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When I emerged from the dirt side road and onto the paved highway, spending the night in the hearse suddenly didn’t have the same appeal. Tonight, a locked and barred door between me and the real world sounded good. The run down motel I’d passed on the edge of town would have to do.
Mucous gurgled in my throat and I cleared it. Rolling down the window, I spit. No prayers, no spells on that blood, just a need to feel the rush of wind on my face. Too much too soon and I’d worked myself up out of remission.
I’d experienced battle magic before plenty of times. You walked tall, draggin’ nuts, and feeling like destroying clowns with your sheer swag.
Under the influence of the former slave’s gift, I’d felt driven and unbridled freedom. The weight of the possibility of being discovered, the corruption in my lungs, the worry about who had gone to such lengths to set me up, all had been forgotten as I charged across the lawn. Cruising in Bubonic, reality came lurching back into my life.
I had a long list of enemies but none in these backwater islands around Charleston. My old life had left a string of unfriendly folk behind in Baltimore, cops and criminals alike. As far as they knew, I’d crawled off into the gutters to die.
Working for Mr. Kitterling had also created plenty bad blood in both the normal and supernatural ‘hood. I could add Death itself to the list after tonight. This frame-up definitely had the feel of a trickster or a vengeful spirit. I wasn’t sure if Hallewell’s angry, racist ancestors had the pull to reach into This World and call the cops on the black man in their house — a damn seance home alarm system — but I couldn’t rule anything out.
Then there’d been that beast in the window which looked like the king of all pit bulls. The Grim Reaper of the bloody dirt rings and fenced off alleys. Had it jumped for me? Or was it just trying to get inside?
Whatever the case, this sword was far more important than Kitterling let on.
Pretty soon, this town was going to become an even more unwelcome place for strangers. If I could, I’d keep driving and hole up in Saint Augustine. My spiritual promise made that impossible.
Scouring the enormous plantation grounds on my own, dodging the dogs and the volunteer search teams and whatever else the good Sheriff brought in to find his friend’s murderer sounded impossible. Magic could help. But I’d have little chance to cast rituals while I avoided a manhunt.
That led back to the hoodoo conjure. I needed to speak to him for my own purposes, true, but he could be an invaluable lead on what went down inside that house. He’d warded himself in, but why? Hallewell’s ancestors? Or possibly that shadow hound lurking outside? Whatever he knew about the threat and whatever rumors or history he’d picked up over the years could tell me exactly what I needed.
I breathed in the wind rushing by the open window, chest gurgling. If only I could catch a break like that.
No clever name, the single-story Motel’s sign hummed with a neon “vacancy.” Parking lot empty, I parked Bubonic away from the streetlamps. After checking in, I warded the door of the room as best as I could.
I hadn’t bothered to bring an offering to leave outside. The tricks to extend the life-saving magic wouldn’t take at a business anyway. With the strain tonight and no protections, I wondered how long I had.
I tried again to write a letter to Izaak. The words came out more vague and meaningless than usual. On top of the normal guilt and shame, the possibility the letter would be found and used against me clouded every sentence. So I gave up and lay down on the rough comforter to stare at the water-stained ceiling.
When my thoughts settled and my eyes stopped popping open every time a car passed by the curtain gap a place like this always had, the weariness finally set in. Sleep didn’t come easily. Never did.
I didn’t dream. This was intentional. Sleep was a vulnerable experience in any world. Physically, it left a person defenseless. Spiritually, a shaman’s mind could wander deep into the other realms and never return.
Those dreams where a person couldn’t wake up, where they’re paralyzed, and a sinister force stands over them? That was as bad as it got for normal folk. Those weren’t even nightmares; they were real happenings in other worlds. A nasty stalker from Below had actually found you and was ready to eat your soul. For normal people, at the last second they’d wake up with their heart in their throat and limbs snapping out of paralysis.
Shaman have to fight. We regularly give ourselves to the mercy of extraplanar forces. They think we’re a 7-11. Another price of keeping those doors open.
