Afterlight (10 page)

I
had absolutely no idea where we were going, but I followed Preacher with blind faith and silence, out into Savannah’s humid dusk. I almost felt like I was out of my body, invisible to everyone around me. All I could think about was my brother; all I really wanted to hear was that Seth would be okay. I doubted seriously I’d hear it right now. Preacher moved wordlessly, and he’d speak when he was damn well ready. Meanwhile, I was dying inside: I fought tears and panic. I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs. I kept my mouth closed, but my silence burned in my throat.

As we hurried along, I knew it wouldn’t do me a bit of good to ask the old conjurer where we were headed; he’d either ignore me or tell me to
hush and wait till we git dere
, so I simply kept up. A fair number of people were out and about as we crossed Bay Street; we hurried past a walking ghost tour heading toward the Kehoe House. People were sitting on park benches or strolling through the squares—none of them privy to the fact that something very unnatural had just occurred.

The threat of rain hung heavy in the air, and I could taste it and the ever-present brine on my tongue; no sooner had that thought crossed my mind than distant thunder rolled overhead. Shadows stretched long over the squares as lamplight fell over monuments and benches, making everything seem distorted, aberrant. Even the towering oaks seemed menacing, with long, outstretched arms reaching toward me as I passed beneath, and moss looking more like stringy witch’s hair than one of Savannah’s icons. The world around me sounded indistinct and displaced, like I was holding a seashell up to my ear. I shook off the weirdness as best as I could, and hurried along with Preacher.

We walked, nonstop and silent, all the way to Taylor Street, where the old Gullah turned right. When we hit Monterey Square, he crossed the street and stopped at the large white-brick historic three-story building on the corner. Black wrought-iron balconies on the second and third stories faced the square; the house was canopied by mammoth, moss-draped oaks—typical of the district. On the front gate hung a brass plate that read HOUSE OF DUPRÉ, 1851. Sure—the Dupré House. I’d seen it a hundred times growing up; I never knew anything about it or its inhabitants, and I couldn’t understand why or how they’d be able to help my brother, unless they were some rich, radical interventionists. Preacher, though, he had connections, and I trusted anything—and I mean
anything
—he deemed necessary. Maybe the Duprés were into some of the same dark African magic? I hoped to hell so.

As if Preacher had heard my thoughts, he stopped at the front step and turned to me. It was dark enough out now that I could see only the whites of his eyes, his silver hair against his ebony skin, but I knew he studied me hard. He always did. “You drink your tea dis mornin’, right?” he asked.

The odd question stunned me, but I answered. “Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t skip any mornin’s since I been gone, right?”

I knew better than to question right now. When Preacher was dead serious about something, he didn’t play around, and right now he was serious—no matter how bizarre the question was. “No, sir, I didn’t skip any mornings. I never do.” Inside, though, I was screaming
What the freak do you need to know that for?
I wisely kept the comment to myself.

“I know you, girl,” Preacher said softly, “and it’s killin’ you to keep dat purty mouth shut. You wanna know what it is we’re doin’ here, and how dese folk can help your brodder—I know dat much. You wanna know why your brodder was floatin’, and how he jumped and ran off. But I tell you now—don’t shoot dat mouth off in dere, even if you want to. You keep dem lips sealed tight shut, and don’t make much movement, and for God’s sake don’t hit nobody if dey put dere hands on you. What you’re gonna see and hear in dere? It won’t settle in your brain or in your heart right away, and I’m askin’ you to just accept it.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, and it was strong, warm. “Promise me dat, Riley Poe.”

If I wasn’t shaken before, I was now. I don’t think I’d ever heard my surrogate grandfather say so many words at one time in my entire life. But Preacher man would do anything for me and Seth, and that was what all this was about—Seth. “Yes, sir,” I answered quietly. Just the fact that Preacher warned me against someone putting their hands on me put my guard instantly up. He knew I had a thing about people—strangers—touching me. I had reflexes I couldn’t help. Besides. Why would anyone in the Dupré House
touch me
? I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I promise,” I said, and hoped like hell I could keep it.

Preacher gave a single nod, then turned to the door; he didn’t have to knock or ring a bell. The moment I stepped into the porch light beside him, the double-hung slabs of solid oak and brass opened, and an older man in a pristine tailored gray suit stood in the entranceway. Tall and wiry, with close-clipped gray hair, he gave me a double take, then addressed Preacher.

