Conjure (14 page)

“That’s good to know.” I sigh with relief. “So is that what they’re called,
plateyes
? We didn’t have much time to talk about them when you were, you know, recovering.” I hate to bring up that frightening week of her near-total incapacitation.

“Yes, child, that’s what we Gullah call them. Sometimes they show up as a dog, other times it’s a bear or even a horse. However they appear, they always mean evil. And now that they’re multiplying, we know they mean business. They don’t want that curse ended.”

I gulp. A giant psycho dog is bad enough. I don’t want to imagine how frightening a horse or a bear would be. But rather than dwell on those horrific possibilities, I choose to be positive. “Well, then they’re going to be very disappointed when we break it.” I force a laugh, mostly to convince myself that we will.

Pushing the swinging door open, I see the mortar in the center of the counter. It looks…at home. Miss Delia nearly sprints to the counter to inspect it. Her lips quiver as she runs her hands over its rough outer surface. “I haven’t seen this since I was a little girl. I don’t care how you got it.” I open my mouth to explain, but she puts her hand up. “I don’t want to know, Emma. All that matters is it’s back where it belongs.” She stares at it lovingly, then runs her arthritic finger over the crude scrolls etched into the rim. “See these markings? This one means hatred and this one divorce. But of course, to balance those energies, on the other side we’ve got the symbol for love here, and this one is for unity. This one means, ‘the earth has weight,’ which reminds us of Mother Earth’s divinity. And this here is my favorite. It means, ‘help me and let me help you,’ a reminder of how interconnected we all are.”

Now that I know what they mean, the markings are so clear. And even though the carvings are simple and uneven, they’re beautiful. I reach up and touch the symbol for love. “This one’s pretty special.” Maybe stroking it will bring me a little luck with Cooper. Before I can prevent it, a wistful half-grin works its way up my cheek.

Miss Delia hitches her brow. “You thinking about your boy?”

There’s no use lying to her. I bite my lip and remember how soft and velvety his felt on mine. My face flushes. Even though it wasn’t real and was only to throw off the guard, I can’t pretend it wasn’t one of the best moments of my life. And then there was all that hand-holding in the museum and afterward in the car. As much as the rational side of my brain tells me to forget that, too, the hopeful side pleads to believe I might have a chance. “Yeah. Aside from getting the mortar, let’s just say I’ve had a pretty excellent day.” The smile spreads until I’m beaming like a lovesick fool.

She sucks her teeth and winks. “That
Follow Me Boy
charm works every time.”

My heart stops. “What?”

“The leather pouch I gave you. It’s filled with the
Follow Me Boy
spell. Guaranteed to work. Have as much fun as you can with him for now, but you’ll want to toss out that
gris-gris
bag before he turns sixteen. Remember what I told you about those Beaumont men.”

My hand flies up to the extra bag she gave me before the museum heist. The special one she mixed for me alone and said would give me a little of what I want. I figured she meant the mortar, not Cooper. So all his extra attention wasn’t for mutual support, or even because he kinda, sorta, might possibly like me. It was because she bewitched him with hoodoo magic.

I’ve loved Cooper for more than a year, but I don’t want him this way. I want him to like me for who I am: the awkward art freak who listens to indie emo music and sketches in the woods, and who knows enough about plants to become a hoodoo apprentice to save my brother from a vicious curse, but who wouldn’t think about using magic for anything else, especially not to manipulate someone into loving me.

I suddenly feel sick. Lifting the leather bag off my head, I toss it on the counter. “I understand why you did it, but no thanks.”

Miss Delia’s face turns down. “Oh, sugar, you don’t understand—”

But I cut her off because I don’t want to prolong this humiliation. “Forget it. Really, it’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.” I look down at my feet and see my messenger bag lying on the floor next to the counter. Amid all the super fantastic news about Jack’s fingers drying up and turning to dust and my ill-fated and secret love charm, I’ve completely overlooked our other stolen object, Bloody Bill’s knife. “Oh, I almost forgot this.” Holding my lip tight to keep it from quivering, I bend down, pull the dagger out of my bag, and hand it to Miss Delia, handle first.

Her eyebrows pinch together. “What is this?”

“Cooper saw it in the medical equipment display in the museum, but it doesn’t look like any of the other Gullah tools.”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t look like anything my folk would make.”

“But it does look like the treasure box we found. The one that exploded and gave Jack The Creep. It was carved exactly the same as this one. And look at this.” I grab the magnifying glass off the counter and hold it over the handle, then run my fingers over the etching. “This isn’t just a design. It says BBR, which are the initials for Bloody Bill Ransom, the pirate who wrote the letter we found in the bottle. We figured you might know what to do with it. And since we were already stealing the mortar, we kind of figured one more crime wouldn’t matter. Much.”

