Vendetta (Deadly Curiosities Book 2) (15 page)

Valerie was waiting for us. Teag had brought Anthony along, and they both waved. “Hey, it’s a rare chance to combine work and a romantic nighttime walk past haunted houses,” Teag joked. I noticed he had his messenger bag with him, likely full of some of his magical tools. He also carried his long staff, and I saw him note my walking stick. Anthony was wearing a scarf Teag had woven, and I was willing to bet that it had protective magic bound into its threads and into the weaving itself.

“Please don’t think I’m a cheap date,” Anthony deadpanned. Valerie and I laughed. Anthony rocked
GQ
style, while Teag was more on the
Rolling Stone
or rumpled grad student side of fashion. Somehow, they looked right together.

“Thanks for coming,” Valerie said. I was surprised that she seemed a little nervous. Valerie is a history geek and a big Charleston supporter, so writing and researching the tours she gives is a dream job for her. She’s usually incredibly happy when she’s leading tours, and getting to work with the horses is the icing on the cake.

Tonight, Valerie seemed subdued. Due to noise restrictions, horse-drawn carriages can’t go through certain parts of the city after business hours, so most evening tours are done on foot. That made for an up-close experience that tourists usually enjoyed, but if the ghosts decided to be dangerous, being on foot could cause some real problems.

“Would you rather drive the route in a car?” I asked.

Valerie shook her head. “That’s the thing – I’m going to have to do the route on foot all the other times, so if there’s something out there that shouldn’t be, I need to know now, and not when I’ve got a group full of tourists.”

I knew Valerie wouldn’t even consider giving up the ghost tours. They were some of the company’s most popular attractions, and people came to Charleston just to go for a spooky tour specifically with her. Besides, there was no way I could explain why taking a break might be a good idea, at least until we fought off some psycho ghost-eating monsters and a supernatural predator who could look like an underwear model. Yeah. I can just imagine that conversation. Not.

Then again, even if we did somehow persuade Valerie not to do her tours, the other companies in town would still be doing theirs, and the risk would be just as real. So we might as well see what we were in for.

The sun had set, and Charleston glowed with gaslights on some of the historic streets as well as twinkle lights set into trees here and there. The area around the Charleston City Market was busy, but as we turned off onto smaller streets, we left the crowds behind. I walked behind Valerie, with Anthony behind me and Teag bringing up the rear.

I took a deep breath. Even in the fall, it seems like Charleston always smells of flowers. We headed down a narrow cobblestone street. Brick garden walls rose on either side of us, overhung with crepe myrtles and live oaks, gated with wrought iron. Somewhere nearby, water bubbled in a fountain. This was the kind of experience that drew thousands of people to Charleston and created fond memories and plenty of tourist spending.

But even as I drank in the historic atmosphere, I could sense that something was not quite right. I glanced back at Teag and he gave me a nod. He was feeling it, too. I noticed him slip a hand into his pocket and pull out a woven ball on a tether of braided twine. It was a jack ball, a Hoodoo protective charm. Teag nonchalantly began to swing it clockwise, and I felt the space around us calm with the talisman’s cleansing power.

“We’re coming up on the first location where things started to get weird,” Valerie said. Up ahead I saw a brick building that dated from the early 1700s. It had been many things over the years, most of them salacious. Brothels, taverns, gambling houses, and speakeasies had all made the two-story brick building their home. Some people might wonder why certain locations seem to attract dark pursuits, but I believe that at least some of the time it has to do with the natural energy of a site, the currents of power that flow through it and around it, the history and blood that have soaked into its foundations.

The building’s latest incarnation was as The Wallace Inn. It was a bar that attracted tourists who believed a night on the town wasn’t complete if you could remember it the next day. The Wallace Inn always seemed to be in trouble for something: its liquor license, the health inspector, bar fights, and occasionally, a missing person or two. I got a bad feeling just walking past the Inn.