“They’re waiting for you in the study,
monsieur
,” the man said with a vague French accent. He didn’t verbally acknowledge me, but he checked out my dragons, angel wing, and attire: a gauzy flower-print skirt that came just above my knees, a ripped white tee, black leather ankle boots, and a wide black velvet choker. “This way,” he said, and inclined his head. He started up the foyer, back ramrod straight, and turned into a room off the main floor, near the back. We followed, my heels clicking sharply against the parquet flooring, breaking a deafening silence. Antique vases, ancient oil portraits, and pristine turn-of-the-century furniture adorned what small portion of the house I could see. The moment I stepped into the room, I stiffened. No fewer than fifteen people were gathered, and all sets of eyes rested on me as we entered. Only six
weren’t
Gullah. A young girl, who seemed to be around the same age as Seth, stood beside an elegant, petite older woman and an older man. Immediately, my gaze scanned the room; I noticed two younger guys, around my age I guessed, and then I saw the hot guy who’d stared at me through Inksomnia’s storefront window. He stood near the back, the farthest away from me, and four big Gullah guys—I knew them all—stood around him, almost . . . shielding him. Seemingly un-bothered by it, he was propped casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, brown hair sideswept and falling over eyes that, even from this distance, I could tell studied me with expressionless intensity. Low-slung faded jeans with a ragged hole in the thigh, a leather belt, and a snug white tee covered a lean, well-defined body. Then I noticed his jaw, his profile, and familiarity surged through me. I stared back, slightly unhinged as another profile, in shadows as I was held against a wall, rushed over me. It was
him
.
What the freak?
But before I could demand what the
hell
was going on, a man’s voice pulled my attention away, effortlessly, as if I had zero control. It was smooth, French, and mesmerizing.

“Bonsoir, ma chère,”
the elderly man said as he slowly rose from a wine-colored upholstered wingback chair near the hearth. His gaze locked directly onto mine as he drew closer, and I found it difficult to think of anyone or anything else except him and his voice. He moved so gracefully, it almost seemed as though he glided across the massive room. Stopping just a few feet from me, he gave a small, sophisticated bow and a warm smile.
“Accueillir à la maison de
Duprè.
”

I stared blankly at the man, and just as I was about to tell him I had no idea what the hell he was saying, I felt Preacher’s hand move to the small of my back. I took that as a sign to keep my mouth shut.

“Oh, Gilles,” said the petite woman, also with a French accent, “in English, love.” She gave me a glance.

“Ah,
oui—pardon
,” the man—apparently Gilles—said to me, switching to English. “My apologies, young lady. ’Tis an old habit difficult to break, I’m afraid.” He gave me a curt nod. “Welcome to the House of Dupré.” A sharp cerulean blue gaze met mine and held it. “We’ve been expecting you.”

What I wanted to say was,
That’s great, really, but how can you help my brother? And what about the guy over there who has been stalking me?
Firm pressure at my back from Preacher kept the question in check. With my eyes, though, I screamed,
What’s going on? Why have you been expecting me?

In the next instant, Preacher began speaking to Gilles Dupré in perfect French. I waited, stunned, and picked up only one word in the fast translation:
Seth
. It was getting more and more difficult to keep my mouth shut, and already I’d had more than I could take of all the silent stares and scrutiny. But just as I was about to lose it, Gilles turned back to me. He grasped both of my hands with his, and I stiffened. Preacher’s body went rigid beside me, but I remained calm. Well, calm for me, anyway. At least I didn’t flip the old guy onto his back.

Gilles glanced down at our joined hands, and I watched his eyes follow the tail of my dragon tattoo up my arm before finding my gaze. Again, the sensation of complete fascination came over me as he spoke. “Riley Poe. The painted one,” he said, almost with admiration. “You are well loved by your dark brethren here, as is your brother. You are . . . family.” He released my hands and gave a grave nod. “I do understand about family,
ma chère
.” With a long, elegant sweep of his hand, he glanced to the others. “This is my family, Ms. Poe. There sits my beloved, Elise, my sweet daughter, Josephine, and my boys”—he motioned farther with his hand—“Séraphin, Jean-Luc, and over there in the corner, brooding, is my eldest, Eligius.”

