Afterlight (Dark Ink Chronicles #1)

Afterlight (Dark Ink Chronicles #1) Page 4

I leaned back in the chair with my tea and frowned. Wudus was Gullah for evil spirits, something Preacher believed in wholeheartedly. I can’t say that I totally bought it, but I wasn’t completely opposed to the idea. I scrutinized him for several seconds. “My ass you’re getting old. You look exactly like you did the first time I met you.” I wiggled my brows. “You’re hot, Preacher man. Seriously.”

Estelle’s high-pitched cackle rattled the pots hanging from the rafters. “Ha! Oh, girl, for shame!”

“You are a crazy painted white girl,” Preacher said, his eyes smiling. “I love ya like you was my own child, you know dat? Seth, too.” He watched me closely, and I felt clear to my bones that he suspected something was up. Even if you didn’t believe in Gullah ways, there was no getting around the power Preacher radiated. It was what saved me as a punk kid, dragged me from a total path of self-destruction.

That was what the Gullah called me, because of my inked skin: painted. I’d always loved it, and thought it fit me to a T. I drained my teacup, got up, and walked over to Preacher, who in fact did look a little tired today, and to be honest, that fact bothered the hell out of me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. “Yeah, I know, and we love you, too.” I kissed his cheek, his unique, familiar scent of homemade soap and Old Spice wafting to my nostrils. “I don’t know what we’d do without you and Estelle.” I met his gaze. “You guys saved my life. Mine and Seth’s.” They knew it, too, and it wasn’t the first time I’d told them. For some reason, the need to assure them that I still felt that way overtook me, and they allowed it.

Preacher sat silently, as was his way, and we stared at each other for what seemed like a long, long time. He and Estelle and their extended community were the only family Seth and I had. Our father? I remember only vague glimpses of him, and I’m as glad as hell. He left us right after I’d turned ten, and Seth was a baby. I remember Mom crying for hours on end, days on end, and I’d always hated him for that. Effing idiot. Last I heard, he was somewhere in the Louisiana prison system. I didn’t care if I ever laid eyes on him again. Sometimes, though, Seth asked about him, and I figured he was at that age when his curiosity was getting at him. Every guy wants a dad—even if that dad was a total fuckup.

Estelle bustled back into the nook and swatted me on the rump, breaking my hateful thoughts. “You’d best git, girl,” she said, gathering plates before I even had a chance to pick mine up. “Unless you plan on paintin’ folks in dem high shorts, dere.”

I laughed, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and smiled at Preacher. “Peace out, Preacher man. I’ll send Seth over in a little while.”

Preacher gave a single nod, and I was already at the blue curtain before he said anything. “When you feel like sayin’ what it is you don’t wanna say right now, come on back,” he said. “I got ears for you.”

I looked at him over my shoulder and stared in wonder. I knew he could tell something was up. “How do you do that?” I asked. Seriously. I had one major poker face, and he still could tell I was keeping something from him. Damn.

Preacher merely lifted one plaid-covered shoulder. “You come back den. We’ll talk right.”

I met his gaze. “I will.” I scooted through the curtain and left Da Plat Eye fast. There was hardly anything worse than Preacher knowing something was up, and that he had endless patience waiting for you to spill the beans. Trust me when I say he reveled in knowing he made you squirm—even if it didn’t show on the outside. It made me feel guilty as hell for withholding info, but I needed to see exactly what the boys had done at da hell stone. It was a big deal, and I knew it would be to Preacher.

I made my way back to Inksomnia, stepped inside, and glanced at the Kit-Cat Clock (eBay, Classic Black, seventy-fifth-anniversary edition, $49.99 with free batteries and shipping!) on the wall: eight forty-five. I had time to run over to Bonaventure, check out the damage, and get back in time to shower and get ready to open shop. My first appointment was at eleven thirty, so no sweat. Grabbing my keys, I listened for a minute, heard nothing, so figured Seth was still crashed upstairs. “Chaz, come on, boy,” I hollered, and Chaz came trotting down the steps, anxious to go for a ride. We hurried out the door and in minutes were on Bay Street, heading toward Abercorn. Chaz sat in the passenger seat, the wind blowing his ears back, as happy as a puppy. He was smart and completely obedient. Great dog.

Being that this was the first Saturday of the month, the historic district was already crowded with tourists and local shoppers on foot. The first Saturday included outdoor music, sidewalk shopping (the stores pulled merchandise out onto the sidewalk to sell), and food vendors along the river walk (I reminded myself right then to get a funnel cake later), and to top it off school would be starting up soon, so people would be grabbing their last little bit of vacation time. By noon there wouldn’t be a single cobble visible, which was okay by me. There were always tourists who got a burr in their Levi’s to get a spontaneous tattoo, and if I had an available spot, I’d give them a one-of-a-kind piece of body art.

