The Prophet Page 11

  “And gray dust?”

  “Gray dust has nothing to do with hallucinogenic visions,” Dr. Shaw said. “It has a property that literally stops the heart. The initiate flatlines. In a medical environment, he would be considered clinically dead anywhere from seconds to minutes. During that interval, his spirit is able to leave the body and enter the realm of the dead, not through visions, but because his life in this world has ceased. And because he is dead, there are no obstacles to overcome. No barriers to cross. He can move through the spirit world as freely as his ancestors, traveling into realms unimaginable even through visions and hallucinations. The danger, of course, is wandering too far and becoming lost. After a certain amount of time passes, the physical body can’t be resuscitated. The shell withers and dies or, in some cases, is invaded by another spirit. At least…that’s the claim.”

  I found myself shivering again. This whole conversation was bizarre and unsettling. Not that I didn’t believe it. I knew better than anyone that the spirit world existed as surely as the living world, but the notion of someone purposely traveling through the veil was unfathomable to me. I hadn’t yet thrown off the shackles of my father’s rules even though I had apparently embraced my arrangement with Robert Fremont. It was as though I once again found myself suspended between two worlds, only now the tug-of-war was being waged between my past and my future. Between the safety net of what I knew and feared, and my desire to attain a higher purpose. But I couldn’t remain in this limbo forever. The ghosts wouldn’t let me. Already they were seeking me out.

  “What about the ones who make it back from the spirit world?” I asked. “The ones who are resuscitated. Do they suffer from any side effects?”

  “Some report a spiritual enlightenment and feelings of euphoria, while others suffer from episodes akin to PTSD. And still others undergo drastic transformations both mentally and physically from what they saw on the other side. Or from what they brought back.”

  “Brought back? You mean like ghosts?” I thought about Shani and Mariama. Had Devlin brought them back from the Gray? Was that what Shani seemed so desperate to tell him?

  “If gray dust makes it easier for the living to enter the realm of the dead, it stands to reason the reverse would also be true, would it not?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Idly, he stirred his tea. “There are those among the Gullah even today who believe something as simple as an improper burial can allow the dead to come back and control the lives of the living. If a root doctor has enough power, he can enter the spirit world and bring back the dead himself. He can also attack his enemies in the dream realm, when they’re most vulnerable.”

  Once again, I thought about Fremont’s insinuation that Dr. Shaw’s interest in rootwork stemmed from some evil intent. I still couldn’t buy it. Everything I knew of Rupert Shaw pointed to a man of good character. “Did rootwork originate in Gabon?”

  “Like most of the Southern conjure arts, it’s based upon the beliefs and practices of a number of religions in west and central Africa. A sort of spiritual soup seasoned with Christianity. The foundation of rootwork, like Bwiti, is the mystical and medicinal quality of certain plants. A smear of blood root paste will cure your skin irritations, a pinch of goldenseal will help your digestion.” He stared down into his cooling tea. “A little celandine will ward off evil spirits and the law. And anything else that may hound you…”

  He seemed to drift off again, and I leaned toward him in concern. “Dr. Shaw? Are you okay?”

  He roused from his lethargy and rose to claim another book from a nearby shelf. Blowing dust from the cover, he handed it to me. I glanced down at the title: Sticks and Stones—Roots and Bones.

  “That’ll get you started,” he said. “If you still have questions, come back and see me. I can even arrange a consultation with a root doctor, if you’d like.”

  “Essie Goodwine?”

  A brow lifted. “If you feel up to taking a drive. Otherwise, we can walk down the street and talk to my old friend, Primus—”

  He swayed, and I laid the book aside as I jumped to my feet to take his arm. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a little dizziness,” he murmured.

  He tottered again and my grip tightened. “What should I do?”

  “Help me to my seat, if you would.” His voice sounded strained, and I could see the sheen of perspiration on his face. “It’ll pass in a moment.”

