The Sinner. Amanda Stevens

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      Despite my wariness, I edged closer so that I could hear what Stark had to say about the cages.

      “...an owl’s head,” I heard him explain.

      “What’s the significance of that?” Kendrick asked.

      “Most of the locks with these emblems were manufactured before the turn of the last century, but this one is newer. Back in the late nineties, the company resurrected the design to commemorate their centennial. Someone must have bought up a supply and hung on to them. They’re good locks,” he added. “Hardened steel body and a tubular key cylinder. Difficult to pick, but I’ve yet to come across a padlock of any kind that couldn’t be opened with bolt cutters or a drill.”

      “You brought the necessary tools?” Kendrick asked him.

      “Of course. Just let me know when you’re ready.” He was still talking to Kendrick, but suddenly his gaze vectored in on me, as though he’d been aware of my presence the whole time. His unblinking stare seemed oddly hostile and I glanced away, keeping my gaze focused on the caged grave.

      By this time, a small army of personnel had gathered. More discussion ensued and a number of phone calls were made. After another half hour of inactivity, I finally gave up and went back to the cemetery to finish my workday.

      As I went about the usual chores, I tried not to think about those delicate hands clinging to the grate or that unseen presence watching from the woods. I did my best to tune out the voices drifting up from the clearing.

      And hours later as I lay awake in the hammock, my dog, Angus, curled up nearby, I even managed to convince myself the remains inside that caged grave had nothing to do with me. Nor did Detective Kendrick. I would finish my job in Seven Gates Cemetery, return to Charleston to prepare for my next restoration and that would be that.

      But any hope I’d had of escaping unscathed vanished the next day when I caught sight of an old nemesis lurking in the shadows of the church ruins.

Four

      It was midmorning and I’d already been cleaning headstones for hours. The police had arrived sometime earlier to search the area surrounding the mortsafes. Other than an occasional shout as they scoured the woods, the day had been quiet. I was surprised that the curious hadn’t come yet, but maybe word was just now getting out about the murder. In any case, I welcomed the solitude because I had a lot on my mind. I did not welcome Darius Goodwine.

      He stood so deeply in the shade of the church ruins that I thought at first I had imagined him. After a restless night, perhaps exhaustion and my subconscious had decided to play a cruel trick on me. The longer I stared, though, the more substantial he became, like a fully manifested ghost.

      But Darius Goodwine was no ghost, even though there was a fantastical element to his sudden appearance. He seemed so dreamlike against the backdrop of crumbling brick arches that I found myself biting down hard on my bottom lip to make certain I was fully awake.

      Nearly two years had passed since our last living-world encounter, and in the ensuing months I’d prayed that I would never see him again. I’d hoped he wouldn’t come back to collect on the bargain that I’d foolishly and desperately struck with him. At the time, my only concern had been to save Devlin’s life, but Darius Goodwine was not the type of man who granted altruistic favors. I’d always known there would be a price to pay for bringing Devlin back from the other side. Now, as I felt Darius’s gaze upon me, I shuddered to think what dark compensation he’d come to extract.

      A breeze blew across the graves, billowing his loose clothing. Where his shirt parted, I could see an amulet resting in the hollow of his chest and another hanging from a leather cord wound around his wrist. He was a very tall man, nearly six and a half feet. His height alone commanded attention, but it was the magnetic quality of his presence that kept my gaze riveted.

      Devlin had once insisted that Darius Goodwine’s ability to manipulate and control his followers stemmed from the power of suggestion rather than the magic he claimed to have divined from his time studying with a powerful shaman in Africa. But Devlin was wrong. I’d learned the hard way that Darius Goodwine not only had the ability to cross over to the other side and converse with the dead, but he could also enter the dreams of the living and influence their thoughts.

      Once a respected professor of ethnobotony, he’d let his greed and obsession transform him from healer to tagati, a dangerous witch doctor who used his knowledge and power to bring harm to others. I knew better than to underestimate him. Unlike Detective Kendrick, whose character I had yet to discern, I was all too aware of Darius Goodwine’s treachery and so I steeled myself against his insidious magnetism.

      Turning back to the headstone, I continued to scrape away at the layers of moss and lichen while tracking him from my periphery as he wove his way through the headstones. Despite his height, he moved with an uncanny grace. If I hadn’t known he was a flesh-and-blood man, I might still have thought him a specter, so ephemeral and floating was his presence.

      As he neared, a faint trace of ozone wafted on the breeze, leaving me to wonder if a sudden storm had sprung up or if the scent came from the man himself. A moment earlier, the day had been clear and sunny, but now a shadow fell across the landscape. I shivered in the premature twilight, keeping my gaze averted because I didn’t dare look up into those hypnotic eyes.

      “Amelia Gray.” Despite his cultured manner of speaking, there was something in the low timber of his voice that reminded me of a tribal drumbeat. Amelia Gray. Amelia Gray. Amelia Gray. “It’s been a while since last we met.”

      I inclined my head slightly, slanting a glance up through my lashes into those mesmeric eyes for only a split second before shifting my gaze to the talisman that hung around his throat. It was made of some thin metal, intricately engraved with hieroglyphics. I stared at it for a very long time. So long, in fact, that I lost track of the moments ticking by. I suddenly felt very disoriented, as if I had become lost once more in a dream of Darius Goodwine’s making.

      I didn’t try to empty my thoughts to allow his emotions to enter. I was too afraid to trifle with such a cunning mind. So instead I focused on strengthening my defenses and on keeping him out of my head. I visualized a door slamming shut as I chanced another glance at his arresting visage. His lips curled in amusement, but I saw something that might have been surprise—or annoyance—flicker in his eyes, leaving me with a momentary triumph.

      Boldly, I lifted my chin and met his gaze. “The last I heard, you were in Africa. What brings you to Seven Gates Cemetery?”

      “I’ve come to see you, naturally.”

      There was nothing natural about his presence or his timing, I felt certain. “Why?”

      “All in good time. We have some catching up to do first.”

      I scowled up at him. “How did you know where to find me?”

      “Your powers have grown stronger since our last encounter. They leave a trail.”

      Was that admiration I heard in his voice? A touch of wonder, even?

      I drew myself up short as I recognized another of his tactics. I wouldn’t allow myself to be seduced into a false sense of security by the likes of Darius Goodwine.

      “What kind of trail?” I asked.

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