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I woke shirtless on my motel room bed. Long scrapes ran down my chest where the claws had torn into me. The wounds looked old, fringed with the black of frostbitten skin. I cautiously touched my face. It felt numb, but whole. No gouged out bite wound.
I didn’t move and scanned the room. My overnight bag was on the cheap desk where I’d left it. My shredded shirt hung from a chair by the window. Bathroom lights were off.
I patted around for my weapons. No dice. What happened? Had I hurt Araceli? Had the preacher’s choir boys brought me here?
The door opened. I shot up, intent on shouldering it closed and slamming the deadbolt. My legs had other ideas. They buckled as soon as my feet hit the floor and I found myself tasting the fuzzy, musty carpet. I grimaced from the pain. The tiny facial twitch rolled a spasm right down the side of my throat. Propped on my elbows, I coughed up blood.
Araceli rushed inside and ditched a bucket of ice on the dresser. She knelt, eyes searching my face. “What are you doing?”
“Trying not to be surprised,” I grunted and wiped my mouth. “Didn’t work.”
Every ounce of energy had been drained. Not like the minutes after an intense PT session but the next few days when your muscles were screaming piles of jello. Battle magic caused fatigue, but never this intense.
Araceli managed to heave me onto the bed with less trouble than her shorter build should’ve had. I did my honest best to help, but the feeble struggle only made her job harder. The softness of her skin, the sooty fragrance of a perfume of steel and ash, had my mind drifting toward more pleasant ways we could pass the time. I closed my eyes and let those thoughts linger while she arranged my bare feet on the bed.
“Stay,” she commanded. She retrieved a rag from the dresser along with the ice. “You might have internal bleeding or a broken rib.”
“Don’t you worry. Not going to try that again,” I groaned. I knew the true source of the blood I’d coughed up even if she didn’t.
“Try what? Wrestling a demon?”
“What went down?” I kept my eyes closed. The lack of light felt good.
“You decided to grapple a hell beast the size of a mule and it nearly ate your face.”
She didn’t seem too upset though. Last I remembered, I’d gone full on Mike Tyson on her, ready to throw hands, chew ears, whatever it took. I’d gotten right up to her and...
Oh. Right.
I opened one eye and leaned over the bed enough to peek at the floor. Beside the trashcan lay the Escalade’s side mirror. There might have been teeth marks in the chrome.
“The SUV.”
“Et vas tornar boig. Loco.” She shrugged indifferently. “Finally got rid of our tail.”
Shit. It all came back like a warped reflection in that gnawed up chrome. When I’d thrown myself at her, her shock hadn’t lasted. Those deadly knives set, she’d planted her back foot ready to swivel and open me up matador style. I’d been able to redirect that impulse at the last second.
Those tire-necked bodyguards had been the ones interfering. They were the true enemy. Coming off the ground, I never left all fours, galloping at them like a demented alligator. I mounted Bubonic’s hood, scrambled across the roof, and dove onto the Escalade.
If the hound made of darkness hadn’t already put the fear of God in them, a rabid black man riding their grill and smashing a fist through the windshield did.
Clinging to the hood, I’d tried to rip open the SUV like a tin can. Some voice inside told me I needed to shove a hand into the fan belt or eat the spark plug wires and stop them from getting away. Driver wasn’t having any of that and slammed into reverse. He whipped that wheel around so hard they almost rolled. I lost my grip. Snatched at the mirror on the way to the curb. Looked like I walked away with a trophy.
“How about you?” I asked. “You good?”
Araceli laughed. She wrapped some ice in the rag and placed it against my cheek. “I didn’t have to mercy kill my only way to find this sword, so yes, I’m good.”
I put my hand on hers. Been a while since anybody’d bothered to take care of me. In her worry, I could almost see Keandra. She slipped away, leaving me holding the cold ice pack.
“Sorry you had to see that,” I said. “How?” I tapped a finger on my cheek where the bite wound had healed.
Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a small bar of what looked like gold. Runic marks covered the surface. I reached out. She hesitated, then placed it gently into my palm.
The gold ingot had the weight of the real thing, but the surface was warm and moist, like touching a living thing. A magical force was trapped inside, vibrant and life-giving. She’d used this to heal the wound. My pulse quickened.
“What is this? How does it work?”
She plucked the ingot from my palm and returned it to her pocket. “Gold in alchemy is considered to be a metal of perfect purity. A representation of the sun and the cleansing powers within, it can cleanse bodies and even souls. With the proper channeling, it can heal wounds, especially those of the Below.”
The bite on my face had been the worst, and it was gone. My insides still felt ravaged though, the cancer continuing to advance. Why could only Atofo’s magic keep it at bay? I wanted to ask, but I still wasn’t ready to let her in on my diagnosis.
“Reminds me of the breastplate I have... Had. It’s in lock up.”
“Breastplate?” She wandered to the window and peeked out the curtains.
