Conjure (11 page)

“Cooper’s on his way over to pick you up. I think we found it.”

Chapter Fourteen

Cooper gave Miss Delia and me only the vaguest details. It seems Jack thinks the ancestors’ mortar is at the King Center, the local Gullah museum, and if so, he’s come up with a plan to use Beau’s donor status to borrow it. But Cooper’s acting all fidgety and avoiding Miss Delia’s gaze, so I’m sure he’s not being completely honest. Maybe he’s waiting until we leave Miss Delia’s to spill his guts, but that only makes me wonder what he’s hiding, and why.

He nudges my arm. “Well, Emmaline, we better get going. Jack’s waiting on us.”

“Wait, before y’all go, let me mix you up some charms. You’re going to need all the help you can get.” Miss Delia strains to lift herself out of her rocking chair.

Cooper gnaws his lip as we grasp her hands and help her up. “Yes, ma’am. Although I think we’re planning on scouting things out at first, just to make sure they have it.”

Miss Delia narrows her hazy eye at him. “Boy, I’ve lived five times longer than you and seen every scheme there is. Don’t think I haven’t figured out what you and her brother have cooked up. Trust me, if it is there, you’ll need the charms.”

Cooper’s eyes widen—today they’re pale blue to match his T-shirt—and he gulps. He looks…guilty. “Uh, I don’t know what we’re going to do, at least not exactly.” Sweat beads along his forehead, and it’s not because it’s July in South Carolina and Miss Delia doesn’t have air conditioning.

Miss Delia chuckles. “Don’t ever play poker. You’ll get cleaned out.” With a sigh she adds, “At least it means you’re honest, which is more than I can say for the rest of your kin.” With our help, she takes the few cautious steps toward the screen door.

Cooper mashes his lips into a sad, thin line. He’s wrestling with something, but I’m not sure if it’s her crack about his family or whatever he and Jack have planned. He holds the door open so I can guide her into the living room. “But you said you need the mortar to save Jack, right? So we don’t have much of a choice.”

Miss Delia pauses and removes her hand from mine. “Don’t misunderstand me, son.” She grips his fingers and pats the back of his knuckles. Her withered brown hand looks small and fragile against his. “You get what I need, and you’ll get no judgment from me. It belongs with me, anyhow.”

My stomach thuds. What the heck are they talking about? And how much trouble are we going to get into? Is this a message from my spirit guide, or am I just freaking myself out?

Miss Delia grabs my arm again. “Help me to the kitchen, Emma. We’ve got a few spells to cast.” She turns toward Cooper. “See if you can’t find yourself another program to watch on the television.” Her thick yellow fingernails dig into my skin as she steadies herself. I bite my tongue to diffuse the pain as we baby-step across the living room carpet, through the swinging door, and into the kitchen.

Miss Delia settles onto a stool, and we purify ourselves with citronella. She calls out a bunch of ingredients almost faster than I can assemble them. Before long, the island counter is covered with crocks, and we’re measuring out small quantities of herbs to make
gris-gris
bags, which are small pouches filled with powder and other items.

The breeze picks up, swaying the trees that stand beyond the garden. Within moments, the temperature drops, raising goose bumps on my sleeveless arms. The normally crystal-blue sky turns a dull steel gray, and a gentle summer rain begins to fall.

Miss Delia still hasn’t told me what she thinks the guys are up to, and it’s driving me insane. I could ask, but then she’ll think I couldn’t figure it out myself. Instead, I decide to start with the charms and work backward, figuring they might give me a clue to the big picture.

While Miss Delia works to fill one brown leather bag with her quaking fingers, I’ve already made up two sets of my own according to her instructions. Though it’s a challenge, because I’m suddenly overcome with a maddening fatigue that makes it hard to concentrate. I don’t understand. The first three yellow pouches contain a mixture of yarrow and nettle, which unfortunately smells like cabbage but shouldn’t make me drowsy. According to Miss Delia’s spell book, they’re supposed to increase courage and bravery, not sleep.

I yawn. “I know this is going to sound weird, but is it possible I’m allergic to some of these plants?”

