I can’t do this. I’m not going.
I gave up on my tie and sat back down on my bed, the ancient mattress springs crying out beneath me.
You have to go. You won’t forgive yourself if you don’t.
For a second, she didn’t respond.
You don’t know how it feels.
I do.
I remembered when I was the one sitting on my bed afraid to get up, afraid to put on my suit and join the prayer circle and sing Abide With Me and ride in the grim parade of headlights through town to the cemetery to bury my mother. I was afraid it would make it real. I couldn’t stand to think about it, but I opened my mind and showed Lena….
You can’t go, but you don’t have a choice, because Amma puts her hand on your arm and leads you into the car, into the pew, into the pity parade. Even though it hurts to move, like your whole body aches from some kind of fever. Your eyes stop on the mumbling faces in front of you, but you can’t actually hear what anyone is saying. Not over the screaming in your head. So you let them put their hand on your arm, you get in the car, and it happens. Because you can make it through this if someone says you can.
I put my head in my hands.
Ethan—
I’m saying you can, L.
I shoved my fists into my eyes, and they were wet. I flipped on my light and stared at the bare bulb, refusing to blink until I seared away the tears.
Ethan, I’m scared.
I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.
There weren’t any more words as I went back to fumbling with my tie, but I could feel Lena there, as if she was sitting in the corner of my room. The house seemed empty with my father gone, and I heard Amma in the hall. A second later, she was standing quietly in the doorway clutching her good purse. Her dark eyes searched mine, and her tiny frame seemed tall, though she didn’t even reach my shoulder. She was the grandmother I never had, and the only mother I had left now.
I stared at the empty chair next to my window, where she had laid out my good suit a little less than a year ago, then back into the bare lightbulb of my bedside lamp.
Amma held out her hand, and I handed her my tie. Sometimes it felt like Lena wasn’t the only one who could read my mind.
I offered Amma my arm as we made our way up the muddy hill to His Garden of Perpetual Peace. The sky was dark, and the rain started before we reached the top of the rise. Amma was in her most respectable funeral dress, with a wide hat that shielded most of her face from the rain, except for the bit of white lace collar escaping beneath the brim. It was fastened at the neck with her best cameo, a sign of respect. I had seen it all last April, just as I had felt her good gloves on my arm, supporting me up this hill once before. This time I couldn’t tell which one of us was doing the supporting.
I still wasn’t sure why Macon wanted to be buried in the Gatlin cemetery, considering the way folks in this town felt about him. But according to Gramma, Lena’s grandmother, Macon left strict instructions specifically requesting to be buried here. He purchased the plot himself, years ago. Lena’s family hadn’t seemed happy about it, but Gramma had put her foot down. They were going to respect his wishes, like any good Southern family.
Lena? I’m here.
I know.
I could feel my voice calming her, as if I had wrapped my arms around her. I looked up the hill, where the awning for the graveside service would be. It would look the same as any other Gatlin funeral, which was ironic, considering it was Macon’s.
It wasn’t yet daylight, and I could barely make out a few shapes in the distance. They were all crooked, all different. The ancient, uneven rows of tiny headstones standing at the graves of children, the overgrown family crypts, the crumbling white obelisks honoring fallen Confederate soldiers, marked with small brass crosses. Even General Jubal A. Early, whose statue watched over the General’s Green in the center of town, was buried here. We made our way around the family plot of a few lesser-known Moultries, which had been there for so long the smooth magnolia trunk at the edge of the plot had grown into the side of the tallest stone marker, making them indistinguishable.
And sacred. They were all sacred, which meant we had reached the oldest part of the graveyard. I knew from my mother, the first word carved into any old headstone in Gatlin was Sacred. But as we got closer and my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I knew where the muddy gravel path was leading. I remembered where it passed the stone memorial bench at the grassy slope, dotted with magnolias. I remembered my father sitting on that bench, unable to speak or move.
My feet wouldn’t go any farther, because they had figured out the same thing I had. Macon’s Garden of Perpetual Peace was only a magnolia away from my mother’s.
The twisting roads run straight between us.
It was a sappy line from an even sappier poem I had written Lena for Valentine’s Day. But here in the graveyard, it was true. Who would have thought our parents, or the closest thing Lena had to one, would be neighbors in the grave?
Amma took my hand, leading me to Macon’s massive plot. “Steady now.”
We stepped inside the waist-high black railing around his gravesite, which in Gatlin was reserved for the perimeters of only the best plots, like a white picket fence for the dead. Sometimes it actually was a white picket fence. This one was wrought iron, the crooked door shoved open into the overgrown grass. Macon’s plot seemed to carry with it an atmosphere of its own, like Macon himself.
Inside the railing stood Lena’s family: Gramma, Aunt Del, Uncle Barclay, Reece, Ryan, and Macon’s mother, Arelia, under the black canopy on one side of the carved black casket. On the other side, a group of men and a woman in a long black coat kept their distance from both the casket and the canopy, standing shoulder to shoulder in the rain. They were all bone-dry. It was like a church wedding split by an aisle down the middle, where the relatives of the bride line up opposite the relatives of the groom like two warring clans. There was an old man at one end of the casket, standing next to Lena. Amma and I stood at the other end, just inside the canopy.