“Another of Atofo’s gifts. Wards off death. We can argue about how pure anything he handles is, but I’ve seen it work.”
She gave me a shrewd look. Reaching into her pocket, she started to draw what I thought would be her blade. Instead, out came Atofo’s knife.
“And this? Another of his gifts?”
She hadn’t left it behind at least. The way she held it though gave me the vibe that she might want to confiscate it too. I stuck out my hand again, insistent. She chewed her lip thoughtfully before handing it over.
“This blade’s older than any even you’ve seen, I’d guess.”
“An intriguing mystery, granted,” she moved to the chair by the window and sat. “I can’t identify the metal.”
“Too far out of your jurisdiction?” I asked, tucking the knife into its sheath. My shirt removed, she hadn’t bothered to take away the sheath or heal the cuts below it.
Araceli didn’t answer, her focus still on the dagger. “I can identify every element on the periodic chart by touch. That is...something else entirely. Do you know who forged it?”
“Supposed to be the work of a Two Spirits. Shaman who can tread in all worlds.”
“Like you?” she asked.
I chuckled and an ache rippled through my chest. Choking and laughing all at once, I scooted higher on the bed, waving off Araceli’s concern. “Atofo would’ve gotten a laugh out of that. Naw, those people were, umm, unique. Both worlds meant in every aspect of their life, including their sex.”
She crossed her legs in a way too prim and proper for the overalls. “And you?”
“Need proof?” I patted the bed. A brother’s gotta defend his manhood.
“I don’t consort with demons.”
“A shame. Best kind of consorting.”
“Your magic is killing you.” She had no sense of humor.
That deserved another mirthless chuckle. “I was dead long before I found Atofo.”
We glared across the room at one another until the door opened.
“Hey, guys!” Caleb stumbled inside.
He’d come from a very different battle. Under one arm were cardboard tubes bundled like a quiver of spears. His breastplate, a thick stack of papers clutched against his chest.
Already on her feet, Araceli’s hand slipped casually away from her blades. She helped him through the door and bolted it behind him.
Uncertainty mixed with disappointment crossed his face when he saw me on the bed, shirtless. Then he noticed the gashes. He blindly dumped his arsenal onto the dresser. Tubes scattered, some rolling to the floor with hollow clunks.
“Ace! What happened?”
“Dog,” I said.
“Stray?” Drawn to the gruesome sight of the wounds, he stepped up to inspect. Scrapes, or whatever, but the dead tissue outlining the edges made them look all kinds of wrong. “Was it rabid?”
“Which one?” Araceli said, dryly.
I scooted higher up the headboard, trying not to wince. “Forget that, Caleb. What’ve you got?”
He grabbed one of the cardboard tubes, popped the cap, and unfurled a map across the bed. As the end settled over my shin, he gritted his teeth.
“Never mind that. Preach, professor.”
Caleb didn’t need to be told twice. “Fenwick Hall’s oldest known plat. I know you said Civil War, but,” he beamed, finally in his element, and dove into the pile again, “they had land records all the way back to pre-statehood! This one’s from 1790!”
Church boy was goin’ awwf. I was ready to crack jokes on him with Araceli, but she wasn’t having any of that. Caleb had her undivided attention. Maybe my boy did have a chance with the Spanish princess.
“This shows the original deed.” He handed me a paper covered in the most careful cursive writing I’d ever seen, so compact and tilted as to almost be unreadable. “The plantation grew in size, slowly acquiring adjacent parcels over the years until it had an extensive rice plantation running northeast along Pennys Creek.”
He stuffed more papers into my hands. On top was another page filled with handwriting in perfect, unmarked lines. These were new copies of older scanned documents, their cracked edges evident against the crisp borders.
“What am I looking at?”
“Hallewell becomes the family name, see? In 1776.” Caleb ran a finger along one line. “Fenwick was the original owner.”
We’d gotten pretty far off track. Caleb’s history obsession had gotten the better of him. I probably hadn’t been specific enough, that was on me. At least one assignment had been completed by getting him clear of all the heat.
I offered the papers back to Caleb. “I’m not seeing how this helps me find my Civil War sword.”
Stabbing a decisive finger in the air, Caleb shuffled through his stack again.
“Fenwick,” he said, speaking toward the dresser top while he rummaged, “came over with the English. A loyalist, he lost his holdings after South Carolina declared statehood. But the transfer wasn’t ever properly recorded. There was subterfuge,” he said, gleaming with excitement and brandishing a new paper. I didn’t bother looking and waited for the interpretation. “Russell Fenwick was an odd duck. Wanted people to call him ‘Magus.’” Araceli had wandered toward the window again, her back to us. “He maintained ownership of the property but in 1776, Hallewell’s name just shows up on the deed, no official transfer.”
“Forfeiture?” I asked. I still didn’t understand why we’d gone digging so deep. “I mean, there was a different war going on then.”
