The Prophet

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A little while later, I let Angus out into the back garden, but I didn’t stay out there with him as I should have. My confrontation with Darius Goodwine—whether imagined or real—and my time with Devlin had left me shaken, and the last thing I wanted was a face-to-face with Mariama’s ghost. I had no idea what kind of power she possessed from the grave, but I had a feeling what she’d shown me so far was merely the tip of the iceberg.

I wandered aimlessly down the hallway, a premonition of impending doom dogging my every step. It was strange to think that for so many years, my fear of ghosts had stemmed almost solely from their parasitic nature. The ravenous craving of human warmth and energy that sustained their presence in the living world. Now I knew it was possible for ghosts to cause physical harm, perhaps even death. I couldn’t help but shudder when I thought of how far Mariama might go to keep Devlin and me apart. Not even Papa’s rules could protect me from the wrath of a vengeful specter.

In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, then glanced in the mirror where a pale, gaunt woman stared back at me. The dark circles under my eyes were even more pronounced tonight, and my pupils seemed abnormally dilated. I wondered if that was a side effect from the blue powder. Or had one of Darius Goodwine’s minions managed to slip something in my drink at dinner?

Why he would order such a thing, I could only imagine. Maybe he really did want to get to Devlin through me, but after tonight, I had a feeling his motivation had shifted. He’d been very interested in my communication with Robert Fremont and my legacy as a caulbearer. That makes you special and very powerful, he’d said. But I didn’t feel so powerful at the moment. Mostly, I felt confused and out of my depth.

All of this was assuming my conversation with him had even been real. Devlin seemed convinced I’d been the victim of a trick or an illusion, and I wanted to believe that, as well. Darius Goodwine’s claim that he could come to me in my dreams was a whole new threat, one that took away the safety net of hallowed ground. In dreams, there would be no boundaries or safe havens. My only defense against him would be insomnia.

Maybe he really was nothing more than a hypnotist or a clever illusionist who preyed on the weak and the susceptible. But I was a woman who saw ghosts, a woman who had been hounded by evil. I knew firsthand there were things that couldn’t be explained by any living world rationale, so, unlike Devlin, I couldn’t discount the possibility of a man who had tapped into the power of the spirit world. A man who could traverse both sides of the veil and visit me in my dreams.

Pushing all that aside for the moment, I tried to focus on something more productive—like solving Robert Fremont’s murder. But those were hardly soothing thoughts, either. The possibility that a man I respected and admired could be guilty of poisoning his wife was deeply troubling. The only thing more distressing was the revelation of Devlin’s motive. The oldest one in the book.

Why had Fremont not told me about the affair? His selective amnesia was beginning to seem just a little too convenient.

Why did I suddenly have a feeling that I was being played, not only by Robert Fremont and Darius Goodwine, but by other forces in the universe?

The text message from Devlin—or whomever—had been sent to bring me back from Asher Falls. The nightingale on that first night was meant to lure me into Clementine’s garden so that I would see Devlin and Isabel Perilloux. So that I would once again be pulled into his orbit. Everything was connected, but the links were too random. All the clues were there, I was certain, but I couldn’t yet see the whole picture.

Could Mariama have been the woman who’d been with Fremont before he died? Although I’d never associated a scent with her, maybe it was her perfume that clung to him. On some level, I’d entertained those suspicions all along, but my jealousy of Isabel Perilloux had made me too quick to point the finger at her. But didn’t everything always come back to Mariama?

Her betrayal must have been a terrible blow to Devlin. Even if the love had waned by that time, something had remained. An emotion so powerful it had brought Mariama back from the dead and kept her here, draining Devlin of his warmth and energy. I had a terrible feeling she would still be at his side long after I was gone.

Pacing back to my office, I allowed Angus a little extra time to explore while I glanced through Dr. Shaw’s book. Then I went to the back door to call him in. When he didn’t come at once, I stepped outside. I hadn’t bothered with slippers, so I went no farther than the terrace. I called again and was just starting to get a little uneasy when he loped out of the shadows, fur bristled in agitation.

Quickly, I scanned the garden, probing all the dark corners. The breeze had risen, and the tinkle of the wind chimes set my nerves on edge. Nothing moved in the garden except for the rustling palmettos. But something was out there. Something wasn’t right about that wind. It didn’t come from any weather front. It came from the other side.

As if to confirm my suspicion, a gust tore at my hair and whipped at my robe. I shivered but held my ground even as Angus growled beside me. I reached down to give him a tense pat, my gaze moving across the yard to where the swing swayed in the breeze. A cloud moved over the moon, throwing the garden into darkness, and I could feel a perverted chill creeping through the shadows toward me. Not Shani or Mariama, I was almost certain, but some unknown spirit that had made its way to me. Some restless phantom seeking my help along with my warmth and energy.

I could see nothing in the darkness. No glowing eyes or aura. No humanlike form floating through the bushes. But I sensed a presence. I could feel it watching me. That dead gaze was like a spider-crawl up my spine.

Was this a test? I wondered. A trial run to see if I had the mettle for a higher calling.