  I led him back to his chair and waited until he was safely settled. The hand he lifted to cover his eyes trembled.

  “Do you have these episodes often?” I asked worriedly.

  “Every now and then.”

  “It’s none of my business, but do you think it wise to climb ladders? Especially when you’re alone?”

  “I usually have some warning before a spell comes on,” he said, dropping his hand from his eyes. “At any rate, it’s passing already. I feel fine now.”

  “Are you sure I can’t get you something? Call someone?”

  “Please, don’t trouble yourself. It really is nothing. But perhaps we could continue our conversation at another time?”

  “Of course. I’ll get out of your hair.” I went around the desk to retrieve my bag.

  “Before you go…” His voice lowered, and I saw his gaze dart to the French doors as though he were afraid someone lurked out in the garden. “There’s something I must tell you.”

  I glanced down in alarm. “What is it?”

  His blue eyes looked troubled and very intense. Frightened, I would say. “You must be very careful who you talk to about this. And don’t repeat any of what was said here today.”

  My pulse quickened as my hand tightened around the strap of my bag. “Of course, but may I ask why?”

  “Gray dust is an innocuous name for a sacred substance that is used sparingly even by the most powerful shamans and witch doctors. An unseemly interest by someone outside the sect might be taken as blasphemy and could put you at considerable risk.”

  “At risk? You mean someone might try to harm me?”

  “Not physically perhaps, but…tell me, my dear, do you keep bay leaves in the house? Citronella candles, perhaps? Or some eucalyptus? Dragon’s blood under your pillow would be even better.”

  “Why do I need them?”

  He didn’t seem to hear me. He’d drifted off yet again, and after a moment, I quietly slipped away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As I exited the Institute, I heard my name called from across the street. It was the cautious hail of someone who thought she knew me but had some doubt. That still happened on occasion. I was sometimes recognized as The Graveyard Queen from an online ghost video that had gone viral months ago. Now that the clip had run its course, my notoriety was fading. More common were the puzzled glances from fellow taphophiles who recognized but couldn’t place me.

  Clementine Perilloux had pulled up in front of the house next door and was just getting out of her car. She waved gaily when she had my attention and motioned for me to join her on the sidewalk. I walked down the drive and crossed the street to speak with her.

  “Fancy meeting you here!” she exclaimed, lifting a hand to swipe back her windblown hair. She was dressed in jeans and an olive sweater that did lovely things to her eyes and picked up the auburn highlights in her curls. “Although you did say you visit this place from time to time.” Her gaze roamed over the graceful columns and generous piazzas of the Institute. “I’ve always loved this house. It looks as though it’s straight from the pages of Gone with the Wind, doesn’t it? What’s it like on the inside?”

  “It’s pretty well-preserved for the most part. Lots of books and antiques.” I followed her gaze. Yes, the house was beautiful, but now my worry for Dr. Shaw’s health had cast a pall over the Institute. In the space of only minutes, the charming, absentminded professor I’d become so fond of had morphed into a fragile, doddering old man whose symptoms—I would swear—had been exacerbated by whate
ver herb he’d stirred into his tea.

  And what of Layla? She was neither fresh-faced nor fervent, neither Goth nor Southern like so many of her predecessors. She was polished and sophisticated, and I found her territorial behavior as intriguing as it was unsettling.

  “Of course, I’ve only seen the ground floor,” I told Clementine. “The upper stories are Dr. Shaw’s private quarters.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Dr. Shaw?” I heard the usual description slip through my lips. Elegant. Refined. Professorial. But now I couldn’t help wondering about the look on his face when I’d first mentioned gray dust. That malevolent shadow, no matter how fleeting, chilled me even now in memory.

  “What goes on in there?” Clementine’s little shiver mirrored my own disquiet. “Séances? Experiments? Secret rituals?” She widened her eyes in exaggeration. “Sacrifices?”