She closes her eyes and rubs the handle. “This knife has great energy in it.” She takes a deep breath. “If it did belong to your pirate, it could give us important information about how The Creep was cast and how to break it.”

My forehead crinkles. “How’s a knife supposed to tell us anything?”

Her eyes gleam. “Would you like to see into the past?”

Chapter Eighteen

“We’ll be working a
Psychic Vision
charm.” Miss Delia settles into her stool, as pleased as a kid at a carnival with a giant wad of cotton candy. “But first we need to purify this knife. If it did belong to your pirate, there’s no telling how much of his taint could be left on it, even after all this time.” She pours some citronella on it, then instructs me to gather a list of ingredients, which I pile on the counter next to the dagger.

“I haven’t seen a
Psychic Vision
performed since I was a girl. My gran cast it before they stole her mortar.” She hands me the purifying oil to cleanse myself. “Make sure you use plenty of this. After casting those spells this morning, you’re likely to be extra tired when we’re through.”

Oh. Good to know. Dabbing some of the oil on my wrists and neck, I scan the assembled crocks and wonder what the heck she’s talking about. Granted, there are a few ingredients I’ve never heard of, much less used before, but for the most part, they’re ordinary roots and herbs, not a time machine. “Um, I think I’m missing something. How are these things supposed to help us see into the past?” The teapot on the stove squeals as it comes to a boil. I lift it off the burner and shut off the gas.

Miss Delia spoons dried herbs into two small pieces of cheesecloth. “Each of these plants has its own purpose. When mixed in the right concentration they form the perfect blend to open our minds.” Her fingers shake as she works to fold the cloth into neat squares. But the thin fabric won’t cooperate, so I reach over and help complete the makeshift tea bags. When they’re done, she hands them to me and points to the mugs I’ve already placed on the counter. I drop the bags in and add steaming water to steep her psychic tea. She gazes at the mortar and strokes its stony surface. “But no matter how open we are, only a deep and ancient power will reveal the past. That’s where this mortar comes in. It’s bursting with old magic. Here, lay your palms against it. Can you feel its energy?” Her eyes crackle with excitement. Even the cloudy one.

All I feel is the mortar’s cool, rough surface. I shrug, obviously missing something.

“Close your eyes and quiet your mind.” Her voice is slow and soft. I quirk my brow, unsure what she means, but she prods me on. “Go on, child, it’s not going to bite. You’ve got to learn to tap into these places in your body and soul. It’s the same way you’ll hear that spirit guide of yours.”

Judging from how my spirit guide basically forced me to steal the knife in the museum, I’d say I hear her just fine, thank you very much. But since Miss Delia doesn’t want to know the details of how we came to possess either the mortar or the knife, I decide not to get into it. Instead, I shut my eyes and think of a big black hole. A low, tingling vibration hums beneath my palms. My eyes fly open.

The mortar is a block of solid granite. I’m no geologist, but I’m pretty sure rock is not supposed to vibrate.

Miss Delia cackles. “There you go! You did it. Good girl. That’s the magic I’m talking about. It’s strong enough to rip those memories right out of that knife.”

I drop my hands. “Wait, the knife has memories?”

She nods. “Everything has a memory, child. You just have to know how to coax it out.”

“That doesn’t make sense. People have memories. That knife’s an inanimate object made of metal and wood.”

She smiles and hitches one brow. “Yet you’re both made of the same thing, aren’t you? Aren’t we all?”

Based on a vague memory from science class, I think Miss Delia’s right, but it’s still hard to believe. “Okay, so let’s say the knife has memories, just like people do. How do we get them? I mean, it’s not like it has a mouth to tell us what happened back then.”

“That’s where the root blend comes in to open the
Psychic Vision
. But there is a limit. You see, people recall what they want, from whatever happened over the course of their lives. Objects aren’t the same. Their memories happen in a straight line according to how they’re used. We’re going to ask this knife to tell us what happened the last time it cut, and hope it had something to do with The Creep.”

I sit on my stool and prop my feet on the brace near the bottom. “But what if it didn’t? That was almost three hundred years ago. How do we know your ancestors didn’t use it before it ended up at the museum?”

She shakes her head and glares at the dagger on the counter. “None of my kin would use that knife for hoodoo.” Her voice is deep and gravelly. “It’s filled with bad mojo no root doctor could miss. I don’t know how it ended up where you found it, but chances are, some doctress was keeping it hidden so it wouldn’t be used for evil.”

