I’d heard my grandmother talk about the spirits who helped her out all my life. “We leave them alone, right? Unless we need their help?”
“Right. We can talk to them if the need arises, and we can ask for help, but yes—we don’t interfere with their activities. Now, what’s the last type of dead?” She waited.
I bit my lip. I knew the answer, but the very name scared me.
“Kerris, you have to learn how to talk about them. If you fear them, you give them too much power. So tell me, what’s the last type of dead?” She leaned down to take my hands. “I know you’re afraid, and truly—they can be terrifying—but you have to gain mastery over your fear. Fear strips your power, fear leaves you vulnerable. Always respect the power of the dead, but never give them power over you.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I nodded. “All right. The sixth form of dead are the Unliving, like Veronica.”
Veronica was a queen among the Unliving, and she had a lair near the cemetery. She seldom interacted with the town, but she occasionally brought spirits back from the Veil to serve her. The Unliving were corporeal, but they weren’t solid. They formed bodies from sheer will—from the energy they commanded—and they couldn’t be physically attacked. Dangerous and unpredictable, they were the most powerful form of the dead. They crossed back from the Veil filled with agendas that the living knew very little about. And they were able to manipulate physical objects, often harming the living. They could also affect the living on a mental level. The Unliving could control the environment around them, and they did so with general contempt for the living.
My grandmother slowly inclined her head. “Yes, the Unliving, like Veronica. And these spirits, Kerris, usually hate spirit shamans, because we are among the few who can harm them.”
CHAPTER 5
I waited, hand on the counter. The next moment, a soft laughter tickled my ear. Jumping, I searched the room. I knew that voice. There, standing beside me, was my grandmother. She was dressed in a violet pantsuit—her favorite color. She looked healthy, although I could see through her. I was used to seeing the dead the way they had died, which wasn’t always a pleasant sight. Grandma Lila, however, looked happy and whole and not at all like a drowning victim.
“Grandma!” I was so happy to see her that—for a moment—all my common sense flew out the window. Then, I pulled back, logic taking over again. “Are you really Lila?” I scanned her energy and she stood there, waiting, arms out at her sides. Moving into soft focus, the technique she had taught me to see the truth behind illusion, I examined her. As far as I could tell, there was nothing hidden behind the image. No façade or assumed persona. Breathing easier, I relaxed.
A lot of people didn’t seem to realize that spirits could—and did—lie. In fact, Haunts often used that tactic to raise havoc, pretending to be Guides. That was another reason spirit shamans urged the average person to talk to a professional. It was all too human to trust that your loved one would never, ever try to harm you. But some of the dead—especially Haunts and the Unliving—were able to disguise themselves as somebody else. Not every spirit was happy about being dead, and some of those spirits wanted to share the misery.
My grandmother raised her hand and a mist began to rise in the room. I caught my breath and could smell the scent of mildew and wet cedar, of water dripping off tall timber into the forest detritus below. The faint sound of lake water lapping against the shore whispered past as mist began to whirl around me in spirals, like fog creatures dancing in the air.
Lila motioned for me to follow her. Leading me toward the staircase, she headed upstairs. As we passed out of the natural light in the kitchen, her figure began to glow softly with a pale blue light. Neon . . . I thought. A soft bluish-white neon glow. A sense of familiarity rushed back.
When I was six, I had walked in on my grandmother once to find her glowing like this. The memory swept back like crows on the wing. She had been in her sewing room, sitting at a small desk, writing in a leather journal. She was so intent on what she was doing that she didn’t see me standing there. As I watched, the energy around her swirled, wafting off her body in spiraling curls. I stayed in the shadows and watched as she knelt by the desk to open a cubbyhole on the floor hiding beneath the throw rug. She slipped the journal inside, then closed the panel and covered it with the rug once more. I slipped away before she could catch me, aware that I had been intruding on a private moment.
Like bricks from a crumbling wall, it hit me. The leather journal . . . that was her Shadow Journal, the book I was looking for! I caught my breath and stopped, halfway up the stairs. “You meant for me to remember that—you showed me what I’m looking for. I had forgotten all about that time! I didn’t even know you realized I was there.”
Grandma Lila didn’t turn around, but she gestured for me to continue. I followed her into the sewing room. A sewing table and ironing board were the central focus. Along two of the walls were sturdy built-ins, shelves and cabinets for supplies. Grandma’s walnut writing desk was against another wall, looking out through a window into the side yard and right into Bryan’s property. Beside the desk was the throw rug. The room was exactly the way I remembered it.
Lila stood back, waiting. I knelt beside the pigeon-holed desk and reached for the rug, looking at her. She nodded and I slowly lifted the woven throw. There was the panel, with a small silver handle. I reached for it, and the metal sparked against my skin as I lifted it open. I scooched back so that I could see inside the cubbyhole as light from the room illuminated its interior.
There were two objects in there: an old-fashioned doctor’s bag upholstered in a blue-patterned jacquard, and something wrapped in ice blue satin. I lifted both of them out, and my fingers tingled as I touched them. Making sure the cubbyhole was empty, I closed the panel again.
