The Awakening Read online

  “Like forming the Order of the Coffin and the Claw,” I said. “And the Congé.”

  “Any number of closed and exclusive societies—the latter, of course, being far more sinister than the former.”

  I leaned forward, searching his careworn face and feeling faintly alarmed by the sallowness of his skin and the dark circles beneath his eyes. He had the look of a distraught man, but perhaps his mood really was attributable to the gloomy weather. Still, his attire seemed more threadbare than usual and his thick cap of white hair wasn’t as sleekly groomed as I’d come to expect. He had turned to the garden, watching the rain in glum fascination until I softly called him back.

  He stirred and offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. My mind keeps wandering but it has nothing to do with the company. You were saying?”

  “I asked if you’d found out anything more about the Congé.”

  “I’ve pulled back on my research. One of my sources became concerned that the inquiries had been noticed, and it seemed prudent to keep a low profile, at least for the time being. What I do know is that the Congé, with the exception of a very small and fervent faction, went dormant for a long period of time. As of late, there’s been resurgence. A powerful reawakening, I’m told. Old connections have been reestablished, while new members have been recruited. The Congé remain rooted in the occult, but they are also deeply embedded in the mainstream—business, government, finance. Like the Order of the Coffin and the Claw, they favor their own and eschew the unknown. Their primary motivation is to protect and maintain the status quo. But the Congé take it one step further. They fancy themselves kingmakers with a divine mandate. They use the fears and superstitions bred by these turbulent times to satiate their lust for power.”

  “Who’s behind the resurgence?”

  His mouth tightened as he set aside his teacup with a clatter. “My sources either don’t know or won’t say, but I wonder if Jonathan Devlin might not be at the heart of it all.”

  I stared at him in shock. “Why would you think that?”

  “It’s nothing more than speculation, but the Devlin name features prominently on the list I told you about weeks ago.”

  “The membership list?”

  He nodded as he twisted his pinkie ring, the snake-and-talon insignia all too familiar to me by now. “Think about what we know of their recruitment. They conscript from exclusive groups like the Order of the Coffin and the Claw, and there is no doubt whatsoever that the Devlins have had a long and intimate history with the Order.”

  “As do you,” I pointed out. “You’ve never actually admitted your association, but you wear their emblem just as Devlin does.”

  “You’re referring to my ring,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “I believe I once told you that I picked it up at a flea market.”

  “That is what you said.”

  “Even if I had once been affiliated with the Order, someone with my background and interests would never have been allowed into the exalted inner circle. And after my unseemly dismissal from Emerson University, I would have been further marginalized if not outright ostracized.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  He stared down at the ring. “If such a thing had happened, someone with my disposition, stripped of my reputation and power, might take a perverse pleasure in finding the venerated emblem at a lowly flea market. I might enjoy wearing said token, not out of vanity or misplaced loyalty, but as a poke in the eye at the elites. After all, they do like to keep their symbols unsullied.”

  “I can see how that would be satisfying,” I said, not knowing whether or not I believed him. Claws were notoriously wily. “So the Congé recruits only from this exalted inner circle? Is that how they’ve remained under the radar for so long? Most of the Order wouldn’t even be aware of them then.”

  “Correct. As I’ve said before, the elite chosen from the elite. The Devlin name carries the weight of aristocracy and tradition, perhaps more than any other of the old families. They’ve managed to remain virtually untainted through the generations, despite John’s marriage to Mariama Goodwine. My guess is, Jonathan Devlin knows he isn’t long for this world so he’s putting his affairs in order and cementing his legacy.”

  “And he expects John to take over when he’s gone?”

  “He is the grandson and heir apparent. The only other living Devlin so far as I know. That in itself adds cachet.”

  Once the conversation turned to Devlin, I found myself back on the Battery staring up at that third-story balcony. The intensity of his stare lingered in the prickle at my nape and in the sudden thud of my heart.

  “I’ve always been very fond of John,” Dr. Shaw said with a sigh. “I believe that, unlike his grandfather, he is at heart an honorable man. But if I’m allowed to speak plainly, the more distance you put between yourself and the Devlins, the better off you’ll be.”

  “That is plainly spoken,” I said.

  “I’ve never made any secret of my disdain for Jonathan Devlin. He is a cold, ruthless man who destroys anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in his path.”

  “That’s a very bold statement. I wasn’t aware you knew him that well.”

  His gaze hardened. “We haven’t traveled in the same circle for years, but my opinion hasn’t changed. And if I’m right about his connection to the Congé, he is also very dangerous. As I said, you should stay far away from that family.”

  “So it would seem,” I murmured, still taken aback by the sharpness in his tone. I’d never seen Dr. Shaw like this, even during the time he’d been under the influence of a diabolical assistant. He didn’t seem drugged or dazed today, but he was clearly preoccupied and not a little perturbed.

  We both fell silent, lost in our own chaotic thoughts. Then Dr. Shaw let out another heavy sigh. “I’ve said enough about Jonathan Devlin. He is not a fit subject for such a gray day. We should get back to the subject of Woodbine.”