A shiver runs up my spine. If it’s filled with so much dark energy, why the heck are we messing around with it? “You’re freaking me out. Are you sure it’s safe to do this?” My voice cracks. Between The Creep and those scary
plateye
dog-monsters, I’ve had enough bad mojo for one summer. Actually, for my whole life.

She cackles and pats my hand. “It’s just a memory, child. Something that already happened in the past. It can’t hurt you.”

As sure as she seems, it’s not enough to calm my jitters. “But you said it’s evil.” I glare at the polished, carved handle and wonder if some of that bad mojo tainted any of the stuff in my bag. My sketchbook’s in there, and so are my pencils and watercolors. They’re my only source of true joy, and I don’t want anything messing with them. “Why shouldn’t we just toss it in a fire and destroy it?”

Her eyes flash with alarm, as if I might be serious, which I totally am. “Because we need the information it contains. Besides, the knife itself isn’t evil. It’s been used for evil. There’s a difference. We’re not doing this to hurt anyone. In fact, we’re doing the opposite, helping your brother. It’s like I told you before about the importance of balance. If our hearts were dark, this knife would help us do great harm, but since we’ve got love on our side, its bad energy gets canceled out. It can’t harm us. Now are you ready to blend the burning incense? It’ll help lift up that memory.”

I steel myself for the inevitable fatigue and remind myself Miss Delia hasn’t been wrong yet, so I don’t have a reason to doubt her now. But still, it can’t hurt to rub my
collier
for a little extra luck and protection. “Sure, why not?” The glass beads’ smooth texture is reassuring.

She drops a handful of charcoal chips into the bottom of the mortar and lights them. As soon as the flame dies down, she carefully shows me how to layer all eight ingredients. The acacia leaves and buchu go first, filling the air with soft meadow florals and warm cherry currant. The weariness sets in. My arm feels like it’s made of lead as I sprinkle a little anise powder on top. As it heats, its licorice scent blends with the others and transforms the kitchen into a candy shop. My head bobs, desperate to drift off to sweet sleep. But thankfully Miss Delia adds the celery seed and dragon’s blood. Their pungent peppery scents jolt me awake enough to help add the myrrh, frankincense, and mint. Combined, these roots and herbs make Miss Delia’s kitchen smell like an ancient and very stinky cathedral.

A smoky gray cloud rises from the incense and floats out the back windows and over the herb garden.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, which is totally weird because the sky is a bright cobalt and nearly cloudless.

“So now what?” I yawn and wave a tendril of smoke away.

“We drink our tea and let the show begin.” She waggles her brows and points to the two mugs that have cooled. “You’ve got to drink it all at once, no sipping. The vision should start right away.”

I remove the cheesecloth tea bags and peer into the reddish-brown liquid in my cup. “Um, are you sure this isn’t going to make us hallucinate? I mean, how do we know we’re having a
Psychic Vision
and not tripping?”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Please, child, I’d never give you any drugs like that. And it’s not a hallucination if we both have the same vision.” She shakes her head. “Just drink your tea.”

I can’t resist a sniff. For the most part it’s sweet, but there’s a hint of something I can’t place. But Miss Delia made it, so I’m sure it’s safe. Right?

Clink
ing the side of her mug with mine, I raise a toast. “Here’s to a fun hoodoo adventure!” Then, before I give myself another second to think about it, I tip the mug to my lips and let the lukewarm liquid flood my mouth. Thankfully, I’m too busy gulping to taste anything until the last swallow, when I’m struck by a two-fisted flavor punch of sour cherry and bitter spinach. Ugh, it must be the buchu and dandelion greens. I swallow hard, willing myself not to hurl.

Miss Delia finishes her tea as quickly as I do, then holds the knife over the burning incense with one hand and grabs mine with the other. I close my eyes, expecting the vision to play out in my head, but she gives me a squeeze. “You’ll want to look into the smoke if you don’t want to miss anything.” She laughs. “And I’ll need you to grab hold of this knife with me. It’s heavier than I thought.” She slides her fingers up the handle to make room. I wrap my hand just below hers and rest my forearm against the African symbols carved around the mortar’s lip. But I don’t know how she thinks I’ll be able to hold it, either, since it suddenly feels like a concrete block in my tired hand. She clears her throat. “Smoke and mist reveal the past and how this object was used last. Reveal the truth about this curse, so we may find a cure to reverse.”