“Yes, it could’ve been confusion surrounding the Revolution,” he said. “Or it could be that confusion was used to cover a murder.”
Beaming, he handed me a new piece of freshly photocopied paper, the toner still fragrant. A death record for Russell Fenwick dated 1774. Died of unnatural causes.
“He got killed for his real estate?” I asked.
Araceli didn’t offer a word. She peeked absently out the curtains and let Caleb’s conspiracy theory run. My mind was starting to spin, and I wasn't sure if it was information overload or something else.
“The Hallewell family continued to buy land, growing their holdings until 1863 when the house was temporarily seized to be used as a hospital for Union troops.”
Finally, we were on the same page. But just the mention of the hospital brought back the shadow play in that freaky house of horrors. The nauseating smell. The screams. No spiritual barrier, not even time, had dulled the edge.
“You okay?” Caleb asked.
Over by the window, Araceli started and came to inspect my wounds. I pushed her hand away and urged Caleb to get on with it. I needed him to get to the point, yesterday. The room hadn’t stopped spinning.
“After,” Caleb said, eyeing me with concern. I arched an eyebrow and he continued. “After the war, the Hallewell holdings were broken up and sold off to speculators from the North until all he owned were the original estate grounds you see here.”
“What? No forty acres and a mule?” I said.
Caleb dropped onto the bed, laughing. “Right, dawg?” I winced as he hit the mattress. He gritted his teeth and mouthed an apology before carefully standing. “Then there’s this.”
He returned to the dresser and removed another rolled up map. Holding it by the corners, he let it unfurl like a banner. This one was more recent. Lines were crisp and the edges gridded. Several individual plats had been highlighted in yellow and a boundary drawn around a bigger area in orange. Only a few gaps remained to fill in the orange.
“The orange,” Caleb said, “shows the boundary of the original plantation. The yellow? That’s all land recently acquired by a single company—”
“Promised Land Ministries,” I said.
“What!?” Caleb’s jaw dropped. All the buildup and I’d caught his mic drop. He checked Araceli for any sign of shared shock. She only frowned in agreement. “How did you guys know?”
“Good guess,” I said. I motioned him closer. He started to roll up the map and I shook my head. Confused, he shuffled forward, a human whiteboard. Following the roads, I could see only Hank Hallewell’s land remained along with a little spot near the crossroads. Fortune’s place. “What’s back there?” I said, pointing to an area behind the manor which I hadn’t explored.
Caleb pressed his chin right above where I’d pointed. “Historically, that’s where the rice fields were.”
“Good place to hide a body?”
Chin still pinned to his chest, wide eyes crept upward. “Sword, you mean?”
“It’s whatever,” I said.
“I mean if you’re looking for bodies...” Caleb turned sullen. Eyes downcast, he lowered the map like a funeral shroud. Gingerly, he retrieved another sheaf of papers from his stack. “If these property records are right, the Hallewell’s owned more slaves than most plantation owners.”
This folder felt heavy in my hands. I opened to the first page, a list of names with ages. People. On property records. Maybe this was why I’d never been a history buff.
These, I’d keep.
“Amazing work, Caleb,” Araceli said into the troubling silence. “How did you do it all?”
A good question. I checked the digital clock on the nightstand. He’d started around three and it was after nine but drive time to Charleston had to have eaten up an hour each way.
“Wasn’t a big deal,” Caleb blushed. “They had their older records digitized. All I had to do was run some database queries and wait around for the prints. The archivist and I had such a good time talking, he let me stay after normal hours. Oh! Speaking of which.” He handed me another sheet with itemized lines and dollar signs. “Printing costs.”
I chuckled and didn’t bother to read the total before setting it on the nightstand. “I’ll make sure the right guy gets it.” Kitterling would be thrilled to know his potential partner had racked up a motel bill and research expenses. “I’ll see what I can do about a consulting fee too.”
The praise dawned on him slowly. “Maybe we should team up more often?”
“We’ll talk about it,” I said. I slid out of the bed to guide Caleb toward the door while ignoring Araceli’s frown. He’d done a great job, now I wanted him away from the heat for good. “You might want to get back to the park. You gotta work tomorrow, right?”
He rolled his eyes and slumped. The sleeves of his costume had lost their original poofiness, his feathered hat wilted. “Opening weekend. We’re all putting in long hours. Come on, Araceli, we’ll be lucky if we get home in time to get a few hours of sleep before our shift starts.”
Araceli stepped toward him and took his hand. “I can’t go with you. Can you tell Marty I’ve had a family matter come up?”
“Oh, I see.” He scuffed his shoe on the floor. “Best of luck, you two.”
My man needed to be put straight. I clapped Caleb’s back, using him for more balance than I wanted to admit. As I reached for the door handle, I planned to lean in so I could whisper, she’s into you. Make his night. Send him off right.
But my vision swam. The world went black. I heard Atofo laughing.