As I rounded LaFayette Square, I saw Capote knelt down by a park bench, pulling his sax from its case. I knocked the horn twice, Chaz let out a bark, and Capote glanced up, waved, and flashed a broad, white smile. He was Gullah, one of Preacher’s cousins; he lived in a tiny apartment on Gaston Street. What a sweetheart that old guy was, and he could play the sax like a raving mofo. I’d asked him once why he’d never gone professional, and his simple answer was I don’t need all dat fancy stuff, girl. He was a permanent Savannah fixture, Capote.

The closer I got to Bonaventure, the heavier the marsh scent became, and with the top off my Jeep, it surrounded me; I inhaled a lungful. Some hated the smell of brine, but I liked it. It reminded me of my childhood, the innocent part, after we’d gotten over my dad leaving, and before I’d turned into a head-banging wild child. God, how I wished I could take all that crap back. I gave my mom hell, and she so hadn’t deserved any more hell. The pain of that last moment with her, while she lay dead, lifeless in my arms, still haunted me, even in my sleep. I missed my mom so bad it hurt my chest to think about it, and yeah, I thought about it every damn day, even if I didn’t want to. It just happened, invaded my gray matter and made me remember things I didn’t necessarily want to remember. My penance, I suppose, since I was to blame for my mom’s death. Probably why I’d partied every last drop of craziness out of myself back then. I might look like I party hard now, but I’m as domesticated as they come. An occasional drink at Molly McPherson’s is all I’m good for anymore. I left that wild life far behind, and only scars and remnants of my past were still visible and present. And all that by my ripe old age of twenty-five.

I pulled the Jeep into the left-hand-turn lane at the Victory Drive traffic light and threw it into neutral as I waited. The sun beamed down through the canopy of live oaks and Spanish moss with ferocity, making me squint through the tint of my shades—and it was only nine a.m. I was neither a morning person nor a night person—I dealt with both times of the day equally well. But as my lily-white skin revealed, I wasn’t particularly fond of the sun. I burned fiercely. A thin sheen of part sweat, part humidity covered my exposed skin, and the slightest of breezes cooled me off. I watched patrons and traffic as I listened to the sounds of early-morning Savannah mixed with horn blasts, lost in my thoughts until a smooth voice from the car beside me interrupted.

“Hey, babe, nice dog. Really nice tats.”

I stared straight ahead, uninterested. A low growl sounded deep in Chaz’s throat, and though the double rejection probably pissed the guy off, he didn’t show it. I could feel his eyes on me, though, and I hadn’t even spared him a single glance yet. It was just a creepy feeling I’d come to pick off rather fast, and ignore even faster.

“Hey, don’t be shy, baby,” he said, as if I had a shy bone in my body. “You want to meet later? Show me all your tats?” He laughed. “You can leave your dog home.”

My arrow turned green, and I threw the Jeep into first gear. I held the clutch for a second as I glanced over at the guy and peered at him over the rim of my shades. Figured. A smart-dressed older guy in a new Lexus, wanting to get it on with something he probably thought was freaky—me. He probably had a wife and kids at home. He was so not on my agenda—now or ever. For some reason, guys seemed to think alternatively dressed and inked skin equaled an easy lay. Funny thing was, I really wasn’t anything, as in, I wasn’t Goth, or any other sort of character. I just had a . . . quirky, artistic sense of style. I smirked, then shook my head in amusement, because to me he was a sick freaking idiot. “You wish, gramps,” I said. Chaz barked, and I made the turn. I heard him call me a bitch, and for some reason it made me laugh. Even Chaz looked like he was smiling, with his tongue hanging out of his open mouth, the wind picking it up and flopping it all over. I’d been called way worse; you can believe it. Sticks and stones, baby. It took a lot more than a little name-calling to hurt my feelings anymore.

Through the small community of Thunderbolt, I weaved my way down Bonaventure Road, to the front gates of the cemetery. Although they’d been open since eight, the place looked totally deserted—strange for an August morning. Usually, the tourists were wandering in and out of the keeper’s building, meandering through the grounds, and checking out the famous monuments and infamously interred. I pulled in slowly past the keeper’s redbrick building, following the path to the far right, and crept along in second gear to the rear of the property. Bonaventure was the epitome of the South, with towering, two-hundred-year-old live oak trees draped in wispy moss, and dozens of narrow dirt roads leading back into the white marbled statues and gray headstones of the graveyard. In the spring, pink, fuchsia, and white azaleas lined the dirt lanes, and vines of wisteria hung like grape clusters. Quite pretty, actually. A slight salty breeze always seemed to be passing through, rustling the leaves and anything else that got in its way. The cemetery itself overlooked the Wilmington River and salt marshes, and I guess if I had to die and be buried somewhere, Bonaventure would be an okay eternal resting place. As long as it was far away from da hell stone, thank you.