Sprawling on the floor, I stared at the bag. Grandma Lila stood, unmoving, watching me as I pushed aside the satin to reveal a leather-bound book. The size of notebook paper, it was black leather and a good two inches thick. The leather was worn but still strong and supple and smelled of neatsfoot oil. Embossed on the cover was a sigil—that of a crow sitting on a crescent moon. A leather tongue with a snap on it kept the journal shut. My skin rippled, goose bumps rising as I stared at the rune—it was the same mark as on my back. The same my grandmother had also had. The Crow Man . . .
I slowly opened the Shadow Journal and thought I heard a long sigh escape from it. The journal was about half full, my grandmother’s writing neat and even. I turned to the end and found a loose page inserted there. To my surprise, it was a letter to me. It was dated the morning of her last day alive.
Dear Kerris,
I hope you never see this, but if you do, it means that I am dead and you have finally returned. I have a premonition that something huge and dark and cold is waiting in front of me, so I decided to write this . . . just in case.
I wish I could have trained you fully, but if wishes were pennies, we’d all be rich. Within the pages of this journal you will find all the spells and rituals I know that you will need in order to perform your duties as spirit shaman, along with the history of our tradition. I have also made notes on the spirits who wander Whisper Hollow. This town is a magical place and, like all faerie lands, can be deadly to the unwary and the unwise. I cannot write everything here that you need to know, but you will find your way. You are strong and I know you can do the job.
Look to the caretakers for help. Penelope waits on the other side. She is your other half, the Gatekeeper of the dead from the land of spirits. Trust in your instincts. Friends and colleagues may be true, but there is danger in the forest, a deep cunning desire to corrupt the powers of Whisper Hollow. These lands are ancient, and they rest on the crossroads of ley lines. Whisper Hollow is a vortex of power, attracting those who would take control. And our people—the sons and daughters of the Morrígan—have enemies who would seek to stop us in their anger
from so long ago.
I will help you as I can, but my powers from the other side will be handicapped by those enemies who have sought to stop my work in life. Look to my past in order to move on with your future. By now, you know the truth about your grandfather—as will Ellia, Oriel, and Ivy after we talk to them this afternoon, if we are allowed to make it that far. My sense tells me we may run into trouble. Please, don’t let hatred cloud your sight . . . I don’t know if I can ever move beyond this, but I have to, for everyone’s sake. And you need to be strong, and open to help from where you least expect it.
All my love in death, as well as in life,
Grandma Lila
I closed the book. The truth about my grandfather? There it was again. Secrets and hidden agendas. I turned to ask my grandmother’s spirit what was so damned important that she couldn’t write it down in her journal, but she shook her head before I could speak and pointed to the bag.
All right then, I’d play by her rules. As I opened it, the scent of lilac and dusky rose swirled up. Inside the satchel, I found a leather sheath containing a silver dagger. The blade was a good eight inches long, and the hilt had two wings wrapped around it, the pommel being the head of a crow. The blade was etched with symbols. I flicked my finger along the edge and it quickly drew a thin line of blood. Sharp.
Licking the blood off my thumb, I replaced the blade in the sheath and moved on. Along with the blade, I found a quartz crystal skull four inches in diameter. Fractures within the crystal formed prisms and rainbows, and it was hard to drag my gaze away. There were several bottles of powders—each labeled neatly, a thin silver wand fitted with quartz crystals, and a black velvet bag of crystal runes—though they weren’t any symbols that I recognized.
Another bag, purple satin, caught my attention. I shook out several large teeth into my hand. There were nine, each inscribed with some sort of sigil. They resonated in my palm with a heartbeat that was so deep and thundering it made me dizzy. I quickly slid them back into the bag, not wanting to stir up anything until I knew what I was doing. The last item in the doctor’s bag was a black velvet case. Inside, on a bed of blue satin, rested a fan made out of what looked like crow feathers. I unfurled it and swept it around and the sound of crows shrieking filled the air. Startled, I quickly slipped it back into the case.
The pentacle around my neck was humming and I realized it was reacting to the items in the case. Slowly, a million thoughts racing through my head, I replaced everything in the case, including the journal, which fit snugly alongside the other items. Then, pushing myself to my feet, I dusted off my jeans and set the bag on the desk.
Lila didn’t seem finished with me, though. She motioned for me to follow her. I picked up the case and followed her over to the other room—the attic. When I opened the door, it felt like I was walking into the hidden heart of the house. Attics were reservoirs, where old memories came to rest, lurking in the shadows. One large room, the attic was illuminated by a single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Everything was coated with a layer of dust, and I could see several old trunks, a rocking chair, and a few odd assorted pieces of furniture. Lila stood to one side, only the look on her face had suddenly shifted from smiling to bleak. She gave me another nod.
Wondering why she had brought me here, I began to look through the trunks. There were several filled with miscellaneous china and bric-a-brac, but one in the corner caught my eye. Drawn to the box, I skirted the rocking chair and a small table and knelt down to examine it.