Another clash of thunder rumbles, still far away but closer than before. The water faucet suddenly gushes at the sink, distracting my attention.

“Ignore it,” she commands. “Focus on the spell.”

The incense smoke thickens and condenses, creating a floating canvas for the vision. A bright light flickers in the middle of the gray haze, followed by a quick succession of images that sputter like the beginning of a movie reel. My head swoons, and I blink, training my eyes on the vision before me. That was some powerful tea.

The pictures speed up and come into focus, revealing a vast, oak-paneled bedroom warmed by candlelight. A four-poster bed sits across the room, its drapes pulled back to reveal a woman writhing in agony under the covers. A tall, slender African woman leans over her, patting her face with a wet cloth.

The image zooms closer. The woman’s long, bedraggled hair hangs wet and matted over her face. She’s moaning and crying. One hand reaches up to squeeze the African woman’s fingers. “It’s agony, Jemy. I shan’t withstand this pain any longer.” Her accent reveals her status as part of the English aristocracy.

“It won’t be long now, Miss Lady Rose. This baby’s coming.” The woman with almond-colored skin tries to sound reassuring, but her strained voice reveals her concern.

Lady Rose? I peer at the woman in the white dressing gown soaked with perspiration and see her ghostly white skin, giant forehead, and freaky bug eyes. Even though she’s in the middle of childbirth, the giant ruby necklace is slung around her neck, the gold leaves clawing at her chest. I gasp. It
is
Lady Rose Beaumont, the first mistress of High Point Bluff.

Lady Rose screams and doubles over onto her side. When the contraction passes, she catches her breath. “I need Sabina.”

“But Miss Lady Rose, Master Edmund made us promise not to mess with her.” Jemy quivers with fear.

Lady Rose pulls her scraggly hair off her face and glares, her eyes bulging more than I thought humanly possible. “How dare you speak his name!” Lady Rose screams. “You are not worthy to tend his grave. Now do as I command, and bring me Sabina!” Another contraction slams through her body, and she cries out.

Jemy cowers and takes a step back toward the door. “But Miss Lady Rose, I gave him my word on his deathbed. She’s dangerous. Especially after, well, you know.” She wrings her hands in worry.

Lady Rose gasps for air, tears streaming down her face. “I know I am the mistress of this plantation.” Her words are stilted, grunted out as she fists the sheets in pain. “And now that my Edmund is gone, I am the only master you have left. Fetch. Me. Sabina.”

Jemy nods. “Yes, ma’am.” She scurries from the room.

Lady Rose weeps alone in her bed.

Finally, Jemy returns with Sabina, a small but stocky woman whose ebony face is scarred with a floral design. She’s dressed in coarse, dingy white clothes, and her hair is wrapped in a turban. A stubby, dark-colored root is clenched between her crooked teeth. She smiles when Lady Rose twists in pain.

“Well, now, ma’am. Looks like you in trouble.” Her accent is thick and foreign, making it harder to understand.

Lady Rose’s head lolls to the side. “Please help me.” It’s barely a whisper through her dried, cracked lips.

Sabina snickers. “Yes, Miss Lady Rose, anything for my mistress.”

Jemy grabs Sabina’s arm. “Don’t you hurt her, Sabina.”

Sabina wrenches free from the much-taller, younger woman, then leans toward her, her eyes narrowed into menacing slits. “I know my place and don’t need you to tell me how to work my healing. I’ve delivered nearly all the children on this plantation since I came—you included—so you best get out my way.” She grinds the crushed root between her teeth and walks to the foot of Lady Rose’s bed. “Now, ma’am, let me have a look at you.”

Lady Rose heaves a sigh. “Oh, Sabina, I knew you could do it! I’ve pleaded for you for days, but they wouldn’t listen to me.” She turns to Jemy and blasts her with scorn. “You nearly killed me and my child. Begone. I’ll deal with you later.”

Jemy is stricken by panic as her body stiffens. “No, Miss Lady Rose. You’re mistaken.”

Another massive contraction hits. Lady Rose clenches her bloated belly and shrieks. When it passes, she glowers at Jemy. “Get out, vermin!” Jemy bursts into tears and flees.

Sabina shuts the door, then goes to the sideboard, spits the root out onto the floor, and washes her hands in the dry sink. Then she sits on the bed next to Lady Rose. “This won’t take long. Before you know it, your babe be in your arms.” A wry smile inches across her lips as she reaches her hand under Lady Rose’s dressing gown. Lady Rose shrieks. Sweat pours from her already-soaked head, and she’s even paler than before.