Now, that warning prickle was much stronger. There was no way I wanted my back to the place, not when its energy was juiced up. Teag and I practically walked backwards for half a block just to keep an eye on the Inn as we walked by.

I heard a crack, and saw a small rock bounce away from the wooden fence behind me. More stones flew. Some missed us, while others pelted Teag and Anthony as they ran down the sidewalk away from the Inn. No one else was around.

“Did you see that?” Teag asked.

“Yeah. Classic poltergeist move,” I replied. “But I’ve never heard about The Wallace Inn having any dangerous ghosts.”

Teag shook his head. “There’s a story about a lovelorn girl who hanged herself in one of the upstairs rooms, and a petty thief who haunts the old stables because he supposedly got knifed there two hundred years ago, but those are standard tavern lore.”

I didn’t like the rock-throwing ghosts. Not only could one of Valerie’s guests get hurt, but when the supernatural begins to take physical action in the mortal world, things are likely to go bad quickly. Doing more than showing up and being seen takes power, and whatever was hanging around The Wallace Inn was both powerful and aggressive.

Valerie already had us into the next block, and thankfully the angry ghosts from the Inn did not follow. “Well, that was new,” Anthony said. “I’ve been by here a million times and never had anything throw rocks at me.”

“The next tour spot is the Hallen House,” Valerie said. “Let me know what you pick up.”

I knew the stories about the Hallen House, how the owner had been a rum smuggler and a pirate, then turned respectable when he gave up his ship and swore off the sea. Rumor said the house was haunted by members of his dead crew who had followed him home, or by ghosts from the islands trapped in cursed trinkets the captain brought back from his voyages. Nowadays, Hallen House was home to an accounting firm. The building was said to have a ghost or two, but so did every old house in Charleston.

I reached up and touched the agate necklace I wore. Agate is a stone of protection, as is the onyx in my bracelet and the black tourmaline in my ring. Just feeling the gemstone under my fingertips calmed me and stilled my jittery magic.

No rocks flew as we strolled past Hallen House. But despite the street lights and the glowing porch lights, the house seemed darker than it should be. Something moved in the shadows. I reached for my athame. Its magic is powerful, and not quite as destructive as the cane.

“You see it?” Teag murmured.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“I feel like we’re in one of those movies where the monster pops out of the shadows,” Anthony muttered.

As we passed in front of Hallen House, the gate to the walled garden suddenly slammed shut. Shutters began to rumble against the fasteners holding them open. Too-dark shadows gathered around the sides of the building.

“Look!” Anthony said, eyes wide, pointing toward one of the upstairs windows. We could see a corpse-white face against the darkness, staring down at us. The apparition couldn’t have gotten any clearer if she had lifted the sash and stuck her head out into the night. Valerie gasped as she turned to look. After another few seconds, the ghost vanished.

“That wouldn’t be hard to fake,” Anthony said, although from the uncertainty in his voice, I think he was trying to convince himself.

“No,” Teag replied thoughtfully. “But why would they? It’s an accounting firm. I could see where a bar might benefit from being haunted, but accountants aren’t supposed to be interesting. I wouldn’t think their clients would like the notoriety.”

“Now you see what the problem is,” Valerie said. “Visitors want to get a thrill, not get scared out of their sneakers.”

I suspected that Teag and I were taking this all better than the average tourist because we had faced down much worse. Anthony might be spooked, but he was used to keeping a poker face in the courtroom. Tourists looking for a mild shiver wouldn’t consider this fun.
Are the ghosts amped up because they’re afraid of the Reapers? Is that why they’ve suddenly gotten aggressive, because they’re scared of being eaten by wraiths?