She gazes at my skin. “I doubt it. You haven’t broken out in hives, and you’re not sneezing.”

“Then why am I suddenly so tired? It happened last week, too, before that crazy dog showed up. I feel like I could crawl into bed and sleep all day.”

Miss Delia chuckles. “It’s been so long since I trained as an apprentice, I forgot to warn you of the effects.”

My lids droop, and I shake my head to clear the fog. “You mean this is going to happen whenever I work a spell?”

She pats my hand. “Only at the beginning or whenever you’re working a very strong charm. You see, magic is basically energy which is used to influence people or events. That energy has got to come from somewhere, usually the root doctor. But don’t worry, you’ll build up a tolerance eventually.”

Eventually? How long is that going to take? And how many naps will I have to take between now and then? “Let’s hope so, because I’m not sure I can deal with this.” I yawn again.

“You can do anything you put your mind to,” she says matter-of-factly and hands me an empty white
gris-gris
bag. Evidently she’s done sympathizing over my condition. Shaking her gnarled finger at me, she admonishes, “Never, ever allow yourself to be defeated by negative thinking. That kind of energy is just as destructive as dark magic.” She reaches for the crushed sea spirit seaweed powder and sprinkles some in the bag.

Nodding, I bat my eyes to keep them open and get back to business. “I don’t remember reading about seaweed in your spell book. What’s it supposed to do?”

“That’s because it’s listed under agar-agar, the name for the crushed powder. If you hold some of it in your hand and walk around slowly, it’ll give you semi-invisibility. I’m sure you’ll need it.”

As bizarre as that sounds, after seeing Jack’s hand and that hellhound, not to mention this bone-crushing weariness, I’ve learned not to doubt anything about hoodoo. Rather than ask about why we need it or make a big deal of getting quasi-super powers, I keep my mouth shut and concentrate on blending the last potion while trying to stay awake.

Miss Delia cinches her pouch and hands it to me. “This one’s just for you.”

I drop the pestle and take it from her. “Thanks. What’s it for?” I sniff at the bag, inhaling its sweet, buttery flavor, then hang the long cord around my neck.

Her good eye sparkles. “It’ll help you get a little bit of what you want.” She turns her attention toward the potion I’m working and changes the subject. “That mixture’s just right.” She points her crooked finger toward the counter behind me. “Now fetch three blue flannel bags from that drawer and drop three bark chips in each before you add the rest.”

I follow her instructions and spoon the oregano, fennel seed, and black mustard seeds into each bag. I’m sure I’ve never come across a charm with these ingredients in her book, and I’m tired of acting like I understand what’s going on. “I give up. What’s this spell for?”

She hands me a tiny bottle of oil to drizzle on top of the mixture before sealing the bags. “To keep away the law.” She winks.

The rain stops, and the clouds part, revealing a perfect cerulean sky.

I swallow hard. “The l-l-law?” My voice rises.

She hitches her brow. “Don’t tell me you believed that boy’s story about asking the King Center to loan out my ancestors’ mortar?”

Up until now it seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan. “Sure. Why not? Beau’s one of their biggest donors. Why wouldn’t they?”

She sucks her teeth. “There’s not a museum in the world that would loan you kids an artifact, no matter how much you claim Cooper’s daddy will pay.”

My forehead crinkles as I cock my head, trying to figure out what she means. “So how are we going to get it, then?”

She levels her good eye at me. “You’re going to steal it.”

…

Despite the
gris-gris
bags, Cooper’s scared. He grips the steering wheel like he’s trying to choke it. “Maybe we should rethink this, bro. If that thing is in there, I’m sure my dad really could send a letter asking to borrow the mortar.” He wipes at the sweat beading on his brow.

We’re parked in front of the King Center. One of their main exhibits features three hundred years of Gullah root medicine. Long before it was a museum, the building was a missionary school for Gullah kids. If the mortar isn’t here, we’re lost.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose and grunts, then sneers as he whips his coarse black hair off his face. “Are you kidding me? I’m sitting here, losing chunks of skin practically by the minute, and you want your dad to write a letter?”

