Amanda Stevens - The Awakening

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 denial. 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.”