant, piney scent of the Upcountry. The dog days had extended into September, and the bee balm and hedge nettle were still blooming, carpeting the meadows in lavender. Rising above the gentle hills of the Piedmont, the area was beautiful, but the landscape of looming mountains, deep shadows and the green-black forest of pine and hemlock was foreign to me. My beloved Lowcountry, with its steamy marshes and briny breezes, seemed a long way from here.

The roar of an engine drew my attention from the scenery, and I glanced at the road as the black sports car zoomed past my window, leaving a thin cloud of dust and exhaust in its wake.

“Welcome to our kingdom,” I muttered as I watched Thane Asher take a sharp curve without slowing. It was an impressive maneuver of reckless abandon, squealing tires and shimmering metallic paint. Then with a whine of the powerful motor, he was gone, and the quiet that settled around me seemed heavy and ominous, as if weighted by some dark enchantment.

I glanced in the rearview mirror at the ferry, mentally retracing my route to Charleston. To Devlin. But I was here now, and there was no turning back.

Pulling onto the road, I trailed Thane Asher into town.

Asher Falls had once been a picturesque town of cobblestone streets and classic revival-style buildings situated around a formal square shaded and shrouded by live oaks dripping with Spanish moss. Quaint was the word that came to mind, and it was only on second glance that one noticed the deteriorating vital signs of a dying community—boarded windows, sagging gutters, the stopped clock in the beautiful old tower.

I saw no one as I drove around the square. If not for a few scattered vehicles, I might have thought the place deserted. The streets were as silent as a tomb, the storefronts dark and lonely. The whole town had the quiet, forlorn air of the abandoned.

I pulled into a parking space and got out. Luna had emailed me the address of her real estate office, and I located it easily. But the door was locked, and I saw no sign of life through the window. Pecking on the glass, I waited a moment, then headed next door to the library, an impressive three-story structure with arches and columns reminiscent of some of my favorite buildings in Charleston.

A girl of about sixteen stood behind the counter sorting through a stack of books. She glanced up as I stepped inside but didn’t offer a smile or a greeting. Instead, she went back to her work, the pixie cut of her silver-blond hair revealing an anemic-looking face.

I took a moment to enjoy the familiar library scent before approaching the counter. I’d always loved the smell of old books and records and could happily immerse myself for hours in musty archives. Proper research was vital to a successful cemetery restoration, and as I took in the sagging bookshelves and shadowy alcoves, I felt a pulse of excitement at what I might discover—in the library and in Thorngate Cemetery.

The ancient floorboards creaked beneath my boots as I walked over to the counter. The blonde lifted her gaze but not her head. Her eyes were crystalline-blue, the clear, rinsed cyan of a spring sky. She was very slight, but I didn’t think her fragile. She had a presence about her, a subtle gravitas that seemed unusual and a bit unsettling in a girl of her age.

She still said nothing, but I didn’t take her silence for insolence. Rather, she seemed guarded and wary, like those of us who spend too much time in our own little world.

“My name is Amelia Gray. I’m here to see Luna Kemper. She’s expecting me.”

The girl spared a brief nod before finishing with the books. Then she turned and strode to a closed door, rapped once and slipped inside. A moment later she reappeared and motioned me around the counter. As she stepped aside to allow me to enter the room, I saw that her eyes were focused—not on me—but on a point just beyond my shoulder. I had the strangest feeling that if I followed her gaze, I would find nothing there. It was a disquieting sensation because, with few exceptions, I’m the one who sees what others cannot.

Before I had time to ponder her odd behavior, Luna Kemper rose, shooing aside a gorgeous gray tabby as she came around her desk to greet me. The scent of wildflowers suddenly filled the room as though she exuded the fragrance through her very pores. A vase of purple foxglove—Papa called them witch’s bells—sat on the corner of her desk, but I didn’t think the smell came from them. I’d never known that particular flower to have such a pungent perfume.

Luna looked to be in her early forties, a sensuous brunette with a lustrous complexion and eyes the color of a rain clouds. “Welcome, Amelia. I’m so happy to finally meet you in person.” She extended her hand and we shook. She wore a charcoal pencil skirt and a lavender sweater accentuated with a large moonstone pendant. Her easy smile and friendly demeanor were a welcome contrast to her subdued assistant, who was dressed similarly to me—black T, jeans and a lightweight jacket.

“How was your trip?” Luna asked, leaning a shapely hip against her desk.

“It was great. I haven’t been up this way in a long time. I’d forgotten how beautiful the foothills are this time of year.”

“You should take a trip up to the falls if you get a chance. It’s the most beautiful spot in the whole state, though, I expect I’m biased. I was born and raised in the foothills. My mother used to say I’d wither away without the mountains and the woods to roam in, but I love the occasional weekend jaunt to the beach. I have a cousin who has a place on St. Helena. Do you get down that way much?”

“No, not really. I stay pretty busy.”

“I sympathize. Running a business doesn’t leave much time for play. I can’t remember the last time I had a real vacation. Maybe next summer… .” She trailed off, her gaze moving to the door where the blonde still lurked. “Sidra, this is Amelia Gray, the cemetery restorer I told you about. Sidra Birch. She helps out in the library after school and sometimes on weekends.”

I glanced over my shoulder and nodded. “Hello, Sidra.”