Amma’s grip on my arm tightened, and she pulled the gold charm she always wore out from underneath her blouse and rubbed it between her fingers. Amma was more than superstitious. She was a Seer, from generations of women who read tarot cards and communed with spirits, and Amma had a charm or a doll for everything. This one was for protection. I stared at the Incubuses in front of us, the rain running off their shoulders without leaving a trace. I hoped they were the kind that only fed on dreams.
I tried to look away, but it wasn’t easy. There was something about an Incubus that drew you in like a spider’s web, like any good predator. In the dark, you couldn’t see their black eyes, and they almost looked like a bunch of regular guys. A few of them were dressed the way Macon always had, dark suits and expensive-looking overcoats. One or two looked more like construction workers on their way to get a beer after work, in jeans and work boots, their hands shoved in the pockets of their jackets. The woman was probably a Succubus. I had read about them, mostly in comics, and I thought they were just old wives’ tales, like werewolves. But I knew I was wrong because she was standing in the rain, dry as the rest of them.
The Incubuses were a sharp contrast to Lena’s family, cloaked in iridescent black fabric that caught what little light there was and refracted it, as if they were the source themselves. I had never seen them like this before. It was a strange sight, especially considering the strict dress code for women at Southern funerals.
In the center of it all was Lena. The way she looked was the opposite of magical. She stood in front of the casket with her fingers quietly resting upon it, as if Macon was somehow holding her hand. She was dressed in the same shimmering material as the rest of her family, but it hung on her like a shadow. Her black hair was twisted into a tight knot, not a trademark curl in sight. She looked broken and out of place, like she was standing on the wrong side of the aisle.
Like she belonged with Macon’s other family,
standing in the rain.
Lena?
She lifted her head, and her eyes met mine. Since her birthday, when one of her eyes had turned a shade of gold while the other remained deep green, the colors had combined to create a shade unlike anything I’d ever seen. Almost hazel at times, and unnaturally golden at others. Now they looked more hazel, dull and pained. I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to pick her up and carry her away.
I can get the Volvo, and we can drive down the coast all the way to Savannah. We can hide out at my Aunt Caroline’s.
I took another step closer to her. Her family was crowded around the casket, and I couldn’t get to Lena without walking past the line of Incubuses, but I didn’t care.
Ethan, stop! It’s not safe—
A tall Incubus with a scar running down the length of his face, like the mark of a savage animal attack, turned his head to look at me. The air seemed to ripple through the space between us, like I had chucked a stone into a lake. It hit me, knocking the wind out of my lungs as if I’d been punched, but I couldn’t react because I felt paralyzed—my limbs numb and useless.
Ethan!
Amma’s eyes narrowed, but before she could take a step the Succubus put her hand on Scarface’s shoulder and squeezed it, almost imperceptibly. Instantly, I was released from his hold, and the blood rushed back into my limbs. Amma gave her a grateful nod, but the woman with the long hair and the longer coat ignored her, disappearing back into line with the rest of them.
The Incubus with the brutal scar turned and winked at me. I got the message, even without the words. See you in your dreams.
I was still holding my breath when a white-haired gentleman, in an old-fashioned suit and string tie, stepped up to the coffin. His eyes were a dark contrast to his hair, which made him seem like some creepy character from an old black and white movie.
“The Gravecaster,” Amma whispered. He looked more like the gravedigger.
He touched the smooth black wood, and a carved crest on the top of the coffin began to glow with a golden light. It looked like some old coat of arms, the kind of thing you saw at a museum or in a castle. I saw a tree with great spreading boughs, and a bird. Beneath it there was a carved sun, and a crescent moon.
“Macon Ravenwood of the House of Ravenwood, of Raven and Oak, Air and Earth. Darkness and Light.” He took his hand from the coffin, and the light followed, leaving the casket dark again.
“Is that Macon?” I whispered to Amma.
“The light’s symbolic. There’s nothin’ in that box. Wasn’t anythin’ left to bury. That’s the way with Macon’s kind—ashes to ashes and dust to dust, like us. Just a whole lot quicker.”
The Gravecaster’s voice rose up again. “Who consecrates this soul into the Otherworld?”
Lena’s family stepped forward. “We do,” they said in unison, everyone except Lena. She stood there staring down at the dirt.
“As do we.” The Incubuses moved closer to the casket.
“Then let him be Cast to the world beyond. Redi in pace, ad Ignem Atrum ex quo venisti.” The Gravecaster held the light high over his head, and it flared brighter. “Go in peace, back to the Dark Fire from where you came.” He threw the light into the air, and sparks showered down onto the coffin, searing into the wood where they fell. As if on cue, Lena’s family and the Incubuses threw their hands into the air, releasing tiny silver objects not much bigger than quarters, which rained down onto Macon’s coffin amidst the gold flames. The sky was starting to change color, from the black of night to the blue before the sunrise. I strained to see what the objects were, but it was too dark.