Some lucky practitioners danced in the Above during their dreams. They saw more than devils and doom, only prophets and good omens. I’m not that fortunate. But under Atofo, I’ve learned that sleep wasn’t beyond my control. The meditative state required by ritual can keep you safe while you rest without letting you slide into the Below.
So when morning came around and the hotel room door jostled in its frame, I was ready. Not to fight nightmare creatures, but to face a more everyday problem.
I rolled out of bed and checked the peephole. Yep. I secured my gun inside my bag along with my knife. The door rattled again, the chain jumping with each forceful knock.
“Coming,” I shouted before stuffing the calamus root beside my gums and opening the door.
Deputy Gardener, as his badge said, had come loaded for bear. The taller one from last night, he wore a bulletproof tactical vest stuffed with extra magazines and sporting a ballistic plate capable of stopping rifle rounds. Thin but athletic, his egg-shaped head probably shouldn’t have ever been shaved. Lack of sleep weighed heavily on his sagging eyes.
Hand on his gun, the other on his radio, he evaluated my threat level then swept the room. A hotel employee who’d been standing beside him, keycard in hand, scampered away.
“That your hearse?”
“Technically, no.” His hand tightened on the grip of his sidearm at what he might’ve taken as disrespect. “But I am driving it.”
“I’m going to need you to come down to the station.”
“I’m not transporting any cargo if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His tired face scrunched, and cheek twitched. The magic in the root was already taking hold. “No, I don’t believe you are. That’s not why... I just need to ask you some questions.”
“You can ask them here.”
I knew he wanted to argue but couldn’t fight the simple bewitchment. It kind of surprised me he hadn’t gone straight to suspect.
“I’m going to have to place you under arrest.” He reached for his handcuffs.
There we go. Strange he hadn’t led with that. Was he concerned about having a legitimate reason to take me in? Out here, my guess was they made the rules. Legit reasons or not, I wasn’t going to cooperate today.
“No,” I said.
“What?”
Normally, I could savor these moments. Demanding your rights and talking back to a cop will get a brother beat down, maybe shot. It was a skin color thing, sure, but as a cop, it became a respect thing too. I did the same damn thing to my own when walking the beat. Streets don’t value weakness. You show any, you get eaten alive.
Deputy Gardener here wanted nothing more than to give that show of strength. Faced with a strange black man spouting a gospel he could not deny, his brain had come to a full stop. His eyebrows knitted together so close they formed one wrinkled line of hair on his bald head like some whacked out cartoon character. The hand on his gun became dead weight, pressed into the web of his thumb. The other toyed with the handcuffs on a belt littered with gadgets. Then I noticed the camera embedded in his fancy vest.
For a small town department, Deputy had lots of bling. I’d been smart to avoid the dash of the squad car last night. New cars, cameras, enough gadgets to make Bruce Wayne envious; still, very few cops in the sticks took it upon themselves to voluntarily camera up.
“You don’t need to arrest me, officer. Just ask your questions and report back.”
He swung his head back and forth, muttering and silently arguing with himself. I actually felt sorry for this guy. As requested, he started with his questions. If only all shakedowns went this good.
“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
I answered with my own. “Why?”
“We had a report you were trespassing yesterday out at Fenwick Hall.”
I could lie. Assuming Hank Hallewell had been the one to call in the complaint, there weren’t any living witnesses. The old hoodoo conjure was a wild card. He could identify me. Just as easy, he could be the one who called, but that didn’t sound right. Then there was whoever tried to frame me and what they might be able to prove. I decided to go with the truth.
“Yeah, I visited Fenwick Hall, talked to the owner. He asked me to leave, so I got in my car and left.”
The Deputy was really struggling now. Hell, I’d arrest me and let a judge sort it out. But the power wouldn’t let him.
“When did you leave his house?”
A leading question, he was searching for enough cause to slap the cuffs on. Even under a bewitchment, he stayed persistent.
“I didn’t enter his house. We talked in the driveway. Ask him, you’ll see.”
Cold, but I had to sell my alibi at his dead friend’s expense. I also didn’t have any straight answers which wouldn’t put me in lock-up when his boss reviewed the bodycam footage.