I lean forward from the backseat, completely sympathetic with his point but nearly paralyzed by the impossibility of this task. “But Jack, you want us to steal from a museum. How the heck are we supposed to do that?”

Living in D.C., I’ve been to every Smithsonian a million times and seen how much security they have. Everything is held down by trip wires, tracked by motion detectors, or recorded on videotape. And that doesn’t include all the guards posted in every room. You can’t get within a couple feet of an object, much less come close enough to touch it. There’s no way we’re going to pull this off. With or without the
gris-gris
bags, we’re so going to get arrested.

Jack cranes his neck around to face me, his gaze narrowed into snake-like slits. “Okay, so who’s going to explain to Beau why we need the letter, and who’ll make sure Dad doesn’t have a heart attack when he sees my hand? And then, if by some miracle we convince them not to send me to a hospital, and they actually believe an ancient magic mortar will fix me, who’s going to make sure the museum gives us the mortar before I’m dead?” He drops his face in his hand and squeezes the top of his head. A low moan rises from his lips.

“You okay, bro?” Cooper asks.

Jack shakes his head. “It’s the headaches. They’re getting worse. It’s all the stress from The Creep. I’ve taken pain meds, but nothing seems to work. We’ve got to end this curse before my head explodes.”

“We’re doing everything we can. We’re in this together, remember?” I rub his shoulder. “You’re right. Compared to all that stuff you just laid out, stealing the mortar sounds a lot easier.” I sigh, sounding as defeated as I feel, knowing that although stealing is wrong, we have no choice but to try, even if it means we end the day in a jail cell. I sink back into the soft leather seat. “I’m just afraid we won’t be able to take it if we do find it. What if it’s bolted down or something?”

Jack slaps his forehead with his good hand. “This isn’t the Air and Space or Natural History museum, Em. Compared to those, this one’s got to be rinky-dink. Besides, you don’t have to take it now. Just go in there and check things out. If everything’s good, grab it and run. If not, come back out, and we’ll switch to plan B.”

Plan B? We’ve barely got a Plan A.

I’m so busy worrying about our impending incarceration that I miss one important point, but Cooper doesn’t, turning to Jack with fear etched into his face. “You’re not coming with?”

Jack rolls his eyes and shoves his gloved hand in Cooper’s face. “Hel-lo, have you not noticed my hand is falling off? No? Well then how about this?” He tugs on the end of the glove, releasing a hint of that revolting scent, and revealing the inch-wide strip of bulging flesh that encircles his wrist and pulses like it’s about to blow. Oh, man, I hope it doesn’t explode in the car. Getting a new laptop was easy. Replacing the leather in Beau’s car, not so much.

Cooper blinks, shifting his gaze between Jack’s hand and his snarling face. “But you’ve got the glove.” He lifts his finger to point out the obvious.

Jack tosses me his best can-you-believe-this-guy look.

Cooper gulps, panic filling his eyes as he tries to reason with Jack. “I don’t think we can do this without you, bro. I’ve never stolen anything in my life, and I don’t have the first idea where to start. It’s not that I think you’re some master criminal, but I figure we’ve got a better chance if the three of us work together. And this is a museum, for cripe’s sake. One my father gives a lot of money to. If we get caught, he’ll kill me.” His shoulders slump in desperation. He’s right to fear his dad’s temper. It isn’t pretty. “If we’re just scouting things out, why can’t you come in with us? Then at least you’d know what it looks like in there, and you could help us come up with a plan to take it.”

Rather than convincing him, all Cooper’s words do is make Jack angrier. Combing his fingers—gloved and ungloved—through his hair, he grips the sides of his head and speaks into his lap. “Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious for me to walk around a museum with one glove on? Especially in the summer?” After a few moments of chastened silence from Cooper and me, Jack lifts his head. “Besides, someone needs to stay in the car to be the get-away driver in case you do grab it.”

I bolt forward again. “But you don’t know how to drive.”

He huffs. “I
know
how to drive. I just don’t have a license.”

Um, I’ve been in the car when he’s practiced with my dad. That’s an exceptionally generous assessment.

Cooper clenches the door handle, psyching himself up. “Okay, let’s do this.”