“His dictis, solutus est. With these words, he is free.”
An almost blinding white light emanated from the casket. I could barely see the Gravecaster a few feet in front of me, as if his voice was transporting us and we were no longer standing over a gravesite in Gatlin.
Uncle Macon! No!
The light flashed, like lightning striking, and died out. We were all back in the circle, looking at a mound of dirt and flowers. The burial was over. The coffin was gone. Aunt Del put her arms protectively around Reece and Ryan.
Macon was gone.
Lena fell forward onto her knees in the muddy grass.
The gate around Macon’s plot slammed shut behind her, without so much as a finger touching it. This wasn’t over for her. No one was going anywhere.
Lena?
The rain started to pick up almost immediately, the weather still tethered to her powers as a Natural, the ultimate elemental in the Caster world. She pulled herself to her feet.
Lena! This isn’t going to change anything!
The air filled with hundreds of cheap white carnations and plastic flowers and palmetto fronds and flags from every grave visited in the last month, all flying loose in the air, tumbling airborne down the hill. Fifty years from now, folks in town would still be talking about the day the wind almost blew down every magnolia in His Garden of Perpetual Peace. The gale came on so fierce and fast, it was a slap in the face to everyone there, a hit so hard you had to stagger to stay on your feet. Only Lena stood straight and tall, holding fast to the stone marker next to her. Her hair had unraveled from its awkward knot and whipped in the air around her. She was no longer all darkness and shadow. She was the opposite—the one bright spot in the storm, as if the yellowish-gold lightning splitting the sky above us was emanating from her body. Boo Radley, Macon’s dog, whimpered and flattened his ears at Lena’s feet.
He wouldn’t want this, L.
Lena put her face in her hands, and a sudden gust blew the canopy out from where it was staked in the wet earth, sending it tumbling backward down the hill.
Gramma stepped in front of Lena, closed her eyes, and touched a single finger to her granddaughter’s cheek. The moment she touched Lena, everything stopped, and I knew Gramma had used her abilities as an Empath to absorb Lena’s powers temporarily. But she couldn’t absorb Lena’s anger. None of us were strong enough to do that.
The wind died down, and the rain slowed to a drizzle. Gramma pulled her hand away from Lena and opened her eyes.
The Succubus, looking unusually disheveled, stared up at the sky. “It’s almost sunrise.” The sun was beginning to burn its way up through the clouds and over the horizon, scattering odd splinters of light and life across the uneven rows of headstones. Nothing else had to be said. The Incubuses started to dematerialize, the sound of suction filling the air. Ripping was how I thought of it, the way they pulled open the sky and disappeared.
I started to walk toward Lena, but Amma yanked my arm. “What? They’re gone.”
“Not all a them. Look —”
She was right. At the edge of the plot, there was only one Incubus remaining, leaning against a weathered headstone adorned with a weeping angel. He looked older than I was, maybe nineteen, with short, black hair and the same pale skin as the rest of his kind. But unlike the other Incubuses, he hadn’t disappeared before the dawn. As I watched him, he moved out from under the shadow of the oak directly into the bright morning light, with his eyes closed and his face tilted toward the sun, as if it was only shining for him.
Amma was wrong. He couldn’t be one of them. He stood there basking in the sunlight, an impossibility for an Incubus.
What was he? And what was he doing here?
He moved closer and caught my eye, as if he could feel me watching him. That’s when I saw his eyes. They weren’t the black eyes of an Incubus.
They were Caster green.
He stopped in front of Lena, jamming his hands in his pockets, tipping his head slightly. Not a bow, but an awkward show of deference, which somehow seemed more honest. He had crossed the invisible aisle, and in a moment of real Southern gentility, he could have been the son of Macon Ravenwood himself. Which made me hate him.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
He opened her hand and placed a small silver object in it, like the ones everyone had thrown onto Macon’s casket. Her fingers c
losed around it. Before I could move a muscle, the unmistakable ripping sound tore through the air, and he was gone.
Ethan?
I saw her legs begin to buckle under the weight of the morning—the loss, the storm, even the final rip in the sky. By the time I made it to her side and slid my arm under her, she was gone, too. I carried her down the sloping hill, away from Macon and the cemetery.
She slept curled in my bed, on and off, for a night and a day. She had a few stray twigs matted in her hair, and her face was still flecked with mud, but she wouldn’t go home to Ravenwood, and no one asked her to. I had given her my oldest, softest sweatshirt and wrapped her in our thickest patchwork quilt, but she never stopped shivering, even in her sleep. Boo lay at her feet, and Amma appeared in the doorway every now and then. I sat in the chair by the window, the one I never sat in, and stared out at the sky. I couldn’t open it, because a storm was still brewing.
As Lena was sleeping, her fingers uncurled. In them was a tiny bird made of silver, a sparrow. A gift from the stranger at Macon’s funeral. I tried to take it from her hand just as her fingers tightened around it.
Two months later, and I still couldn’t look at a bird without hearing the sound of the sky ripping open.
Don’t miss the exciting first book in a new series coming in 2014.
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