Afterlight (Dark Ink Chronicles #1)

Afterlight (Dark Ink Chronicles #1) Page 3

The muggy brine from the marsh whipped at my face as I shifted into third, and I glanced at Seth. He was biting his nails and staring out what would have been his window, had the Jeep’s top been on. I knew why he was acting funny. He’d been inside da hell stone. I’d be freaked-out, too, were I him. Dammit, he knew better than to go inside something like that. But I wouldn’t torture him by asking a load of questions tonight. Tomorrow. I’d wait until tomorrow.

“There they are,” Seth said, pointing off to the left of the narrow street. Sure enough, there were those dingdongs, cutting across someone’s yard. They disappeared around the back of a small, white, concrete house.

“That’s Todd’s grandma’s,” Seth said. “They’re staying there tonight.”

I downshifted into first and slowly drove by the old home. After I saw a light flicker on near the back of the house, I felt relieved. At least the boys were off the streets. We pulled away and headed into the now-thinned traffic of Victory Drive.

After going through the drive-through at Krystal’s, we headed home. The smell of grease-soaked bread and fried burgers wafted from the paper bags, making my stomach growl. I was a proud JFJ (junk-food junkie), and I’d bought a dozen. I’d probably polish off at least five or six myself. If you’ve never had a Krystal burger, they’re glorious—or hell on the stomach. Lucky for me, they worked perfectly fine for my digestive system, and I was starved. I turned onto Abercorn, hit all the squares, crossed Bay Street, and finally pulled onto the cobbles. The moment I turned onto the merchant’s drive, the scent of urine from a busy Friday night stung my nostrils. That’s something they don’t put in the tourist mags of Savannah—weekend public urination in the historic district. Nasty. Just freaking nasty.

I parked the Jeep at the back entrance of Inksomnia, pulled the emergency brake, and shifted it into first. I grabbed the drinks. “Let’s go, Bro, before I start gnawing on that paper bag. Hey, will you take Chaz out for a walk? He probably needs to pee.” Chaz was our three-year-old Australian shepherd. Blue merle, one blue eye, one brown. Cool as hell, that dog, and we’d gotten him from a rescue organization two years before.

Seth’s eyes still looked hazed as he climbed out. “Yeah, sure.”

It was then that I truly noticed the silence in the streets. Not human silence, as I still heard music pouring from the Boar’s Head, laughter, and the occasional blast of a horn or the wail of a cop car in the distance. I even heard old Capote playing his saxophone on the river walk. But the cicadas? Crickets? Night birds?

Dead silence.

I shoved the key in the lock and went inside, Seth on my heels, and immediately Chaz was there, barking and wagging his backside. “Hey, boy,” I said, scrubbing the fur between his ears. “You miss us?” Seth grabbed the leash hanging from the wall, snapped it onto Chaz’s collar, and headed out with a waste bag. I watched him for a minute, until they disappeared up the walk. Before I closed the door, I glanced over my shoulder, out into the afterlight (the Gullah pronounced it afta-light).

I saw nothing; I felt everything.

Seth and Chaz came jogging up the cobbles, so I waited until they were inside; then I locked the door and threw the second bolt. Soon, though, I’d find out that locks and bolts were for the ignorant. In reality, they were absolutely freaking worthless.

Part 2

THE BEGINNING

When the alarm went off at eight the next morning, I was surprised to find I’d actually had enough sleep despite the late-night escapade at Bonaventure. Although I didn’t open shop until eleven, I loved the morning on the riverfront, and although I was completely unpredictable ninety-eight percent of the time, I was a total creature of habit for the last two percent: Gullah tea. I know—to look at me you’d never think for a second I enjoyed strong-steeped African tea with cream and sugar in the mornings. I looked more like a . . . Red Bull type of girl (I saved the Bull for midday). But Gullah tea was absolute heaven, and I drank it every single day. Slipping out of bed, I threw on a black tee and a pair of frayed jean shorts, pulled my hair into a ponytail, slipped into flip-flops, and eased downstairs. I took Chaz for a short walk, poured a heaping serving of dog food into his bowl, and eased out the back entrance of Inksomnia. I briefly glanced down as I left and made a mental note to paint my toenails later. The black-purple polish I’d put on just two days before was already chipping off. I hated chipped polish. Total trash.