Should I put out a hand? Should I try to make contact?

All of this raced through my mind in the space of a heartbeat. So paralyzed was I by indecision, I didn’t notice at first that the wind had died away. The garden had gone very still as if the night waited in breathless anticipation for my answer.

I didn’t move or utter a sound. Neither did I pretend indifference. I stood there with quivering legs and pounding heart, almost daring the ghost to manifest.

In the split second before the moon popped back out, I could have sworn I saw a revealing shimmer. A fusty odor drifted across the garden, mingling with the datura, and I could almost hear the whisper of Papa’s voice in my ear. Go inside, Amelia. Hurry! Do not tempt fate, child. Do not acknowledge another ghost’s presence. You are already in far deeper than you know.

The pavers were cold beneath my bare feet, and the sting of an ant bite had me scurrying back inside.

So much for a higher purpose and a noble calling.

I locked the door and peered out into the darkness, remaining at my vigil for several minutes until Angus whined and brushed up against me for attention. I knelt to pet him before busying myself in the kitchen, rinsing out cups and putting away the tea tin.

As I picked up his bowl to replenish his water before bedtime, I noticed what appeared to be blood smears across the floor, as if he’d nicked a paw on something sharp. Dropping down beside him, I examined each pad, but I couldn’t find a wound or any blood. I dampened a paper towel to clean up the floor, and as I turned from the sink, I saw more crimson spots. The blood was coming from me, not Angus.

I danced about, examining first one foot and then the other. As I cleaned away the blood, I saw the glitter of ground glass embedded in my skin. The particles were so fine as to be little more than powder, but the skin had been irritated in several places. Odd, because as far as I knew, nothing had shattered in the garden.

Hobbling to the bathroom, I washed the soles of my feet with antibacterial soap, picked out the glass and then doused the abrasions with peroxide and antiseptic. There, I thought as I cleaned up the mess. Surely no germs could survive those precautions.

The chore had given me something concrete to focus on, and now, strangely, I felt much calmer. I crawled into bed, preparing myself for another long night as I stared up at the ceiling, wishing Devlin had stayed.

I fell asleep almost instantly only to awaken sometime later to a powerful thirst. I got up and padded into the kitchen for a glass of water. Angus heard me stir and came out of my office to check his food bowl.

“Sorry. It’s not time for breakfast yet.”

Those limpid eyes appealed to the pushover in me, and I went to the cupboard to get him a treat. As I turned, I caught a glimpse of the windows in my office. Someone stood gazing in at me.

I didn’t turn but kept the silhouette in my periphery. The face had the pale translucence of a ghost, but that could have been an illusion cast by moonlight. I wondered why Angus hadn’t growled a warning. Whether human or ghost, he must have sensed another presence. But he merely stood there gobbling his treats with unabashed delight. He never lifted his head, even when another shadow appeared at the backdoor, even when the knob rattled as the intruder tried to force his way in.

I looked around for the phone and couldn’t find it. I looked around for a weapon and couldn’t find one. It was then that I realized I must be trapped in a dream. How else to explain Angus’s apathy? How else to explain my own strange paralysis?

As I stood there watching helplessly, the dead bolt clicked, and the door flew back with a bang, allowing that wind from the other side to sweep in. My hair blew across my face and, as I peeled it away, I saw Darius Goodwine on the threshold. He looked the same as he had earlier, only now he wore several necklaces, including one that looked like a string of human teeth. In his right hand, he carried a wooden bowl and, in the left, an old leather pouch which he shook to produce a rattle.

Into the bowl, he poured the contents of the pouch—bones, shells, pebbles, nuts and a few coins. Then he knelt and threw these items onto the floor. They formed a pattern which seemed to amuse him greatly.

He looked up, topaz eyes gleaming. “Prepare yourself,” he said.

“For what?”

“A long journey.”

“Where am I going?”

He turned to stare out into the darkness, and I looked past him to where the dead had assembled in my garden. Their faces were painted a stark white, their bellies open and distended. Drawn by the light, black beetles with large, snapping pincers crawled from the autopsy gashes and scurried into the house. I spotted one scuttling into the cupboard where I kept Angus’s treats, and another dashed beneath the stove.

Suddenly, his food bowl teemed with the insects, and he looked up at me with a piteous whimper. The beetles were crawling up his legs and moving down through his fur, attempting to burrow under his skin. He howled in pain, and I dropped to his side, picking them off one by one and flinging them toward the door.

But dozens turned into hundreds. The floor blackened, and I could feel them on me now. They ran up my arms, into my hair and down the collar of my pajamas.

I was still flailing when I woke up. Chest heaving, I flung the covers aside and leaped to my feet as I reached for the light. The bed was clear. My hair was clear. It had just been a dream.

Or a visit from Darius Goodwine.

I resolved myself to staying awake for the rest of the night. I even went back to my office and fetched Dr. Shaw’s book.

But my eyes soon grew heavy, and I kept nodding off despite my best efforts. The last thing I remembered hearing was a tree limb scrape against the house. In my drowsy state, it sounded like someone running across the roof.