The Awakening Read online

  He hadn’t answered, I realized, so I gave him a reprieve. “You’re here with—”

  “There’s a group of us.”

  A meeting of the Congé?

  I said very casually, “I heard about your engagement. I should congratulate you.”

  Something flickered in his eyes, an emotion I didn’t dare name. “Thank you.” Unlike his eyes, his tone was impassive to the point of dismissive. I tried not to read anything into it.

  I started to ask if they’d set a date, make the proper small talk about his upcoming nuptials, but instead I shrugged. “I really should get back.”

  “I won’t keep you. But I’m glad I had a chance to say hello.” That beguiling flicker again and a little half smile that made me wonder once more about the unlikely coincidence of our meeting.

  Despite his engagement, a part of me wanted him to protest my departure. In the back of my mind floated a vision. His hand sliding up my bare arm as he pulled me farther into the shadowy alcove where he would stare deeply into my eyes for a long, heart-stopping moment before he kissed me.

  He was already staring deeply into my eyes, I realized, and his gaze lingered on my lips as if he had read my mind. He straightened languorously, reminding me of all those long, dreamy mornings in bed. I might not know his motives or intentions or even the content of his heart, but I knew his body, all the angles and shadows. The ripple of sinewy muscle.

  “I—nice to see you again,” I murmured.

  “Good night,” he said, and as I brushed past him, I could have sworn I heard an ominous whisper in my ear. “Watch your back, Amelia.”

  * * *

  I went back to the table and sipped my cooling tea as I glanced around the dining room. I didn’t see where Devlin had disappeared to or Temple, either, for that matter. Which was just as well as far as I was concerned. The last thing I wanted was to see Devlin with his gorgeous fiancée, and as for my dinner companion, I needed a moment before facing her. Temple’s ability to read me bordered on the uncanny. She would know something was up the minute she sat down across from me and I wasn’t prepared for another grilling about Devlin. My only hope was that she would be sufficiently distracted by her apparent infatuation with Rance Duvall and wouldn’t notice the high color in my cheeks or the slight tremor in my hands.

  As I waited for her return, I tried to distract myself by going back over everything that had happened at Woodbine Cemetery. Staring into my cup, I conjured the infant’s face floating on the surface of my tea. The expression captured by the photographer still distressed me. The big eyes, the button nose, the soft cheeks—common attributes of almost any two-year-old. But behind that sweet countenance something dark lurked. Or was that merely my imagination? Was I searching for something in the child’s violet eyes that existed only in my head?

  I sank so deeply into contemplation that the music didn’t register at first. The canned melody was soothing background noise, nothing more. Then slowly the haunting strands wove into my consciousness as familiarity teased me. What was that song? I still couldn’t place it. The tune seemed right there at the edge of my memory. Eerily pervasive and yet maddeningly elusive.

  The room grew frigid, a dank, seeping bone-frost that often preceded the dead. I rubbed my arms and glanced around yet again. The other diners seemed impervious to the chill, but the cold wasn’t my imagination. The corners of the window had rimed and I could see my breath on the air.

  I turned to the garden in fear. Twilight had deepened to nightfall and the candles on the tables sputtered in a draft. My spine crawled as dread mingled with the cold. I told myself to look away. A manifestation in the garden was nothing to me. No ghost could touch me on hallowed ground and the talisman I wore around my neck was added protection. I was safe inside this former rectory. Safe inside my consecrated bubble.

  But I couldn’t tear my gaze from the window. Even as I watched the frost spread and crackle across the glass, even as my hand crept to Rose’s key, I could feel an insidious presence tearing at my fingers, stealing my will as my defenses crumpled.

  The scent of woodbine oozed in with the cold. The cloying perfume leached through the glass to whorl around my senses like smoke. I sat enthralled—trapped—as my gaze darted about the garden, searching for the ghost child even as I tried to recoil from her icy tentacles.

  She was well hidden and nearly transparent. If not for the faint glow of her manifestation, I wouldn’t have noticed her at all. But as soon as I focused on her, she grew more substantial, as if the warmth of my concentration imbued and emboldened her. The last of the shadows melted away and she stood exposed, an ethereal vision bathed in silky moonlight.

  She had manifested in the same white dress as before but I could see more detail now. A row of black buttons set against a scalloped seam decorated the bodice, and a plaid ribbon trimmed the drop waist. She wore patent leather shoes with white tights, and another ribbon dangled from her long blond hair. Her attire was obviously from another decade. Late sixties to midseventies, perhaps, though I was no expert on fashion. She looked to be dressed for church, but her young features were twisted in angry defiance—and a touch of fear, I thought—as she stood with her hands behind her back hiding something in the folds of her skirt.

  I became so fixated on her shimmering form that I felt myself slip deeper into enthrallment. She had my undivided attention, but she seemed unmindful of me. She didn’t peer at me from the shadows as she’d done in the cemetery. She didn’t taunt me or try to make contact. It was as if I’d somehow entered her memory, a voyeur to something that had happened in the past. The ghost wasn’t aware of me because I didn’t yet exist. I didn’t belong in her world.