He’s obviously too freaked to realize he just agreed to let Jack drive Beau’s car.

Chapter Fifteen

Cooper and I walk across the nearly empty parking lot and pull open the front door. After paying our admission, we stop at the information desk, pick up some maps, and then sit on one of the lobby benches to plan our attack.

The one-story museum is laid out in a big
T
, with the main entrance, lobby, and gift shop at the bottom, and the two permanent exhibits anchoring either end. Smaller rotating exhibits on the art of sweet grass weaving, agricultural methods, music, and the unique Gullah language fill the spaces in between. The exhibit on Gullah medicine takes up the back corner of the African Legacy Wing, but rather than run straight there, we decide to take our time, pretending to study the whole collection, while we’re really taking an inventory of all the cameras, motion detectors, and security guards instead.

“We’re really going to do this, aren’t we, Emmaline?” Cooper whispers as we explore the lobby. Despite the air conditioning, a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face, and I can’t help but notice how quickly his pulse throbs at his temple. If he wasn’t too young and so jaw-droppingly fit, I’d think he was on the verge of a coronary.

“If we can find it, and it seems easy to do, then yeah. We don’t have a choice. It’s the only way to save Jack.”

He nods. “And it’s even kind of okay to do this, right? I mean, it was stolen from Miss Delia’s family, so it’s only just to give it back. Right?” His voice cracks on that last word, so I can tell he’s grasping for some justification to make our larceny acceptable. The whites of his eyes are tinged with pink, enhancing today’s light blue tint, and it almost breaks my heart. His nervousness rubs off a little on me, making my gut churn, but I don’t have the luxury of giving in to fear. We need that mortar.

We head out of the lobby and down the main corridor toward the wing labeled “The Gullah Today.” The building is quiet. Aside from the old guy at the counter, a security guard sitting on a stool at the front door, and a teen picking her nails in the gift shop, I don’t see too many other people. Just a family with a tired mom and four bored kids who were obviously dragged here by their overly enthusiastic dad.

We pass the weaving exhibit, which is chock-full of antique sweet grass baskets and hats. The two video cameras mounted to the ceiling watch every object in the area. I guess it makes sense because those baskets are pretty expensive, and practically every tourist wants one.

A second security guard walks out of The Gullah Today exhibit at the end of the hall. Judging by his scowl and gray hair, he’s much older and crankier than the guy at the door who smiled when we first came in. Grumpy watches from the corner of his eye as he passes us, as if he can sense we’re here for more than a little culture. Instinctively, Cooper steps toward me, right into my personal space, as if he might be able to hide in my shadow. Don’t get me wrong, I welcome this closeness—the sensation of his taut abs pressing against my arm, the warm of his skin, even the piney scent of his deodorant melding with the musk of his panic-induced perspiration. But we’ve got an agenda to accomplish. So since he’s clearly lost his mind, I’ve got to stay focused and get us back on track.

“Come on, Cooper.” I grab his hand and try to ignore the tingle that rushes through my body. “You’ve got to focus. If you act too weird, we’re going to get caught.”

His eyes turn down, and his brow crinkles as he leans into my ear to whisper, “I’m trying, Emmaline.” His fingers entwine with mine, clutching tightly. “But I’m not exactly used to this sort of thing.” His warm breath on my neck makes my knees buckle, and I catch myself before I crash to the floor.

We leave the sea grass exhibit and head for the agricultural diorama, where my eyes skitter around the brown-skinned mannequins planting plastic rice seeds as I locate the motion detectors and cameras. Preoccupied, I don’t realize Cooper is still holding my hand until my palm gets clammy. My heart jolts. I steal a quick glance at him, hoping for a smile, or some hint as to why he’s picked this of all moments to return my silent—but if Jack’s right, embarrassingly obvious—affection.

But one look at his fear-etched face crushes my hopes. He’s so freaked out, he can’t possibly notice my hand is in his. I wonder whether I should let go, act casual and pretend it never happened, or if I should cling to his sweaty hand and hold on for as long as I possibly can.

Who am I kidding? There’s no way I’m letting go.

