Amanda Stevens - The Sinner

“Do you recognize it?” he asked, still in that same numbing voice.

“It’s a Celtic triskele. The spiral of life.”

“A triskele, yes, but the origin isn’t Celtic. The symbol dates all the way back to the Egyptians. Since the beginning of time, the concept of triplism has taken many forms in many different cultures. Maiden, mother, crone. Land, sea, sky. The Trinity. For the Resurrectionists, the interlocking spirals represented birth, death and resurrection. You’re familiar with the concept of a dual soul?”

“Yes. According to some beliefs, the soul and spirit divide upon death. The soul leaves the body and transcends its earthly bounds, but the spirit lingers to interfere in the lives of the living. That’s why graves in Gullah cemeteries are sprinkled with white sand. Sometimes whole graveyards are covered in order to keep the dead from coming back as bakulu.”

“You have it partially right.” The stick continued to move in the dirt even though Darius’s gaze never left me. “When the final breath is drawn, the soul is immediately aware of death and transcends. But the spirit lingers in the body, not to interfere in the lives of the living as you suggest, but because it isn’t yet conscious of death. While the spirit still resides inside the deceased, transference may be attained.”

“Transference?”

“A powerful spell by which the spirit can be harvested from the dead and transplanted into the body of a living host.”

“You mean possession.” My voice grew heavy with dread as I flashed back to what I’d witnessed and experienced in Kroll Cemetery.

“It may be easier to think of it this way,” Darius said. “Possession is more of a hostile takeover, but transference is a peaceful merger with a willing vessel. The essence of the dead is allowed to exist in the living host, thus attaining immortality.”

“This is all very fascinating,” I said, with far more bravado than I felt. “But I still don’t understand what any of it has to do with me.” I drew my hand away from my neck and found another beetle clinging to my flesh. I flicked the insect to the ground where it scurried into one of the spirals. The symbol disappeared, leaving the poor beetle exposed in the dirt. When I looked again, I saw that the insect was nothing more than a pebble.

“Nothing is as it seems,” Darius warned. “The Resurrectionists are skilled in deception and trickery, as are their enemy, the Congé.” He pronounced the word kän-zhā.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Zealots who believe it their mission to stamp out that which they do not understand. Someone with your gift and abilities would be wise to steer clear of them.”

The Resurrectionists. The Congé. It was all very much Greek to me. But his voice was so honeyed and persuasive, I found myself nodding in agreement even though I hadn’t a clue what he meant. I realized that he had once again found a way through my defenses and I tried to summon my resistance as I fought off the seductive lethargy of his hypnosis.

“Do you understand now why you were summoned?” He peered into my eyes, into my soul.

“I don’t understand any of this,” I said.

“You were summoned because you are the only one with enough power to end this.”

My heart thudded in agitation because I instinctively knew that what he said was true. I might not be familiar with the players or the particulars. I might only understand a sliver of his convoluted missive, but I’d known from the moment I entered the caged grave circle and experienced that strange vacuum that I had been called to this place for a purpose. My gift was needed to track an uncanny killer. Yet I continued to resist because a part of me still wanted to believe that I could control my own destiny.

I mustered up a flimsy argument even though my fate was undoubtedly sealed. “You do realize what you’re asking of me, don’t you? Trying to uncover a murderer could get me killed. At the very least, I could be arrested for interfering in an official investigation. The authorities won’t take kindly to me poking my nose into places it doesn’t belong. I have to live here until I finish the restoration so I’d rather not get on Detective Kendrick’s bad side.”

Darius’s head came up and I saw a shadow move through his eyes. “Lucien Kendrick?”

His reaction startled me. “Yes, do you know him?”

“Our paths have crossed,” Darius said darkly as his gaze darted toward the woods. “From what I’ve heard about him, he is a ruthless and relentless investigator.”

“Then why not let him do his job?”

“You’re still asking the wrong questions,” he said with a rare spark of impatience. “Like your wretched John Devlin, you’re still trying to run away from who you are and what you’re meant to be.”

“Or maybe I just don’t trust you,” I said with a scowl. “If you know anything about that woman’s murder, you should go to the police yourself, no matter your history with Detective Kendrick.”

“For any number of reasons, I can’t get involved. It would be better for both of us if no one finds out that we’ve talked.”

“That hardly instills me with confidence,” I said, still with that forced bravado. “Give me one compelling reason why I should believe you, let alone help you.”

I expected him to remind me of the bargain we’d struck at Devlin’s deathbed, but instead he said, “The key you wear around your neck belonged to your great-grandmother, did it not?”

My hand flew again to my chest where the key was still concealed by my shirt. “How did...”

“The key is special,” he said. “Blessed by a divine hand. Like hallowed ground, it offers a temporary reprieve from the ghosts. But they’re irresistibly drawn to the light inside you so they’ll keep coming back, more and more, until you no longer have the means or the fortitude to protect yourself. You’ll likely suffer the same fate as your great-grandmother unless...” He trailed away tantalizingly.

“Unless...what?” I held my breath.

“There is another key, a lost key. A key that would lock the door to the dead world forever. Think of what that would mean. No dread of twilight, no fear of ghostly visitations, no riddles of the dead to solve. Eventually, your gift would wither like one of your cemeteries and your calling would become nothing more than a distant memory.”

His words drew an irresistible picture, one that I had been painting in my head ever since the night Devlin had stepped out of the mist to confront me. Darius Goodwine had tapped into my innermost dreams, my deepest desires, and I would be a fool to fall for his manipulations.

But he wasn’t the only one who had spoken of the lost key. I had known of its possible existence since my visit to Kroll Cemetery. If the key really could lock the door to the dead world forever, how far was I willing to go to find it? What risks would I take to possess it?

“How do I know the key is even real?” I asked. “Or that you can help me find it?”

He said nothing as he continued to scrawl in the dirt. I glanced down to see a series of numbers in the same formation—I could have sworn—as the ones my great-grandmother had painstakingly scribbled on the walls of her sanctuary. I still had no idea what they meant, but I’d wondered for over a year if they were positions on a map. Ethereal coordinates that could lead me to the location of the lost key, either here or on the other side.

My adrenaline surged at the notion, but before I had time to commit the arrangement to memory, Darius erased the numbers with the palm of his hand.

I glanced at him with a gasp. “Why did you do that?”

“Unmask the killer,” he said. “And I’ll help you find your great-grandmother’s key.”