Ms. Marie Catherine Comtois lived in a white, ramshackle farmhouse set far back from the road on the route running between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. Heavy, lush falls of moss dripped off the trees crowding the front lawn, concealing the house itself behind a fragrant green curtain. White seeds like snowflakes drifted through the windless day, floating with eerie slowness through the doldrums of hot, damp air.

Oliver could practically taste the air, thick with honeysuckle from the garden that lined the front of the house and fanned out in a haphazard sprawl toward the overgrown, swampy forest encroaching on the property. It had obviously never been a great manor house, but at one time it was probably pretty and fresh, quaintly kept with green shutters on the windows and a turquoise blue door. Now the paint peeled off it like raw strips of sunburn, curling tight in the wet climate before scattering to join the tiny white seeds peppering the grass.

Weeds had taken over the walk up to the house, but Micah didn’t seem to notice the disrepair. He certainly didn’t apologize for it.

“Ms. Marie was like my aunt growing up,” he explained, leading Oliver to the faded turquoise door and its brass knocker.

It was shaped like a mermaid. “If anyone in this damn world knows anything about these Bone Artist freaks, it would be her.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because she’s about eight hundred years old, that’s why.” Micah chuckled, winking. “And don’t let the old gal fool you. Back in the day she was a wild one. I’ve seen the pictures. Dance halls. Sailor boyfriends. The whole nine yards.”

The trip felt like a waste of time to Oliver, who had already decided, firmly this time, that he was out. Briony had texted that morning, waking him out of a fog of heavy sleep to ask about the job. He had told her, in less than polite terms, to take her offer and shove it in a very specific place.

Micah had knocked, and now, gradually, the door was opening. His friend sprang into action, holding open the screen and swiftly relieving the tiny old woman of the weight of the door. Her skin looked like water-stained paper, dark spots dotting her hands and neck in thick clusters. But her eyes were sharp, bright and searching as she looked Oliver up and down.

“A’now who’s this handsome young swain come to my door?” she asked, giggling like a teenager, even if it did sound a little croaky on the end.

“Ma’am, this is Oliver, Oliver Berkley. He’s a good friend of mine.”

“You said so on the phone,” Ms. Marie said, reaching for the screen. Oliver grabbed it for her, joining them inside the house. It was stifling, a few overhead fans doing their level best to help but failing. Not even a fresh-baked pie could cover up the scent of decay and urine that drifted through the halls.

Still, it wasn’t exactly dirty. The floors had been swept and the shelves in reach were dusted. The old lady had gone to the trouble of doing her iron gray hair in big, retro curls, clipping one piece back with a pink barrette. That was probably her best dress, too, a white sundress with a daisy motif.

Oliver paused in the front hall, looking over the black-and-white photos of generations of family. The newest shots had been taken recently, hanging in a modern frame. Micah was in that one, standing with Ms. Marie and two women in their thirties, both with Marie’s wide, brown eyes. The older photos were cluttered with many more people, all of them glaring out at Oliver with that strange, vacant quality folks seemed to have in the past, as if the bad technology rendered them utterly lifeless.

A few bunches of dried herbs hung above the pictures and a shelf with porcelain figures of Jesus, Mary, and a pair of hands clasped in a prayer pose. A cracked wooden placard swung from the front door behind him.

BLESS THIS HOUSE. PROTECT THIS HOUSE.

Trembling, shuffling, she brought them from the foyer to the sunroom on the left, motioning for them both to sit down. Cups of coffee and a cookie tray had been set out, and when Oliver went to sit down he found his cup lukewarm. She had probably set it out a half hour ago, fixing it whenever she had the energy.

“You live here on your own?” Oliver asked, trying to make conversation.

“Yes and no. My niece comes by every once in a while. Checks in on me and the like. Makes sure I ain’t fallen over in a flower bed to lie with the petunias.” She laughed at that and so did Micah. Oliver joined in, coaxed by her infectious smile. Marie settled into an overstuffed chair, leaving the two boys to wedge themselves together onto an ancient loveseat that would have comfortably fit one moderately sized girl.

Oliver cradled the little saucer with his cookies in hands that felt clumsy and gigantic.