  “Because a cemetery is such a cheerful topic,” I said with a smile.

  “For us it is.”

  “Yes.” I was happy enough to comply. For some reason, Dr. Shaw’s animosity toward Devlin’s grandfather made me uneasy, even though he was right to worry. Any member of the Congé, let alone the leader, could be lethal to someone like me and perhaps to Dr. Shaw, as well. “Here’s something that might interest you,” I said. “Woodbine has a ghost.”

  Dr. Shaw lifted a snowy brow. “Only one?”

  “I’ve seen just the one, though I have a feeling the cemetery is a very haunted place. All those buried secrets.” I shivered. “This ghost is the spirit of a little girl. And she appears to be a very angry entity.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I don’t even know who she was. The only clue I have is an unnamed grave hidden within a copse of willow trees. The memorial is carved in the shape of a crib and the nameplate has only birth and death dates. The ghost seems to have a connection to this grave and I thought at first she was the spirit of the child buried there. But the infant died at the age of two and the ghost girl appears to have been ten or so when she passed.”

  “Sisters?”

  “That was my second thought. The ghost child came to my house last night and almost broke a window. I didn’t see her, but I sensed her out in the garden. She manifests with the smell of honeysuckle and a strange, haunting melody that I can sometimes hear in the wind chimes.”

  “Intriguing.”

  “Very. Before she appeared last night, I had a dream about her. The caretaker called her a bad seed.”

  “Do you think that explains her anger?”

  “No. Despite what I’ve read about an evil gene, I don’t believe children are born bad. Something happens in their life to turn them.”

  “Or someone.”

  Too late, I thought of his son
, Ethan, a man with dark secrets and deadly tendencies. Ethan Shaw hadn’t been born evil and Dr. Shaw had certainly been a benevolent if somewhat absentminded role model. They had always seemed close. And yet Ethan Shaw had fallen prey to outside manipulations and his own misplaced affections until one day he had brought a gun to my house and shot Devlin in cold blood before he, himself, had been shot and killed.

  I wondered if Dr. Shaw was also thinking about his son and if I should openly acknowledge the tender subject. Or should I pretend the awkward silence was only a lull in the conversation?

  “Looking back, you think you can pinpoint exactly when they made the wrong turn,” he mused. “Where and why mistakes were made. And then years later you learn, quite unexpectedly, that you never really had a clue. Forces were at play you never saw coming.” He picked up a silver letter opener from his desk and absently fingered the edge.

  “I—yes, that’s probably true.” I felt bad that he couldn’t open up to me in a more direct way. He had helped me through so many difficult times and he was obviously in the throes of rumination and regret. I wondered what had put him in such a state, the where and the why of his current deliberation.

  Absently, he twisted the letter opener in his hand until the jewel in the handle caught the light. Something about his fixation chilled me. Then he rallied and gave me a tenuous smile. “Your ghost. Why do you think she tried to break your window?”

  I shrugged. “She wants my attention. And like all the others, she needs my help.”

  “Will you help her?”

  “Do I ever really have a choice? I keep hoping she’ll just fade away. But they never have before.” Now it was I who sank into gloomy contemplation. “I think other forces may be at play here, too, Dr. Shaw. I don’t know how to explain it, but I’ve had moments of déjà vu lately. Callbacks to my past that I can’t help but think have meaning. I have this looming dread that something is coming to a head. Or to an end. The caretaker found a dead crow in the bed of the crib. He called it a corpse bird. He said it was a sign that someone else was about to pass.”

  “Birds have been considered harbingers since the beginning of time. It’s true that a dead bird is often thought to be an omen, but like the death card in a tarot deck, it may not signify a literal passing.” Dr. Shaw observed me with kindly eyes. “It could be the death of something you’ve held on to for too long. An old relationship, for instance. Or the passing of an era. As with all things that end, the way then becomes clear for new opportunities. Perhaps a new destination.”

  On the surface, his words seemed hopeful, but for me, they dropped like anvils and I felt a keen sense of loss for something that had yet to go missing. “I’m not sure that interpretation makes me feel a good deal better.”

  “Letting go is a very hard thing,” he said. “Grief and guilt, even loneliness, can become a comfort. A touchstone. The road behind us, littered as it is with mistakes and heartache, can often be more appealing than the open road in front of us.”

  “I hear what you’re saying and I don’t disagree, but in this case, I can’t help thinking the omen may have a more straightforward implication. I’ve been having strange dreams. Premonitions. The corpse bird can be interpreted literally, can’t it?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, still toying with the letter opener. “A dead bird can most definitely be the harbinger of a physical death.”

  Five

  I shook off the lingering effects of that unsettling conversation and rewarded myself with another long afternoon of research. Seated in my office with my back to the windows, I switched my focus from “The Loneliest Graves” to the business of restoring Woodbine Cemetery. I’d located a map in the local archives and had already begun a preliminary perusal of the records through the online databases of the main library and the county clerk’s office. But the unnamed graves would require a more thorough digging.