  I smiled dryly. “Hardly. At least not to my knowledge. Dr. Shaw’s work is primarily focused on research. He leaves the fieldwork up to his team unless a particularly juicy case crosses his desk.”

  “And just what constitutes a juicy case?” Clementine asked with another shudder. “Or do I even want to know?”

  “I’m not personally familiar with his criteria. If you’re interested, you should go over and talk to him sometime. I’m sure he’d love to hear about your family’s history of palmists.”

  “Maybe I will.” She slanted a doubtful glance at the Institute. “Anyway, speaking of palmists, I’ve just come to drop off a goody basket for Isabel from Grandmother. If you’re not in too much of a hurry, why don’t you come in with me? I’m dying for you to meet her.”

  A dozen excuses flashed through my head, but I really did want to meet Isabel Perilloux. I’d been curious about Madam Know-it-all before I’d ever seen her with Devlin—before I even knew Devlin—having long been an admirer of the irony and wit that had come up with such a moniker.

  But…what if Devlin was with her right now? The very idea made me cringe. Such a scenario had the makings of a terribly awkward moment, one that I wanted to avoid at all costs. Our last meeting had taken a lot out of me. I needed time to regroup before I dealt with Devlin and his ghosts again.

  Quickly, I scanned the street. I didn’t see his car, but I did spot the blue Buick pulled to the curb a few houses down. The driver stood leaning against the front fender, feet crossed, arms folded as if waiting for someone. His head was turned so that I still couldn’t see his features. But there was something about him that niggled. I knew him. I couldn’t place him, but somehow, somewhere our paths had crossed. I was certain of it.

  Was he the same man I’d seen on King Street that morning? Had he followed me here?

  I rubbed the back of my neck where a warning had started to tingle.

  “What’s wrong?” Clementine asked.

  “That man leaning against the blue car…have you seen him around here before?”

  She lifted a hand to shade her eyes as she stared down the street. “Nope, never. Why? Do you know him?”

  “He seems a little familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He looks harmless enough. Of course,” she said cheerfully, “that’s what they said about Ted Bundy. Or was it Jeffrey Dahmer?”

  At least she hadn’t mentioned a killer that hit more closely to home.

  As my gaze moved away from the Buick, I glanced across the street at the Institute. Layla stood at the front window looking out at me. She didn’t melt back into the shadows when I caught her staring but instead boldly held my gaze until I finally turned back to Clementine.

  “So, anyway,” she was saying. “Do you have time to come meet my sister?”

  “She wouldn’t mind me just dropping in like this?”

  “Of course not. Why would she mind? She’s used to drop-ins, and she’s forever badgering me about making new friends. Come on. It’ll be an experience.”

  An experience? I was a little afraid of that.

  Reluctantly, I followed her up the walkway, glancing back once at the Institute and once at the man in the dark glasses. Why couldn’t I remember where I’d seen him?

  Telling myself to relax about the whole matter, I tried to tune out those nagging anxieties as Clementine chattered away. I used the diversion to scope out her sister’s place, a white cottage with green shutters and a wraparound veranda. As we climbed the porch steps, I noticed the calico from Dr. Shaw’s garden stretched out in a cane rocker, watching us curiously.

  “Hello, Ursula,” Clementine greeted as she reached down to rub the feline’s head.

  “Beautiful cat,” I murmured.

  “And she well knows it. You’re quite the princess, aren’t you, my lovely?”

  Ursula yawned.

  “Is she polydactyl?” I hadn’t noticed the six toes earlier. “She reminds me of a storybook illustration. There’s so much character in that face.”

  Clementine laughed. “You almost expect her to speak, don’t you? Although I can only imagine what she’d have to say. She’s so above it all. Actually, she and Isabel do carry on conversations, it’s just that no one else can understand them.”

  Clementine straightened and knocked on the door. When no one answered, she took out her own key. “Isabel said she might be running late.” She held the screen door for both Ursula and me. The cat pranced in first, and I followed meekly behind her.

