“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“‘He who chooses the beginning of the road chooses the place it leads to.’ ”
“Thoreau?”
“Harry Emerson Fosdick. A bit older and more obscure, but still quite relevant, I think.” She smiled and put her hand on the edge of the door.
“Aren’t you going to help me?”
“I can’t leave Olivia alone for long, or she’ll reshelve the entire collection, and then we’ll all have to learn Chinese.” She paused for a moment, watching me, looking so much like my mom. “I think you can handle this one on your own. At least the beginning.”
“I don’t have a choice, do I? You can’t really help me since you’re a Keeper.” I was still bitter about Marian’s revelation that she had known my mother was involved with the Caster world, but she would never explain why or how. There were so many things about my mother and her death that Marian had never told me. It always came back to the endless rules that Bound Marian to her job as a Keeper.
“I can only help you help yourself. I can’t determine the course of events, the unraveling of Darkness and Light, the Order of Things.”
“That’s such a load of crap.”
“What?”
“It’s like the prime directive on Star Trek. You have to let the planet evolve at its own pace. You can’t introduce hyperspace or warp speed until they discover it for themselves. But Captain Kirk and the crew of the Enterprise always end up breaking the rule.”
“Unlike Captain Kirk, there is no choice in my case. A Keeper is powerfully Bound to act neither for the Dark nor the Light. I couldn’t change my destiny, even if I wanted to. I have my own place in the natural order of the Caster world, in the Order of Things.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s not a choice. I don’t have the authority to change the way things work. If I so much as tried, I might destroy not only myself but the very people I was trying to help.”
“But my mom still ended up dead.” I don’t know why I said it, but I couldn’t understand the logic. Marian had to remain uninvolved to protect the people she cared about, but the person she cared about most died anyway.
“Are you asking me if I could’ve prevented your mother’s death?” She knew I was. I looked down at my sneakers. I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear the answer.
Marian put her hand under my chin and pulled my face up to meet hers. “I didn’t know your mother was in danger, Ethan. But she knew the risks.” Her voice was uneven, and I knew I had gone too far, but I couldn’t help it. I’d been trying to get up the courage to have this conversation for months now. “I would have gladly taken her place in that car. Don’t you think I have wondered a thousand times if there was something I knew or could have done that might have saved Lila…” Her voice trailed off.
I feel the same way. You’re just holding on to a different edge of the same jagged hole. We’re both lost. That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I let her put her arm around my shoulder and pull me into a rough hug. I barely felt it when the arm slipped away and the door closed behind her.
I stared at the stacks of paper. Lucille jumped down from the chair and onto the table. “Be careful. These are a lot older than you.” She tilted her head and looked at me with her blue eyes. Then she froze.
She was staring at my mother’s chair, eyes wide, fixated. There was nothing there, but I remembered what Amma told me. “Cats can see the dead. That’s why they stare at things the way they do for so long, like they’re just lookin’ into thin air. But they’re not. They’re lookin’ through it.”
I stepped closer to the chair. “Mom?” She didn’t answer, or maybe she did, because there was a book lying on the chair that wasn’t there a minute ago. Darkness and Light: The Origins of Magic. It was one of Macon’s books. I had seen it in his library at Ravenwood. I lifted it up, and a gum wrapper fell out—one of my mother’s bookmarks, no doubt. I bent down to pick up the wrapper, and the room began to sway, the lights and colors swirling around me. I tried to focus on something, anything, to keep from falling, but I was too dizzy. The wood floor rushed up to meet me, and as I hit the ground the smoke burned my eyes—
By the time Abraham returned to Ravenwood, the ash had already made its way inside the house. The charred remnants of Gatlin’s great houses wafted down from the open windows on the second floor like black snowflakes. As he ascended the staircase, Abraham’s footsteps left impressions in the thin black layer already coating the floor. He secured the upstairs windows, without putting The Book of Moons down for a second. But he couldn’t have put it down even if he had wanted to. Ivy, the old cook from Greenbrier, was right; the Book was calling him, a whisper only he could hear.
When he reached the study, Abraham rested the Book on the polished mahogany desk. He knew exactly which page to turn to, as if the Book was flipping the pages itself. As if it knew what he wanted. Even though he had never seen the Book before, Abraham knew the answer was in those pages, an answer that would guarantee Ravenwood’s survival.
The Book was offering him the one thing he wanted above all else. But it wanted something in return.
Abraham stared down at the Latin script. He recognized it immediately. It was a Cast he had read about in other books. One he had always considered more of a myth. But he had been wrong, because it was staring back at him.
Abraham heard Jonah’s voice before he saw him. “Abraham, we have to get out of the house. The Federals are coming. They’ve burned everything, and they aren’t planning to stop until they reach Savannah. We have to get into the Tunnels.”
Abraham’s voice was resolute, and it sounded different somehow, even to him. “I’m not going anywhere, Jonah.”
“What are you talking about? We have to save what we can and get out of here.” Jonah grabbed his brother’s arm, noticing the open page beneath them. He stared at the script, unsure he could trust what he was seeing.
“The Daemonis Pactum? The Demon’s Trade?” Jonah stepped back. “Is this what I think it is? The Book of Moons?”