  As I worked, I was drawn back time and again to that stone crib hidden in the willow trees. I had the child’s birth and death dates, so I felt certain I could eventually uncover her identity. But after a few hours at the computer, I remained stymied. Either the databases weren’t up to date or her birth and death had been recorded in another county. Or—a more troubling prospect—the official records had been purged. That seemed a drastic action but one that might corroborate Prosper Lamb’s assertion about the well-to-do and their buried secrets.

  I kept at it until early evening, when a phone call from Temple Lee drew me back out of the house for dinner. I’d once worked for Temple at the State Archeologist’s Office in Columbia and we’d remained close after my relocation to Charleston to start my own business. I didn’t often go out on weeknights, but a diversion was just what I needed, and Temple was always an entertaining dinner companion.

  By the time I left the house, the rain had finally stopped, and the dripping city basked in a golden glow as the sun sank below the church spires. I decided to walk over to Meeting Street, taking time for a brief stroll through one of the city’s churchyards before arriving at Rapture, a restaurant housed in a beautiful old building that had once been a rectory. I had learned on a previous visit that the place had been built on hallowed ground. No ghost could touch me inside and I was more than happy to leave the dead world behind me if only for the space of a meal.

  But all through dinner, my mind kept straying back to that nameless grave and to the ghost child that had hovered nearby. I couldn’t help wondering if she had manifested near the crib for a reason. She and the infant had a connection—to each other and possibly to me—that I had yet to discern. No matter how badly I wished to escape another netherworld puzzle, I could already feel the chill of her pull.

  Thankfully, Temple seemed equally distracted and paid no attention to my pensive mood. The restaurant was crowded for a Wednesday night and even as she regaled me with a tale from a current excavation, her gaze darted now and then to the entrance and she seemed uncharacteristically fidgety. Lately, I seemed to have that effect on people.

  Finally I put down my fork as I followed her gaze. “Are you expecting someone?”

  “No, why?” she asked innocently, tucking back her hair. She was dressed in teal silk tonight, a lovely bold shade that complemented her coloring. Gold earrings dangled from her lobes and it seemed to me that she’d taken extra care with her makeup. She always looked fabulous but I didn’t think her fine-tuning was for my benefit.

  “You keep watching the door,” I said.

  She smiled and shrugged. “Just checking out the scenery. No harm in that, is there?”

  “No, but I’m not sure I believe you. You have the look of someone who’s up to something. Or hiding something.” I was only half joking. Canting my head, I pretended to study her. “What’s going on with you? The way you keep watching that door makes me wonder if you had an ulterior motive for your last-minute dinner invitation. And why, out of all the restaurants in Charleston, you asked me to meet you at this one.”

  “I didn’t feel like eating alone and as to the restaurant...lovely atmosphere, impeccable service and—” she motioned to her plate “—the best shrimp and grits in the city. Not to mention the lavender ice cream. Why wouldn’t I choose Rapture?”

  “I can think of one reason,” I murmured uneasily, picking at my mushroom crepe. The rustic restaurant truly was beautiful. Candles flickered from wall sconces. Soft music played in the background. Our table looked out into the garden, where glowing lanterns seemed to float down from the tree branches. Without any hovering ghosts, the setting was dreamy and peaceful, but I couldn’t stop thinking dark thoughts.

  “Do you remember the last time we came here together?” I asked with a shiver. “You invited Ethan Shaw to join us. He’s been on my mind today.”

  Temple grimaced. “Such a charming, elegant man, or so he seemed. Who would have ever guessed he had that kind of darkness inside him?
I knew him for years. We worked together on a number of excavations and I never had an inkling.”

  “No one did. That’s what made him so dangerous. And tragic.”

  She gave me a strange look. “John Devlin was here that night, too, remember? You’d only just met, but I could tell you were already falling for him. And I knew he would be trouble. I warned you about getting involved with someone like him.”

  “Someone out of my league.”

  “Someone with his past,” she corrected. She searched my face in the candlelight. “Given how things turned out, do you ever wish you’d taken my advice?”

  “That’s a complicated question.” And one I’d pondered often on sleepless nights when the house seemed too quiet and my bed too empty.

  “Well?” Temple prompted as she regarded me across the table.

  I drew a long breath and released it. “No, I’m not sorry. Not at all. Despite everything, I wouldn’t trade a moment of my time with Devlin.”

  “Spoken like a hopeless romantic.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “It can be.” She picked up her wineglass but didn’t drink. Instead she stared into the dregs as if trying to divine an acceptable explanation. “You’ve created a fairy tale around that man. A romantic fantasy with which no ordinary mortal can compete. That’s why you can’t move on. This fascination you have for him has never been good for you, Amelia. I hope you can see that now.”

  Her words stung more than they should have, perhaps because they hit a little too close to home. “I did try to move on, and look where it got me.”

  She winced. “The police detective, you mean. The one down in Beaufort County. Yes, that was unfortunate.”

  Unfortunate? The man had tried to kill me. “Devlin’s engaged now. I’ve accepted that.”