I knew most of the ghost stories that Valerie told, but she was such a good storyteller I didn’t mind hearing them again. Charleston had more than its share of pirates, rogues, gamblers, tragic love affairs, and scandals, so tales of dirty deeds and tawdry goings-on made for thrilling fare.
It’s all fun and games until someone ends up as a ghost…

Valerie took us past St. Philip’s Church and its beautiful cemetery. Behind crumbling brick walls, tombstones stretched off into the darkness. These were old graves, some dating back to the early 1700s. The cemetery had long been said to be haunted, and it seemed right out of Hollywood’s idea for a horror movie: stones that were sometimes crooked or barely legible, lonely corners shadowed by huge trees, and a Southern Gothic moonlight and magnolias vibe that was the real thing. But tonight, none of those ghosts showed up, not even an orb. “Consecrated ground,” I murmured to Teag.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he replied.

When we reached the Old Slave Mart, it was a different story. Charleston is a beautiful city with a bloody past. Tens of thousands of enslaved Africans and people from the Caribbean were auctioned like cattle at the Old Slave Mart. Anyone with a hint of a psychic gift finds the building very uncomfortable because of its stone tape images and the impression so much grief and misery left in every inch of its construction. Although the building has been converted to a museum and gallery, I couldn’t bring myself to visit after the first time, which went badly, to say the least.

Moans rose from the darkened building. As we passed in front of the big stone façade, I heard screams and wails. Something invisible and angry shook the huge iron gates at the building’s arched main entrance. Dark, human-shaped shadows slipped along the walls. Inside the darkened building, momentary bursts of light were visible, as if camera flashes were going off. Impossible, since the building had been closed up for hours.

“Definitely more than your guests bargain for,” Anthony observed, looking rattled by the ghostly noises.

“One more stop,” Valerie said. We walked in silence for several blocks, thinking about what we had seen. So far, the ghosts had been unusually active. Yes, Charleston is one of the most haunted cities in the United States, but that doesn’t mean that every night looks like something out of a horror movie. Charleston is a city of subtlety, manners, and decorum (at least in public), and our ghosts are subtle, too. Usually, they’re not out to scare anyone. They’re just trapped in an infinite memory loop, or trying to get a message across a gap in time they can’t bridge. Some of their stories are tragic, others are horrific, but fortunately most of them aren’t dangerous.

Now, the ghosts were restless, and I don’t think they were practicing for Halloween. There was an edge of desperation about the hauntings we had seen, and it squared with what Tad’s ghost had told us about the wraiths and what I had witnessed with the ghostly bike riders. That made me even more curious about these Reapers and whether they and the Watcher had anything to do with Sorren’s other problems.

Valerie turned down Queen Street. The Old Jail was a tourist favorite, especially for evening ghost tours. It once held Charleston’s most notorious criminals, including Lavinia Fisher, a female serial killer who ran an inn. I usually steered clear of the Old Jail. The psychic echoes of the long-ago executions were unpleasantly strong even if I took pains not to touch anything, and the malice of the long-ago inmates left an indelible impression.

Someone vanished on the steps here just a few days ago,
I thought.
Did the Reapers have a hand in it?

Traffic was quiet tonight. I wondered if people without psychic ability could still sense that something was wrong and avoided places where the ghosts were active. We drew alongside the Old Jail, and right away, I could feel a wave of cold air completely out of place in this season. It was like stepping into a meat locker. A foul smell hung in the air, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Have a message for the devil? I’ll be seeing him soon.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Not clearly,” Anthony replied. Teag nodded, and so did Valerie. We all recognized the words. It was the statement Lavinia Fisher made moments before her hanging a century ago.

I eyed the open area around the Old Jail. Once, it had been a potter’s field, the place criminals and vagrants were buried when no one else wanted them. Now, I could feel the gaze of all those spirits watching us. Ghost hunters like Kell have often talked about how angry some ghosts seem, jealous of the living. Tonight, I was certain that if those ghosts could have hitched a ride with us, to somewhere safe and warm, they would have done so in a heartbeat.

The sudden sound of a metal cup against iron bars made me jump. I looked to the jail’s gates, but there was no one in sight. We had barely moved forward when I heard a snap, a thud and a creak that sounded suspiciously like a weighted rope swinging back and forth against wood, though no one had been hanged here in over one hundred years.