“I’m surprised you recognize it. You never paid much attention during our studies.”
Jonah was used to Abraham’s insults, but there was something different about his tone tonight. “Abraham, you can’t.”
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do. You would watch this house burn to the ground before you thought to act. You have never been capable of doing what was required. You are weak, like Mother.”
Jonah flinched, as if someone had struck him. “Where did you get it?”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Abraham, be sensible. The Demon’s Trade is too powerful. It cannot be controlled. You are making a bargain, without knowing what you will have to sacrifice. We have other houses.”
Abraham pushed his brother aside. Though Abraham barely touched him, Jonah flew across the room. “Other houses? Ravenwood is the seat of our family’s power in the Mortal world, and you think I intend to allow a few soldiers to burn it to the ground? I can use this to save Ravenwood.”
Abraham’s voice rose. “Exscinde, neca, odium incende; mors portam patefacit. Destroy, kill, hate; death opens the gate.”
“Abraham, stop!”
But it was too late. The words rolled off Abraham’s tongue as if he had known them his entire life. Jonah looked around, panicked, waiting for the Cast to take effect. But he had no idea what his brother had asked for. He only knew that whatever it was, it would be done. That was the power of the Cast, but there was also a price. It was never the same. Jonah rushed toward his brother, and a small, perfectly round orb, the size of an egg, slipped from his pocket and rolled across the floor.
Abraham picked up the sphere, glowing at his feet, and rolled it between his fingers. “What are you doing with an Arclight, Jonah? Is there a particular Incubus you’re planning to imprison in this archaic device?”
Jonah backed away as Abraham advanced, matching him step for step, but Abrah
am was too fast. In the blink of an eye, he pinned Jonah against the wall, his iron grip closing around his brother’s throat.
“No. Of course not. I—”
Abraham tightened his hold. “What would an Incubus be doing with the only vessel capable of imprisoning his kind? Do you think I’m that stupid?”
“I am only trying to protect you from yourself.”
In one fluid motion, Abraham lunged forward and plunged his teeth into his brother’s shoulder. Then he did the unthinkable.
He drank.
The bargain was made. He would no longer be sustained by the memories and dreams of Mortals. From this day forward, he would crave blood.
When he had his fill, Abraham dropped his brother’s limp body and licked the ash from his hand, the taste of flesh still lingering in the black residue. “You should have been more concerned about protecting yourself.”
Abraham turned away from his brother’s body. “Ethan.”
“Ethan!”
I opened my eyes. I was lying on the floor of the archive. Marian was hovering over me in an un-Marian state of panic. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” I sat up, rubbing my head, wincing. There was a knot growing underneath my hair. “I must have hit the table on my way down.”
Macon’s book was lying on the floor, open next to me. Marian looked at me with her uncanny ESP—or not so uncanny, if you stopped to consider that she had followed me into visions herself only months ago. Within seconds, she had a cold pack in her hand and was holding it against my throbbing head. “You’re having visions again, aren’t you?”
I nodded. My mind was swimming with images, but I couldn’t focus on any one of them. “It’s the second time. I had one the other night when I was holding Macon’s journal.”
“What did you see?”
“It was the night of the fires, like in the locket visions. Ethan Carter Wate was already dead. Ivy had The Book of Moons, and she gave it to Abraham Ravenwood. He was in both of the visions.” His name sounded thick and fuzzy on my tongue. Abraham Ravenwood was the original boogeyman of Gatlin County.
I gripped the edge of the table, steadying myself. Who wanted me to see the visions? More important, why?
Marian paused, still holding the book. “Oh?” She looked at me carefully.
“And someone else. His name began with a J. Judas? Joseph? Jonah. That was it. I think they were brothers. They were Incubuses.”
“Not just Incubuses.” Marian snapped the book shut. “Abraham Ravenwood was a powerful Blood Incubus, the father of the Ravenwood Blood Incubus line.”
“What do you mean?” So, the story folks had been telling for years was true? I had cleared another layer of fog from the supernatural map of Gatlin.
“Although all Incubuses are Dark by nature, not all of them choose to feed on blood. But once one does, the instinct appears to be inherited.”
I leaned against the table as the vision sharpened in my mind. “Abraham—he’s the reason Ravenwood Manor never burned, right? He didn’t make a deal with the Devil. He made it with The Book of Moons.”
“Abraham was dangerous, maybe more dangerous than any Caster. I can’t imagine why you’re seeing him now. Fortunately, he died young, before Macon was born.”
I tried to do the math. “That’s young? How long do Incubuses usually live?”
“A hundred and fifty to two hundred years.” She replaced the book on her worktable. “I don’t know what any of this has to do with you or Macon’s journal, but I never should have given it to you. I interfered. We should leave this book locked up here.”
“Aunt Marian—”
“Ethan! Don’t pursue this, and don’t tell anyone else about it, not even Amma. I can’t imagine how she would react if you said the name Abraham Ravenwood in her presence.” She put her arm around me and gave me a halfhearted squeeze. “Now, let’s go finish up in the stacks before Olivia calls the police.” She turned to the door and stuck her key in the lock.