The chest was square, like a footlocker, carved from cedar. When I cleared the dust away, I saw that it had been polished to a warm golden glow. Three initials were carved across the top: TEF.
Tamil Eileen Fellwater . . . my mother. This had been her chest.
I glanced at Lila. She shrugged, gently, a sad look on her face. It hit me then. Lila had died without my mother ever coming home again. I wondered if she had ever heard from Tamil but never told Duvall. But surely she would have told me? Surely she would have put me in touch with her—and Avery, if the pair had really run away together? Squatting back on my heels, I thought about my mother’s disappearance. Where had she gone? Even after this long, I couldn’t help but wonder . . . had she loved me? And if so, why had she run away? Why hadn’t she come back for me?
A vague memory flared—my mother and I were in the front yard, and she grabbed my hands and spun me around under the summer sun, laughing as I laughed. We went faster and faster, and then suddenly, we toppled over onto the grass and she pulled me into her arms and brushed my hair back.
“I love you, Kerris. Don’t you ever forget that. No matter what happens, you remember I love you. Promise me?” She was forcing me to look at her, to hear her. I suddenly remembered that her eyes had been filled with tears. She had been crying, though until now I hadn’t remembered.
A week later, she vanished. And I had pushed that day out of my mind because it hurt too much to remember how happy I was and how much I loved her.
Sighing, I pulled my focus back to the present. “This was my mother’s, wasn’t it?”
Lila nodded, still silent. I knew that the dead could speak, but Grandma wasn’t saying a word to me. She was merely acting as a tour guide right now. Hesitantly, I tried to open the chest, only to realize that it was locked. I examined the lock. The moment I touched it, I knew that the key I had found in my grandfather’s drawer belonged to this trunk.
I tried to lift the chest but it was too heavy for me. I’d have to bring the key to it.
I glanced up to say something but the attic was empty. Lila had vanished.
“Grandma? Grandma!” I quickly scanned the room, but there was no one there except for me. Wishing I had told her how much I loved her when I had the chance, I slowly made my way over to the staircase. If I was lucky, she’d come back.
I reached the kitchen and was about to pocket the key and head back upstairs when the front doorbell rang. That couldn’t be Peggin—it wasn’t anywhere near dinnertime yet. Frowning, I answered the door to find Bryan standing there, leaning against the wall. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers—autumn zinnias that looked freshly picked.
“Hey, neighbor. I decided to play welcome wagon.” He thrust the flowers at me. As I accepted them, he caught my gaze and once again, I had the feeling that he was full of hidden secrets.
I tried to discern whether there were any spirits hanging around him. I could almost always catch a few if I looked, but when I tried, all I could see was a flare of energy rising around him. There was something . . . I sought for the words to pin down the feeling.
Too much to contain in one body . . . there’s more of him that you can’t see—more than appears on the surface. This man has secrets and they run swift and deep.
Where the hell had that come from? Startled, I moved back a step. “Come in.”
Taking the flowers, I carried them over to the sink. They were obviously fresh-picked, not from a store. “You have a garden over there behind the castle gate?” Flashing him a smile, I pulled a vase out of the cupboard and filled it with water. Bryan’s house was more like a mansion, and his yard more of an estate, with a high stone fence that surrounded the huge lot. There were at least two gates in the fence—the front one, and one dividing his yard from mine.
He settled into a chair at the table and leaned back. “Yes, I do. A rather extensive series of gardens, actually. I have a green thumb and it relaxes me.” With a glance around the kitchen, he added, “You haven’t changed much around here.”
“Not yet. Remember, I’ve only been back for a few days. The reality of how much I have to do is just starting to set in. I’ve uprooted my entire life for the second time, and coming back . . . it’s going to take some adjustment to figure out how I fit into this town again.”
Readjustments like . . . what was I going to do with my days? Would I find a job or—perhaps—start my own bus
iness? Being spirit shaman might be a heavy responsibility, but last I looked it didn’t come with a monthly salary. I had money thanks to my grandparents’ inheritance, and the house was long paid off, but I didn’t like the idea of just sitting on my ass doing nothing.
“I imagine it’s not going to be easy. Your grandmother had heavy responsibilities on her shoulders. You will, too.”
So he knew. Not that Lila being a spirit shaman was any secret. The whole town knew, just like they would know why I had returned. It was only a matter of time before the word got around, and then I expected to have a string of people at my door, asking for help. It had been like that when I’d been growing up. Lila had constantly been intervening with the dead for people.
I set the vase on the table and leaned over to inhale deeply. The zinnias were brilliant colors—the colors of autumn: yellow and gold and copper. The flowers were full and lush, and the heads had a faint but rich floral scent that played on my nose.
As I fingered one of the velvet soft petals, I let out a soft sigh. “You’re very sweet to bring these over. They’re beautiful. I haven’t had a chance to garden over the past fifteen years. I lived in an apartment in Seattle, and my cats eat indoor plants, so I never kept any around. And speak of the devil . . .” I paused as Daphne padded in softly. She was the socialite of the group. Gabby and Agent H were friendly but it took them a while to warm up to strangers. Daphne, however, was a flirt.