  For the longest time, she stood motionless, hands behind her back, face tilted. Still defiant, still angry, still hiding her fear. Someone was with her, I realized. Someone invisible to me. Her companion must have said something to her for she tried to back away only to be drawn up short as though forcibly restrained. Her wrists were pried from her back, but whatever she had locked in her fist remained hidden from me. Her companion shook her hard, may even have struck her. The child’s eyes widened in fear and shock as she flew backward, bouncing and tumbling as if rolling down a steep flight of stairs. Her body came to a jarring halt, arms flung wide, head tilted at a sickening angle.

  I half rose from my chair even though I could do nothing. The tragedy had occurred long ago, before I was born, before I had discovered that nameless grave hidden deep inside the willow trees. I couldn’t go back in time. I couldn’t save the child because she was already dead.

  My heart continued to pound and I grew dizzy with emotion. I didn’t want to be in that child’s memory. I didn’t want to see any more of her past. Surely she had revealed to me all that she had intended.

  But no. She wasn’t done with me yet.

  As I sat pressing my great-grandmother’s key to my breast, the apparition floated up from the ground, limbs and head dangling as if carried by her unseen assailant. As they neared the edge of the garden, the ghost child’s nebulous form pivoted back to me briefly as if the attacker had turned to make certain no one had witnessed the crime.

  For one terrifying instant, I could have sworn I felt those invisible eyes upon me, warning me away, cautioning me to say nothing. Reminding me that this was not my business.

  The scene faded. The ghost child vanished as a curtain of shadows once again lowered over the garden.

  Seven

  I sat stunned, my gaze riveted to the spot where the ghost had vanished as the frost on the window receded. The air around me warmed, but my bones felt cold and brittle. I drew a shaky breath as my every instinct tingled an ominous warning.

  Forget what you saw. Ignore what you feel. Don’t get dragged into another dead-world mystery.

  But it was too late for caution. Too late to seek asylum in den
ial. The ghost child had already latched on to me, robbing me of warmth and energy, and in due time she would usurp my vitality unless I could help her move on.

  Now I knew why my presence in Woodbine Cemetery had awakened her. Now I knew what she wanted of me. She had been murdered and no matter how much I might wish to believe otherwise, she wouldn’t return to her grave until her killer had been exposed.

  It wasn’t the first time a ghost had come to me seeking justice, but a murdered child was an entirely different level of horror. Who would have done such a thing to that little girl? And how could I uncover a killer when I didn’t even know the identity of the victim?

  I touched a finger to the window. It was cool from the night air and nothing more. The temperature inside the restaurant was pleasant, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I reached for my sweater, draping it over my shoulders and clutching it to my chest as I searched the garden for the specter. She was gone, melted back into the shadows of the dead world.

  I picked up my tea and then set down the cup with a clatter when I realized someone had approached the table. I assumed Temple had returned and arranged my expression so as not to give away my distress. But when I glanced up, another shock rolled through me and my fingers tightened reflexively around Rose’s key.

  The woman who stood over me was a stranger, but I knew her name, knew her face, knew that smile tugging at her ruby lips as she stared down at me. I knew the sound of her voice even though we’d never spoken. She was Claire Bellefontaine, Devlin’s fiancée.

  Even if I’d never seen her in person, I would have recognized her from the engagement photo that had run in the paper. A photo that I had regarded far longer and far more often than I should have, truth be told. But I had seen her in person and recently.

  Only a few weeks ago I’d been walking back to my car on Tradd Street when the lights of an oncoming vehicle had startled me into a recessed doorway. From my hiding place, I had observed first Devlin and then Claire Bellefontaine enter a shadowy courtyard. Their clandestine behavior had seemed peculiar to me and I became convinced the shrouded carriage house beyond the courtyard was, in fact, the inner sanctum of the powerful and deadly Congé.

  I had no proof, of course, but I trusted my instincts and by then Dr. Shaw had informed me of the infamous list and had warned me of the Devlins’ connection to the nefarious group. If Claire Bellefontaine was also involved, I now found myself in the presence of a very dangerous and cunning enemy.

  Before either of us spoke, two thoughts ran simultaneously through my head. One: no matter that I still reeled from the shock of the ghost child’s revelation, I couldn’t give myself away to the woman standing over me. Two: now that I had the opportunity to observe her up close, she was far more attractive than I could have ever imagined. Easily one of the most beautiful women I’d ever encountered. A cool, ethereal blonde. The physical opposite of Devlin’s late wife, Mariama, a fiery Gullah temptress. I didn’t like to think where I fell on that spectrum.

  Claire’s silvery-gold hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, highlighting her near-perfect bone structure. Her eyes were blue, her lips full and her skin tanned and flawless. She wore a simple white sheath, exquisitely cut and adorned with a single gold chain.

  “Please forgive the intrusion,” she said in a cultured drawl that reminded me of Devlin’s, but the tentative note in her voice took me aback.

  “Yes?” My heart fluttered a warning as another thought came to me. Had she seen me with Devlin in the alcove? Nothing had happened but a cordial conversation, so why did I suddenly feel like the other woman? The role didn’t sit well with me and I tried to shake off the lingering effects of that brief encounter.

