The Prophet

Chapter Twenty-Five

I awakened to the murmur of voices.

Awakened was perhaps the wrong word. I was conscious, but I seemed to be floating in some sort of dream state. Everything appeared very hazy and surreal, but that might have been due to the bad lighting, I decided as I gazed up at the bare lightbulb swaying above me.

I was seated in a parlor that was totally unfamiliar, and yet, I knew exactly where I was—in the blue Victorian on America Street. The room was furnished with shabby antiques and faded rugs, and the only illumination seemed to be from that low wattage bulb overhead and dozens of candles. The flickering flames cast giant shadows on the water-stained wallpaper, and I felt almost hypnotized by the movement. It was only with some effort that I shook off the lethargy and continued my survey.

A large archway led into the foyer, and I could see the front door just beyond. It stood open to the night, and an endless stream of people drifted in and out.

On the other side of the room, another opening led into the dining room. A man with dreadlocks was seated at the table eating something from an earthenware bowl. Layla stood over his shoulder sipping a glass of red wine. Only, she didn’t look so much like Layla anymore. Gone was the tailored, sophisticated attire of Dr. Shaw’s assistant, and in its place, she’d donned a purple caftan with intricate embroidery at the neck and around the hem. She was barefoot, and her hair was unbound, spilling over her shoulders in a cascade of tight, wiry curls. She and the man were laughing, and even though I willed their gazes, neither of them paid me the slightest attention.

The man from King Street sauntered into the room then, followed a moment later by Tom Gerrity who seemed to be on some urgent business. A metal box was tucked underneath one arm, and his eyes, even in the candlelight, looked overly bright. Both men disappeared into the dining room, and I didn’t see them again.

More people strolled in while others left, not one glancing in my direction. I observed the endless parade for several minutes before it came to me that I could get up and drift out with them. I wasn’t bound in any way and no one had even noticed me. I could just float on out the front door and be on my merry way.

When I tried to move, though, I experienced a curious boneless effect, and I realized that I was very much a prisoner even though no ropes or shackles constrained me. Why this didn’t cause me great panic, I had no idea. I seemed to be disturbingly accepting of the situation.

I turned my gaze back to the candles, watching the flickering light for the longest time. I could smell eucalyptus and camphor and a tinge of something that might have been sulfur. I didn’t find the scent unpleasant, nor did it distress me.

After a time, a hush fell over the room. All eyes turned toward the foyer where a newcomer had just come through the door. He stopped to chat with a woman in tight-fitting jeans, and as his voice drifted in through the arch, I felt a shudder go through me. The sound was deep and melodic. Utterly captivating.

A moment later, he strode into the parlor, and I was taken aback by his appearance. He was very tall, six feet five, at least, with skin the color of polished mahogany. Despite the cooler weather, he wore linen slacks and that same loose shirt I’d seen before, but now I noticed the silver embellishment. The neck was open, and a medallion gleamed at his throat. I thought him unnaturally handsome. Godlike, I would almost say.

He spoke to a few more people, and then the room seemed to clear as he came over and drew up a chair facing me. He sat leaning forward, elbows on knees, chin on folded hands, as he peered directly into my eyes. The effect was oddly calming.

“You’re the one they call The Graveyard Queen.” His voice reminded me of the nightingale song, lyrical and infinitely mysterious.

I nodded.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Darius Goodwine.”

“So you’ve heard of me.”

“You came to visit me last night.”

He merely smiled.

I glanced around the candlelit room. “Why am I here?”

“I thought it time we had a proper introduction.”

“Why?”

“I understand you have an interest in something I possess.” He sat back in the chair, seemingly relaxed, but his gaze was very intense. His eyes were an odd shade of gold, I noticed. Almost like glowing topazes. The color was very striking against his dark skin.

He glanced away as someone moved through the room, and for the first time, I noticed a deep scar beneath the jaw line where a crude blade had just missed his jugular. How I knew this, I had no idea. There was another scar on the back of his right hand, and I searched for more wounds because those marks made him seem a little less godlike to me.

“What do you know about gray dust?” he asked me.

“It stops the heart and people die.”

His smile turned numinous, like that of a witch. “It does more than that,” he said softly.

“It allows you to enter the spirit world without the crutch of hallucinations.”

“Aw.” The topazes glittered. “Dr. Shaw has informed you well. Now I need to know who else you’ve talked to about this.”

“No one else. Only Robert Fremont.”

His brows soared. “The dead cop?”

“Yes.” I had no idea why I mentioned Fremont’s name. That wasn’t at all like me. I never talked about the ghosts. But I seemed incapable of subterfuge at that moment, and I had to admit, I took a certain amount of satisfaction in the surprise that flashed in those golden eyes.

“Do you mean you go out to the cemetery and talk to his corpse?”

“No. I talk to his ghost.”

“You can cross over?”

“I don’t have to. He’s here. In the living world.”

I could have sworn I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes before he leaned forward once again, trapping me with his gaze. “What does he want?”

“He wants to know who killed him. He means to have justice before he moves on and I’m going to help him get it.”

That seemed to amuse him. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Did you think I would be frightened of you? That I would cower in your presence?”

He waved a hand toward the mingling throng. “These people do.”

“I’m not like them.”

He took my chin in his hand and tilted my face to the light. “Then what are you? How is it that you’re able to converse so freely with the dead?”

“I’m a caulbearer.”

The eyes gleamed now, and I felt an electrical jolt pass from his body into mine. I wanted to shove his hand away, but I still couldn’t move. “You were born behind the veil. That makes you special. And very powerful.”

What an odd thing to say to someone who couldn’t move her arms or legs.

He waved a hand toward the group in the hallway. “You possess effortlessly what most people here seek artificially. I think I shall enjoy getting to know you.”

“What if I don’t want to get to know you?”

He laughed. “You won’t have a choice. I’ll come to you in your dreams. There isn’t a root or a charm or a mojo bag that can stop me. Neither can John Devlin, though I have no doubt he’ll try.”