We leave the area and peek into the last exhibit on this side, which describes the recent history of St. Helena Island. There’s only one camera at the front entrance, and surprisingly, none above the door at the back of the building. Hopefully the security on the other side of the museum is equally lax.

We work our way back down the corridor, past the agriculture and weaving exhibits and toward the lobby. The guards have switched positions. Now the nice young guy is on foot patrol, smiling as he passes us in the hall, and Grumpy has taken his stool at the front door. He scowls as we go by, sending a not-so-subtle warning that we’d better behave. Considering we’re here to rob them, that’s out of the question. Instead, I turn my lips up into a non-threatening half-grin and hope it’s enough to throw him off. And I’ve got bigger things to think about. Along with auditing the museum’s surveillance capabilities, I’m totally engrossed in the sensation of Cooper’s strong hand in mine, the curve of his palm, and the rough calluses on the tender side of his fingers that are no doubt the result of heaving miles of sailing rigging. Thank goodness Jack didn’t come in. His glove would definitely have alerted that cranky guard, and there’s no way Jack could have resisted a snide remark about Cooper and me holding hands.

The music and language exhibits are small and equally unprotected. There’s only one ceiling camera in each to guard the few artifacts and video screens that play on-demand videos of Gullah spirituals and storytelling. Rather than moving on, we hang out to get a sense of how long it takes Smiley to make his rounds. Judging from the clock on my iPod, one loop takes just under ten minutes. And so far, he’s made three, nodding or winking at us each time he passes.

I’m not sure what takes that long, since it’s a small building and there are hardly any people here, but after three loops, I’m fairly confident that’s the pattern. This might be easier than I thought. Ten minutes should give us more than enough time to take the mortar. That is, if it’s sitting in the next room, waiting for us.

The African Legacy room is next, the one with the section on Gullah medicine. This is it. With any luck, everything we need to break The Creep should be in the next room.

“You ready?” I ask.

Cooper nods and slaps on a brave face. “Yes. You?” He squeezes my hand.

We step into the African Legacy exhibit. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, making my pulse rush. The room is cordoned into several sections, each showing Africa’s influence on American culture. The area at the back corner, under the Medical Arts banner, seems to glow under the fluorescent lighting. Our pace quickens as we make our way through the exhibit, hoping we might find what we’ve come for, the only way to save Jack.

I stop short. The entire history of hoodoo medicine is laid out among the many artifacts, photos, and placards. Normally I’d bypass this, find the mortar, and try to get out of here without getting nabbed, but after all my training with Miss Delia, I can’t pull myself away. There are tons of plaster root replicas and fake floral plants and herbs, each with an accompanying description of how it was used in Africa and later in colonial South Carolina as well as how it’s used in pharmaceutical drugs today. Compared to Miss Delia’s enormous spell book, this is only a tiny sliver of what the root doctors who were brought to this country knew. And of course, there’s a section on hoodoo magic, explaining how it’s not a religion like voodoo but a unique melding of Christianity and African spirituality, which, along with root work, is used in spells and rituals to bring good luck or make people fall in love.

Whoever wrote that doesn’t understand the full power of hoodoo, and isn’t acquainted with The Creep.

“Emma, we’ve got to move on. That guard’s bound to come back soon.” Cooper pulls my hand. Reluctantly, I step away, but I can’t wait to tell Miss Delia how little this museum knows.

And then I see it. There, next to the side exit, at the far side of a display of early medical tools and equipment, is a huge stone mortar. It’s nearly two feet tall, and although its outer surface is rough and dark and covered with deep cracks, its insides are smooth and almost slick from ages of near-constant grinding. The mortar’s wide, flat lip contains crude etchings of scrolling, rounded symbols that look African. Just as Miss Delia described, the symbol for harmony, a sun over a crescent, is next to what looks like an upside-down eye, the symbol for the universe.

Cooper releases my hand and nudges me with his elbow. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“It has to be,” I whisper back, sad to lose his hand but grateful for the cool air on my palm. As much as I enjoyed it, that clammy feeling was getting to be kind of gross. “Now we’ve just got to figure out if we can grab it and get out of here.” I wipe my damp hand against my shorts.