His jaw clenched. Fingers white-knuckled on his handcuffs, he barked, “Don’t leave town.”
Hollywood bullshit. By the frustration etched on his face, I could tell he wasn’t sure why he’d made the demand either. Only bars and maybe bail money can keep a suspect in place.
“Yes, sir.”
I watched him walk stiff-backed to his car. A night without sleep and a bewitched brain had him fumbling with the door handle. I didn’t want to be that guy in the bullpen at their station. As soon as he was gone, I closed the door and gathered my gear.
My lungs felt like a wrung out washcloth. I already had one clock ticking. I could probably keep the local police off me for a few days. Any longer, it wouldn’t matter.
With his deputy not at the crime scene, could be the Sheriff had left Fenwick Hall too and handed me a chance to hit up the hoodoo conjure. But first, I needed to make a phone call.
I stopped by the motel office and paid for another night for when the cops came back to check if I’d skipped town then I drove to the Brake Fast diner. Somebody had rearranged the letters on the marquee to read “FAKE BRAS.” Cops get called outside of Main Street, and Mayberry gets dangerous. I jogged over to the payphone and slipped in a quarter.
I didn’t call the Fountain of Youth park often, but I’d checked hours and special event times enough to know the digits. While I waited for the front desk to round up Caleb, I watched Becky walk outside, shaking her head. Focused on the sign, she didn’t see me but when she took note of the hearse on her way to the marquee, she came to a complete stop.
“Hello?” Caleb said. He sounded confused.
“Hey, Caleb.”
“Ace?” he asked, surprised.
“Got a question for you.”
“Sure thing, dawg!”
“Don’t. Just don’t. Look, you told me a story about the Shaw sword. There were two?”
It took him a minute before he caught on. In that time, Becky spotted me at the phone. “Sure, his Uncle sent him one prior to the war. That was the English forged blade used at Fort Wagner. Why? You got a lead?” he stammered. “Some shadowy dealer in the antiquities underworld tip you off?”
“Exactly what happened,” I said. “What do I look for to know I’ve got the real deal?”
“His initials, RGS, will be etched on the blade,” Caleb said, breathless.
“Any chance the Confederate soldier might’ve given them Shaw’s other sword? You know, as a decoy?”
Spirits didn’t have to tell the truth. Hallewell’s ancestor had no reason to do so except to taunt me. If Caleb could also verify my theory about the swords being swapped, I’d have more to go on.
The receiver went quiet. I watched Becky fish around in the grass for the missing letter “T”. The whole time, she sent nervous glances my direction. When she found the letter, she fumbled it into place and began to rearrange the others.
Caleb’s excitement level had dropped like Chris Hansen had walked in the room. “No, no that wouldn’t make much sense.”
“How so?” I asked.
“He only lost the English forged blade in the battle. The other he’d already mailed back to his parents near the start of the war. Why would a Confederate officer have that one? Doesn’t make sense, unless they went up north and stole it from his parents.”
Didn’t make sense, but neither did my life. I considered the possibilities. “Could be Hallewell had been actively looking for the sword even before the battle and got a hold of the wrong one first.”
“Well...I don’t know, Ace. Before the battle, it was just a sword like any other.”
“Maybe not,” I muttered. “Hey, thanks.”
I hung up the phone, still staring into the parking lot. Becky had finished fixing the sign. Clearly, she had practice.
Whatever the truth about this sword, I trusted the Hallewell ancestor spirit on one account; he’d murdered that boy, sure enough. Finding the spirit’s son, as promised, might just be my best and only lead. I also knew Kitterling wasn’t searching for a piece of history to hang over the fireplace. The latent magic here and the lengths taken to hide the sword pointed toward a significance possibly beyond This World.
Magic blades weren’t just fairy tales. Weapons forged from that Primal Flame Atofo had mentioned involved deep magic. Older than recorded history.
I watched Becky pause again beside the hearse. I waved and she averted her eyes, walking briskly toward the diner door. Some history you just can’t seem to shake. I needed to get to that hoodoo before the cops came calling again.