The thick, humid August air smacked me in the face and clung to my skin as I made my way down Factor’s Walk to the back side of Preacher’s store, which sat directly next to mine. Da Plat Eye. Literally, it meant the stink eye, or the evil eye, in Gullah, and was a wicked-cool herbs, potions, and magic store. Preacher and his wife, Estelle, belonged to a small but tight-knit community of Gullah who grew their own loose tea and other herbs out on what they simply referred to as Da Island—one of the small barrier islands off the coast of Savannah. The tea was out of this freaking world. As I said, Preacher was an herbalist and conjurer, highly sought after for all sorts of cures for illnesses, hexes—you name it. Although Preacher was the quiet, stoic type and was as gentle as a kitten, it took only one look of disappointment from him to make you want to curl up and bawl with regret (I know—I’ve done it). So I’d decided to hold off on telling Preacher about Seth and da hell stone—at least until I’d gone over there during the daylight hours to check out how much damage had been done. Hopefully, nothing more than a gate and an old piece of pottery had been broken. As I pushed into Da Plat Eye’s narrow double doors—painted haint blue to keep the evil spirits out—the ever-familiar bell tinkled above my head, and Estelle immediately emerged from behind the blue curtain that led into their living quarters upstairs. A big, warm, blindingly white smile stretched across her ebony face, and the brightly colored red, black, blue, and yellow scarf traditional to Gullah women that she wore wrapped around her head and knotted in the front matched the flowing skirt that reached her ankles. A haint blue Da Plat Eye T-shirt hung past her hips. She was probably all of five feet two inches high. My little Gullah granny.

“Ah! Dere’s my Riley Poe,” she said, and, as she did every morning, rushed over to hug me as if she hadn’t seen me in forever. I admit that it felt good to have someone care so much. With a pair of strong, worn palms on either side of my face, she squished my cheeks, pulled my head down, and kissed me square on the nose. Dark, fathomless eyes stared up into mine, and she gave a mock frown. “Where’s dat brodder of yours, huh?” she asked in that unique Gullah accent that I never tired of hearing, even the more relaxed version they spoke around Seth and me. The cadence and pitch of that Creole blend of Elizabethan English and mesmerizing African drew the listener back in time. I loved it. “Dat lazybones boy still abed?”

“Of course,” I answered, and linked my arm through hers as we made our way to their kitchen. The aroma of fresh-brewed tea filled the two-hundred-year-old building, along with aged wood and fried bacon. My stomach growled so loud, Estelle turned and giggled.

“You poor tang; you don’t eat enough,” she said, shaking her head. “Now, git on in dere, girl. Your Preacher man is waitin’ wit your tea. I’ll bring da bacon and biscuits.”

“Sweet,” I said. I gave Estelle a quick smile and hurried past stainless-steel pots, crockery, clay pots, and handwoven sweetgrass baskets hanging from the ceiling, and the newsprint-covered walls (newspaper print covering the walls keeps evil spirits at bay since they have to stop and read each word before taking action—another cool Gullah belief) to the breakfast nook just off the kitchen. Preacher was in his usual straight-backed wooden chair, which was probably a hundred years old, near the corner window facing River Street. And no matter how warm the weather, he always—always—wore a plaid long-sleeved cotton shirt tucked into a pair of worn jeans. With a cap of short, pure white hair standing stark against his satiny black skin, he looked every bit the part of a Gullah root doctor. All-knowing brown eyes evaluated me as I walked toward him, and somehow, even after so many years, Preacher still had the ability to do something no one else could: make me squirm. I’d never let it show, of course, and he knew it. It was a game between us, and one that wily old Gullah totally dug.

I met those ancient brown eyes with a stare of complete confidence, scrutiny, and an air of arrogance, and we continued our stare-off in silence until Estelle bustled into the nook.

“Ah, you two fools, stop wit da starin’ dis mornin’!” she said, laughing. “Don’ you ever git tired of playin’ dat game? Sit down, girl, before I take a switch to dat skinny backside. I already ate, so dig in.”

A small twitch in Preacher’s lip made me laugh, and the game was over. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, and did as I was told. Estelle set a platter of thick fried bacon and biscuits on the table between me and Preacher, along with a bottle of cane syrup. A pot of tea sat steaming and ready.

Preacher grinned, a large white smile similar to his wife’s. He stared at me a bit longer, then nodded at my plate. “Eat up so I don’ have to listen to your stomach cry,” he said with a chuckle.

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” I said, and dug in. We ate in silence for a few minutes, and after two biscuits drenched in cane syrup, and three slices of bacon, I pushed my plate aside and, dumping in a couple of spoonfuls of brown sugar and a splash of cream, started on my first cup of tea. The whole while, Preacher seemed to watch me with more depth than usual. Maybe that was guilt speaking for not telling him immediately about da hell stone. I brushed it off the best I could and sipped my tea. The pungent mix of odd and mysterious Gullah herbs at first stung my throat, as always, and then an irresistible smoothness settled in and warmed my insides. I glanced at Preacher over the rim of my cup, and he sipped his own brew—straight black.

“You send dat brodder of yours over dis afternoon,” he said, his voice deep and silky. “He can paper da walls upstairs for me, and I’ll pay him. Can’t give dem wudus idle eyes, and dat old paper up dere is fallin’ down in places.” He sighed and rubbed his neck. “I been meanin’ to replace it, but I’m gettin’ old, girl. Joints are achin’.”