There was one more thing. I had to say it. “He could see me, Aunt Marian. Abraham looked right at me and said my name. That’s never happened in the visions before.”
Marian stopped, staring at the door as if she could see right through it. It was more than a few seconds before she turned the key in the lock and swung the door open. “Olivia? Do you think Melvil Dewey could spare you for a cup of tea?”
Our conversation was over. Marian was a Keeper and the Head Librarian of the Caster Library, the Lunae Libri. She could only tell me so much without violating her obligations. She couldn’t take sides or change the course of events once they were set in motion. She couldn’t be Macon for me, and she wasn’t my mom. I was on my own.
6.14
Beneath the Paper
All of those?” There were three stacks of brown paper packages on the checkout desk. Marian marked the last one with the familiar GATLIN COUNTY LIBRARY stamp, always twice and always tied with the same white string.
“No, take that pile, too.” She pointed to a second pile, on the nearest trolley.
“I thought nobody in this town reads.”
“Oh, they read. They just don’t own up to what they read, which is why we make not only library-to-library deliveries but library-to-home ones as well. Circulating books only. Allowing two to three days for the processing of requests, of course.”
Great. I was afraid to ask what was in these brown paper packages, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know. I picked up a stack of books and groaned. “What are these, encyclopedias?”
Liv pulled the receipt from the top bundle. “Yes. The Encyclopedia of Ammunition, actually.”
Marian waved us out the door. “Go with Ethan, Liv. You haven’t had an opportunity to see our beautiful little town yet.”
“I can handle it.”
Liv sighed and pushed the trolley toward the door. “Come on, Hercules. I’ll help you load up. Can’t keep the ladies of Gatlin waiting on their…” She consulted another receipt. “… Carolin-er Cake Doctor Cookbook, now can we?”
“Carolina,” I said, automatically.
“That’s what I said. Carolin-er.”
Two hours later, we had delivered most of the books and driven by both Jackson High and the Stop & Steal. As we circled the General’s Green, I realized why Marian had been so eager to hire me at a library that was always empty and didn’t need summer employees. She had planned for me to be Liv’s teenage tour guide all along. It was my job to show her the lake and the Dar-ee Keen and fill in the gaps between what folks around here said and what they meant. My job was to be her friend.
I wondered how Lena was going to feel about that. If she noticed.
“I still don’t understand why there’s a statue of a general from a war the South didn’t win, and one which was generally embarrassing for your country, in the middle of town.” Of course she didn’t.
“Folks honor the fallen around here. There’s a whole museum dedicated to them.” I didn’t mention the Fallen Soldiers was also the scene of my dad’s Ridley-induced suicide attempt a few months ago.
I looked over at Liv from behind the wheel of the Volvo. I couldn’t remember the last time there had been any girl except Lena in the passenger’s seat.
“You’re a terrible tour guide.”
“This is Gatlin. There isn’t all that much to see.” I glanced in the rearview mirror. “Or just not that much I want you to see.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“A good tour guide knows what to show and what to hide.”
“I stand corrected. You’re a terribly misguided tour guide.” She pulled a rubber band out of her pocket.
“So I’m more of a mis-guide?” It was a stupid joke, my trademark.
“And I take issue with both your punning and your tour-guiding philosophy, generally speaking.” She was working her blond hair into two braids, her cheeks pink from the heat. She wasn’t used to the South Carolina humidity.
“What do
you want to see? You want me to take you to shoot cans behind the old cotton mill off Route 9? Flatten pennies on the train tracks? Follow the trail of flies into the eat-at-your-own-risk grease pit we call the Dar-ee Keen?”
“Yes. All of the above, particularly the last bit. I’m starving.”
Liv dropped the last library receipt into one of two piles. “… seven, eight, nine. Which means I win, you lose, and get your hands off those chips. They belong to me now.” She pulled my chili fries over to her side of the red plastic table.
“You mean fries.”
“I mean business.” Her side of the table was already covered with onion rings, a cheeseburger, ketchup, mayonnaise, and my sweet tea. I knew whose side was whose because she had made a line between us, laying french fries end to end, like the Great Wall of China.
“‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ ”
I remembered the poem from English class. “Walt Whitman.”
She shook her head. “Robert Frost. Now keep your hands off my onion rings.”
I should’ve known that one. How many times had Lena quoted Frost’s poems or twisted them into one of her own?
We had stopped for lunch at the Dar-ee Keen, which was down the road from the last two deliveries we’d made—Mrs. Ipswich (Guide to Colon Cleanliness) and Mr. Harlow (Classic Pinups of World War II), which we had given to his wife because he wasn’t home. For the first time, I understood the reason for the brown paper.
“I can’t believe it.” I wadded up my napkin. “Who would have figured Gatlin was so romantic?” I had bet on church books. Liv had bet on romance novels. I lost, eight to nine.
“Not only romantic, but romantic and righteous. It’s a wonderful combination, so—”
“Hypocritical?”
“Not at all. I was going to say American. Did you notice we delivered It Takes a Bible and Divinely Delicious Delilah to the very same house?”
“I thought that was a cookbook.”