The most obvious obstacle is the Plexiglas barrier that separates us from the artifacts. It shouldn’t be much of a problem, since it’s only three feet tall, and the mortar is within arm’s reach of the railing. We should be able to lean over and grab it as long as Smiley’s in another part of the building. But there could be other pitfalls.

Glancing around, I check for motion detectors but don’t see any. As far as I can tell, the mortar isn’t bolted down to the pedestal it’s sitting on. This might just work. Hope swells in my chest, and tension drains from my jaw and shoulders.

A quick scan of the ceiling reveals one surveillance camera at the main entrance, just like the other exhibits, and another at the side emergency exit door beside the medical display. We can easily avoid the front camera, but we’re smack in front of the second. I can’t let one camera stop us, especially with the mortar so close. We’ve come too far, and Jack’s getting worse by the day. Biting my lip, I survey the room, silently asking my spirit guide for help, figuring this is as good a time as any. Who knows, maybe she’ll answer. I just hope I know how to listen.

Suddenly I realize there’s no red plastic warning sign attached to the push bar on the metal emergency exit door. Is it possible it’s not alarmed? That would make this infinitely easier.

A plan springs to mind: we’ll grab the mortar, cling close to the wall, and stay behind the camera’s field of view, then bolt out the door and run to the waiting car, praying no one sees us. Granted, Cooper’s not tiny, so it might be difficult to remain unseen, but by the time anyone catches on, we should be long gone.

Feeling almost confident, I step closer to Cooper. “I’m pretty sure that door doesn’t have an alarm, and I’m thinking we can grab the mortar and run.”

He nods, seeming more secure than before. He’s not sweating anymore and appears to have control over his jitters. “That’s what I was thinking, but what if the railing has some sort of internal pressure detector or something? I’m going to have to lean against it to get at that thing, and I’d hate to set off some kind of siren. I bet I can outrun that skinny guard, but the old one is kind of scary. You never know what he might do to us.”

A tiny note of dread pings in my stomach. I hadn’t even considered whether the railing was rigged. That’s why we need each other. I sigh. “You’re right. We’ve got to test it.”

At that moment, the four kids from before charge into the exhibit, whirling around like little Tasmanian devils, dodging behind display cases, and pretending to blast each other with imaginary finger-guns. They’ve outrun their parents and created their own indoor shooting gallery. And the perfect distraction to test the railing. If we do set off any alarms, we can always blame the wild ones when the security guards come running. Sure, it’s not very nice, but neither are those bratty kids.

Cooper smiles and waggles his eyebrows, letting me know he’s got the same idea. Pressing his hip lightly into the banister, he waits to see if there’s any reaction. Nothing happens. No bells or high-pitched wails blare through the hall.

Two of the boys tackle each other and fall into a heap on the ground. They wrestle, rolling on the burnt-orange industrial carpet, and come dangerously close to knocking into one of the displays. The girls are bobbing around the installations, playing laser tag without the lasers. Normally I’d put my babysitting skills to work and intercede in this mess, but this is the best break we’ve gotten all day.

Cooper leans even harder into the railing, eventually pressing his entire weight against the Plexiglas, and extends his fingers toward the mortar. The hellions’ mother and father rush into the exhibit hall, yelling their kids’ names. The mother screams when she sees the boys spinning on the floor, crashing against a glass case of decorative gourds. Their father, the history buff, snatches both boys by the back of their shirts and strains to yank them apart and up off the floor.

Cooper’s fingers extend, stretching toward our prize. He’s
this
close to grasping the mortar when both security guards bound into the African Legacy room. Smiley runs right to the kids, doing whatever he can to contain them in his friendly way. Cooper pulls back, away from the mortar, but he’s still leaning into the railing, his arms slightly outstretched.

“Hey!” Grumpy’s bark booms across the exhibit. “What are you two up to?” If the shivers crawling up the back of my scalp are any indication, his cold glare is boring into us.

My heart pounds. Panicked, I stare up at Cooper and try to think up a reasonable excuse for the security guard. Before I can think, Cooper’s lips are locked on mine.