  “I’ll go make some tea,” Clementine said as she hung up her scarf and bag in the tiny foyer. Then she gestured toward the parlor on the left. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

  I glanced curiously through the archway. It was a small space, but stylishly decorated in chartreuse and cream with touches of black and lots of pillows. A row of windows looked out on the veranda, and I walked over to take a peek through the blinds to see if I could still spot the Buick. Then I told myself I was being ridiculous. Just let it go.

  Across the foyer, another arch led into what must have once been the dining room but now appeared to be the space where Madam Know-it-all conducted her readings. I couldn’t resist a closer inspection. The decor was so much more dramatic than the parlor, with red fringed scarves, beaded curtains and scented candles strategically placed for ambient lighting. Slowly, I walked around the room, admiring a collection of vintage postcards that had been framed and mounted on the wall. A small table and four chairs were placed in the center of the room. On the table were a deck of tarot cards, a deck of Zener cards used to test clairvoyance and a crystal ball.

  A more sophisticated eye might cringe at the odd little kickshaws displayed about the room, but I appreciated the whimsy.

  A shadow fell over me, and I caught the whiff of some delectable perfume, a scent that was lush and hypnotic. Haunting, I would even say.

  An unpleasant sensation whispered along my nerve endings as I turned. There she was, leaning against the door frame watching me. Devlin’s lovely brunette.

  For whatever reason, Robert Fremont chose that moment to come creeping into my head. All I remember is the scent of her perfume. The smell was still on my clothes when I died.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Outwardly, I showed no reaction, but my pulse jumped as our gazes met. I tried to assess her without the ghost of Fremont in my head or the specter of Devlin’s arms wrapped around her, but that was impossible. I could see him even now slipping up behind her, murmuring in her ear.

  She was gorgeous. Naturally, she would be, and I wasn’t a big enough person to stifle the needle of jealousy that nicked at my poise. She was tall, with dark hair that spilled over her shoulders in windblown spirals and hazel eyes fringed with thick, curly lashes. Her lips were tinted with a light-colored gloss, but I thought the roses in her cheeks were natural. She looked a good deal like Clementine but without her sister’s effervescence. Isabel was much more subdued, much more guarded, as she stood there returning my stare.

  In the split second before either of us spoke, it occu
rred to me that she must have come in another way because I hadn’t heard the front door or her footsteps. She’d just appeared there in the archway. Despite the mild weather, she wore a coat in a chic military style that complimented her lean lines. She unbuttoned it now as she took a step into the room.

  “I hope you don’t mind my having a look around,” I said awkwardly. “I was just waiting for Clementine.”

  “Not at all. You must be Amelia. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  From who? I wondered.

  She came forward and offered her hand. “I’m Isabel.”

  “Clementine has told me a lot about you, too,” I said.

  The handshake was brief, but her grip was warm and firm, and she looked me directly in the eyes when we spoke. I appreciated that.

  “So, you’re Amelia,” she murmured again, and I thought she studied my face a shade longer than was polite.

  Discomfited by the scrutiny, I turned. “This is such an interesting room.”

  “I’m glad you like it. It’s a little over the top, but it serves the purpose.” She slipped out of her coat and tossed it onto the back of a chair. As she moved about the table, her scent came to me again, dreamy and exotic, and now it reminded me of the fragrance I’d smelled on the walkway just before I’d entered Clementine’s garden. On anyone else, such a heady perfume might have been cloying, but somehow it seemed as much a part of her as the green-gold eyes and dark hair.

  Picking up the deck of tarot cards, she idly tossed out a few face up on the table. I saw Justice, the Page of Swords, the Moon and one that might have been lovers before she quickly scooped them up. A little shiver went through me because I had the notion she’d just done an impromptu reading, and judging by the speed with which she’d returned them to the deck, she hadn’t liked what she’d seen saw.