Micah didn’t seem to notice the tiny china or the weird smells, perfectly at ease as he caught up with all the neighborhood gossip. A neighborhood that extended for some miles, Oliver guessed.

“Now I know this ain’t a social call. Nobody brings theyselves out this far just to eat cookies.” Marie narrowed her milky-brown eyes at Micah, tipping her head to the side. “You bein’ good these days? You best not be in trouble or I’ll get Sy down the street to hide you raw.”

“That’s just what I came to ask you about, ma’am,” Micah said, dusting his powder-sugared fingers off on his jeans. “Me and Oliver here been doing a little work for some folks down t’New Orleans,” he explained, his accent thickening by the minute, as if by passing through the door they had entered another segment of the state altogether.

“What kind of folks?” she drawled, studying them.

Oliver couldn’t help but shrink away from her shrewd staring.

But Micah kept his tone light, cheerful even. “Some knuckleheads calling themselves the Bone Artists. Frauds, probably. Just nonsense, but Oliver got nervous so I thought it a good idea to check. . . .”

He rambled on, but Ms. Marie was obviously no longer listening, but was recoiling, pressing herself tightly against the back of the chair. “Your family raised you better than this, boy.”

“So . . . they’re not good, then,” Oliver prompted. They weren’t, of course, he knew that, but judging by her reaction it was worse than he’d anticipated. What tipped you off, genius, the grave robbing or the creepy hideouts?

Marie flicked her gaze between the two of them, shaking her head over and over again. He couldn’t tell if she was shivering or just swiveling her head back and forth, back and forth. . . . “Back when I was a girl you didn’t say those words. You didn’t speak that name. You speak that name you get all that’s evil in t’world coming to you.”

“Whatever they do with these bones—” Micah began.

She was swift to cut him off, lifting a hand as if she could stopper his lips herself. “I won’t repeat it. I won’t say it, I won’t. These folk—these are evil folk. The Bone Artists, they steal, and then they leave—body snatchers. Body thieves. They take your bones for black magics. Witchcraft. Satan’s friend, that prince of they’s is, He curse you and you’re never right in the spirit again.” Her voice rose and then fell to a sudden hush. She shook her head one last time, frowning, on the edge of tears as she looked at them as though they had both been taken far, far away.

“You won’t never be right in the spirit again.”

“She’s a little on the religious side, if you couldn’t tell,” Micah had said, dropping Oliver back at the shop that afternoon. He had leaned over toward the passenger seat and the rolled-down window, gesturing at where Oliver stood on the sidewalk. “I wouldn’t take everything she says seriously, all right? We’re not talking a pinch of salt, here, we’re talking the whole shaker. I mean, come on . . . Princes? Satan? I might believe in some dark stuff but let’s not go crazy.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Oliver said, conjuring a thin smile. “But all the same . . .”

“No, you’re right. Let’s cut and run while we’re ahead.” Micah gave him a salute and a wink, leaning back into the steering wheel. “You seeing Sabrina tonight?”

“Maybe. It’s getting on to supper. You seeing Diane?” Over his shoulder, Oliver heard the distinctive sounds of a séance going on inside. He hated séance night at the shop but it always brought out a bunch of tourists.

“Do you really have to ask?” He laughed, waggling his eyebrows. “Catch you later, man, we still need to do that big celebration. Don’t keep stalling!”

“I’m not, I swear, just giving y’all time to plan the parade.”

Micah snorted and honked the horn on his old Chrysler, pulling away from the curb and into the empty street.

The voices inside the shop swelled to meet him, but he dodged the door, aiming instead for the family apartment. His pocket buzzed and he slipped out his phone, wincing as he read the display.

The Dragon Lady.

She had her answer, what more could she want from him?

“Your answer is no? Is that your final decision?” it read.

Oliver texted back furiously, lips pursed with aggravation. There was no doubt in his mind that he needed out. Now. She was poison and he refused to go back for another dose.

The answer is and always will be: no. Leave me alone.

He was just a few steps from their front door when her reply came, fast enough that Oliver hadn’t gotten his phone all the way inside his pocket. Just one word, and for some reason it chilled him more than her gaze or her sneer ever could.

Pity.