  Her fingers curled around the back of Temple’s chair. I couldn’t help but note that her nails were clipped short and perfectly manicured. I didn’t see a ring on her finger and hated myself for looking.

  “We’ve never met, but I know you by reputation. I’m Claire Bellefontaine.” She extended her hand and I could do nothing but offer mine in return. Her grip was appropriately firm and she didn’t linger awkwardly as if to prove a point, yet I felt an intense relief the moment she released me.

  I dropped my hand to my lap and threaded my fingers together. “Amelia Gray.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I know who you are. As I said, your reputation precedes you.”

  Surely she hadn’t come over to my table to make a scene, so why was she here?

  “I’m on the board that administers the Woodbine Cemetery Trust,” she said. “I wanted to tell you in person how happy we are that you’ll be overseeing the restoration.”

  She couldn’t have caught me more by surprise, but I managed a courteous reply.

  “Other firms were recommended, but your work speaks for itself,” she went on. “And of course, you have an ardent admirer in Rupert Shaw. He’s an acquaintance of yours, I believe.”

  “We’re friends, yes, but I had no idea he was involved in the Woodbine project.” Yet more alarm bells sounded. Why hadn’t Dr. Shaw told me earlier about his involvement? Why had he pretended to know so little about the cemetery? I supposed it was possible that he could serve on the board and still be uninformed about the day-to-day details, but why not at least mention his recommendation?

  Claire’s expression remained guileless, but something hard lurked beneath that cool surface. “Perhaps he didn’t want you to think that he had influenced the outcome. But I assure you that despite his wholehearted endorsement, the board would never have awarded you the contract if we hadn’t been unanimously impressed by your résumé and portfolio.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s all I wanted to say. I won’t keep you any longer.” She produced a card from her bag and placed it on the table. “I know you already have a contact on the board, but if you ever have a question or problem that can’t be resolved to your satisfaction, please feel free to call me. This project means a great deal to me. You see, I have family in Woodbine.”

  “I understand.” She had family in Woodbine? In one of the unnamed graves?

  “Good night, Miss Gray.”

  “Good night.”

  She walked away, trailing the faintest scent of sandalwood and privilege. The other diners watched her. Men and women alike. Her beauty and charisma were palpable. What a magnetic couple she and Devlin must make.

  I picked up her card. The stock was thick and creamy. Expensive and understated. Claire Bellefontaine. Attorney at Law.

  The restaurant had grown cold again. I thought perhaps my suspicions regarding Devlin’s fiancée had chilled me. It wasn’t every day I found myself in such close quarters with a possible member of the Congé, someone whose mission it was to stamp out unnaturals like me.

  But the frost was otherworldly. I turned to the garden, startled to find the ghost child hovering directly outside the window, so close I could have touched her cold face if not for the glass between us. I could see her features clearly now, could sense her powerful emotions. Her pale hands were clenched at her sides and as I sat there riveted by her nearness, her mouth dropped open and she emitted a piercing howl. The inhuman sound was so ear-splittingly shrill that I thought the window might shatter.

  I resisted the urge to cover my ears, but the sound sliced like a blade through my nerve endings. The pain became so intense I felt physically ill. I glanced around at the nearest diners. How could they not hear that scream? How could they remain impervious to such bone-chilling rage?

  She remained right outside the window, but she wasn’t looking in at me, I realized. Her anger was directed elsewhere. When I followed her icy gaze to the front of the restaurant, I saw that she was staring at Claire Bellefontaine.

  And Claire Bellefontaine stared back at me.

  Eight

  I said good-night to Temple and left the restaurant alone. She didn�
��t seem to mind. She headed off to the bar for another drink and I suspected she’d already made plans with Rance Duvall. I didn’t like the idea, but there was nothing I could do about it. Temple had a mind of her own and even if I could have offered a cogent argument for staying away from Duvall, she wouldn’t have listened to me. I comforted myself with the reminder that she’d always been a savvy judge of character and could take care of herself. Right now I had other issues to worry about.

  My head swirled with everything the ghost child had revealed to me in the garden. The sound of her scream still echoed in my ears. As stunned as I’d been by that dreadful howl, an even greater shock came with the realization that the ghost’s focus had been trained on Claire Bellefontaine. What was their connection?

  Claire’s attention had been directed at me, but something in her frozen expression made me wonder if she’d seen or heard the apparition for herself. Or had at least sensed a supernatural presence. Dr. Shaw had once told me that he believed many of the Congé were sensitive to the other world, thus making them adept at ferreting out the unnatural. Had she read something on my face or in my eyes that aroused her suspicions? Or—an even darker thought—had Devlin told her about me? Had he confided his own suspicions regarding my gift?

  Whatever the case, the encounter had left me trembling and dazed. Her involvement with Woodbine Cemetery couldn’t be a coincidence and I had to wonder why Dr. Shaw, knowing what he knew of my gift, knowing what he knew of the Congé, hadn’t at least warned me about her. Instead, according to Claire, he’d recommended me for the job and until I had a chance to speak with him again, I could only speculate as to his motive. Surely it would have been best for everyone if I’d stayed far away from Devlin’s fiancée.