I stared wordlessly at the family Dupré. Elise, petite, with perfectly coiffed dark hair pulled back into an elegant ponytail, was at least fifteen years younger than her husband. She smiled warmly at me and gave a short, sophisticated nod. Their daughter, Josephine, stood next to her mother’s chair, watching me with inquisitiveness, and looked as though she wanted to say something as badly as I did. Light brown hair hung in naturally wild curls to nearly her waist and parted in the middle, long bangs pinned back hippy style, and wide cerulean blue eyes just like her parents’ stared blatantly at me. With a pair of dark skinny jeans, bright pink high-top sneakers, and a black T-shirt with a hot pink peace sign on the front, she looked like every other average teenager. She glanced at my feet, then met my gaze. “I like your boots. And it’s Josie.” She gave a wicked grin.

Preacher once more pressed firmly against my back, silently telling me to keep quiet. I stared at Josie without saying a word, and her mouth tipped up into a smile—almost as if she knew my thoughts.

Séraphin and Jean-Luc studied me, neither saying a word, and they looked so much alike, they could’ve easily been twins. Both with athletic physiques and dark blond hair, Séraphin wore his close clipped while Jean-Luc’s was longer and crazy. They regarded me in silence, yet their expressions revealed intense curiosity and something else I couldn’t define just then. Then Jean-Luc flashed me a peace sign and grinned. All I knew was, no matter how many in the room stared me down, Eligius was the one that affected me most. And that totally irritated me.

I gave only a brief glance at
him
. Eligius Dupré. Clearly, I was familiar with his good looks and harsh stares and was beginning to get really pissed off at him and this whole situation. What the hell was all this about? Why had Eligius been following me, what had happened to the dead body, and—
Shit
! I was confused. Why had Preacher brought me here? How could these people help Seth? And why couldn’t I
say
anything? I glanced at Preacher, who also said nothing, but I knew that look. It said,
Do what I said, girl
. Finally, I returned my gaze to Gilles, who warmly smiled. I could do nothing more than wait.

“Now that you have observed
ma famille
,
chère
, know us well. Just as we know you well; we will all become quite . . . close.” He grazed my jaw with a long, elegant finger, and I struggled not to knock it away. He smiled. “Ah,
oui
. Your Preacher has told us of your dislike for human touch.” He chuckled and slid a finger across my jaw once more. “I can assure you—’tis not what you think.”

The rest of the Duprés chuckled as well—all except Eligius, and despite my previous promise, I just couldn’t help myself. I narrowed my eyes. “You’ve no idea what I think.”

Preacher made a hissing sound beside me and muttered an African word whose meaning I didn’t know but had a pretty good idea about. I gave him a curious glance. “What?” I asked under my breath, although I knew good and well
what
.

“Come, my fierce painted one,” Gilles said. He grasped my elbow and gently tugged me toward the chair he’d vacated earlier, and for some reason, I allowed it. “Sit. We’ve much to discuss.”

I sat down, throwing a curious look at Preacher, who simply stared back expressionless. I didn’t have to wait long.

Gilles stood at the hearth, elbow propped against a long, polished antique mantel, and began. “Your Gullah brethren and my family have known one another for many years,” he said, his accent light, delicate. “And with regret I confess we’ve all grown complacent.” He sighed, briefly closed his eyes, then looked again at me. “We should never have let our guard down, even for a moment. It was—”

“Gilles,” his wife, Elise, said softly. “Please.”

“
Oui
, you’re so right, love,” he said. “Best to just come out and say it.” He sighed again. “A contract was made, centuries ago, between Preacher’s ancestors and the Dupré
famille
,” he said. “They would supply us with . . . necessities, and we in turn would give full protection to the city and outlying islands. A guardianship, if you will.”

Gilles watched me, waiting for an understanding that I absolutely couldn’t give to him; I had no freaking idea what he was talking about. Although I wanted to question how an old man, a middle-aged woman, a teenage girl, and three young guys could still be carrying on some aged contract to guard an entire city—and from
what
—I kept quiet. A marathon for me, actually, but if Preacher’s grave expression meant anything, I knew this was something I needed to chill out with and listen to—for now, anyway. Somehow, this had to link back to what in hell was happening to my little brother. And strangely enough, I sensed a freakish strength radiating from Gilles Dupré. I couldn’t explain it, but I think it helped keep my mouth shut and my ass firmly planted in the chair.