She still said nothing but tilted her head and studied me so intently I grew uncomfortable. There was something about that girl. Something at once familiar and off-putting. She had the air of someone who knew dark things. Like me.

I suppressed a shudder as I turned back to Luna.

“I’m sure you’re anxious to get settled in,” she said briskly. “I’ve arranged for you to stay in Floyd Covey’s house while he’s in Florida tending to his mother. She’s laid up with a broken hip so I expect he’ll be gone for a couple of months at the very least—”

A sound from the doorway drew both our gazes. Sidra was staring at Luna with an expression I couldn’t begin to fathom.

“What’s wrong?” Luna asked.

“Why’d you put her way out there?”

“Why not?” Luna asked with a note of irritation.

Sidra’s blue gaze fell on me, then darted away. “It’s creepy.”

“Nonsense. It’s a lovely place right on the lake and the location is perfect. It’s halfway between town and the cemetery,” Luna explained. “I think you’ll be very comfortable there.”

“I’m sure I will be.” But Sidra’s comment, along with Thane Asher’s tale of restless souls beneath Bell Lake had planted an insidious seed.

Luna straightened from the desk. “Why don’t you make yourself at home while I run next door and fetch the key? We can go over the contracts and permits and then I’ll take you out to see the house.”

Sidra had already disappeared, and I assumed she’d gone back to her work behind the counter. After Luna left, I wondered if I should go out there and ask the girl what she’d meant about the Covey place. Then I decided it was probably best to wait and form my own opinion.

Killing time, I glanced around Luna’s office. It was one of those eclectic, overstuffed places that I’d always been drawn to. So many interesting and unusual treasures to admire, from the hand-carved pedestal desk to the brass ship’s bell mounted over the doorway. I hadn’t noticed the bell before, but now I detected the faintest ting, as if a draft had stirred the clapper. There was a second, narrow door with an arched top and an ornate keyhole plate that made me wonder where it led to.

Slowly, I circled the room, admiring the bric-a-brac in mahogany cabinets, everything from blown-glass figurines to antique pocket watches, from fossils and shells to an assortment of oddly shaped knives. Framed photographs covered the walls, most of them local historical buildings, but the people shots interested me more. One in particular caught my attention—a picture of three young women, arms entwined as they stared dreamily into the camera. I recognized a teenage Luna, and one of the other girls bore an uncanny resemblance to Sidra, but I knew it couldn’t be her. A good twenty-five years separated their ages, and besides, the hairstyles and clothing screamed the eighties. Sidra wouldn’t have even been born then.

A fourth girl hovered in the shadowy background, her wavy hair floating about her in a breeze as she glared into the lens. I felt an odd tightening in my chest as I studied that stony face, and for the longest time, I couldn’t seem to catch my breath, couldn’t tear my eyes from that fiery glower.

“Are you all right?”

I took a step back, Sidra’s voice breaking whatever hold the photograph had on me. I turned to find her watching me from the doorway. Light from the window picked up the silvery threads in her hair, creating an ethereal illusion that, along with her paleness, made me wonder if she might be a ghost. I’d been fooled before, but since Luna could interact with her, too, the likelihood seemed slim.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked with a frown.

“Was I staring? I’m sorry,” I managed to say calmly. “I was just thinking how much you resemble the girl in this picture.”

She came over to stand beside me. “That’s my mother, Bryn.” Pointing to the redhead on her mother’s right, she said, “That’s Catrice, and, of course, you know Luna. The three of them were best friends in high school. Still are, I guess.”

“Do they all live here in Asher Falls?”

She hesitated. “You heard what Luna said. She’d wither away if she left the mountains. My mother would, too, I think. None of them would last long out in the real world.”

“This isn’t the real world?”

“God, I hope not,” she said with a shiver.

“You don’t like it here?”

“Like it? This place is a ghost town,” she said, and something in her voice made me shiver.

“Sounds as if Luna manages to stay busy.”

“Oh, yes. Luna is a very busy woman.”

We were both staring at the photograph, and I could see Sidra’s pale refection in the glass.

“I like her name,” I said. “It’s unusual but it suits her. And yours is unusual, too.”

“I’m named for her. Sidra means ‘of the stars,’ and Luna means moon, so…” She shrugged. “Kind of cheesy, but they’ve always been into that mystical stuff.”

“Who’s the fourth girl?”

I heard her breath catch and glanced over to find her in the grip of some strong emotion—eyes wide, hand pressed to her heart—but then she swallowed and tried to recover. “What girl?” she asked in a thin voice.

“The one in the background. Her.” I put a finger over the glass and felt a rush of something unpleasant go through me.

Sidra said nothing. In the ensuing silence, I heard the bell again, so faintly I wondered if my imagination had supplied the sound.

“There’s no one else in the picture,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I could clearly see an angry countenance in the background, but suddenly I understood. Whoever she was, she’d already been dead when the picture was taken. The photographer had captured her ghost.

It was the clearest shot of an entity I’d ever seen. But…if I was the one who saw ghosts, why was Sidra so distressed?

“It’s just a shadow or some trick of the light,” she insisted. “There’s no one else in the picture.”

Our gazes met and I nodded. “Yes, that must be it,” I agreed, as icy fingers skated up and down my spine.