when she set sail to return to Charleston, as a token of his love. It appears they had made plans to marry when she returned to Bermuda.”
“But she never did,” I murmured. “So the cameo wasn’t as powerful as Islwyn hoped.”
Sorren frowned. “Or perhaps it didn’t work in quite the way he expected. Barre made a special trip to Charleston, and he came to Evann several nights ago, referred by a trusted mutual friend. Need I say that Trifles and Folly is not among his usually frequented establishments? The good man believes he is being haunted by his daughter’s ghost. She comes to him in his dreams, wearing the cameo around her neck, begging for something, but she doesn’t speak.”
“Grief makes people see strange things, even in a city as haunted as Charleston,” I replied.
“If Barre were the only one to see the girl’s apparition, I might agree,” Sorren replied. “But there have been reports up and down the Battery of the same ghost, a young woman in a blue gown with upswept hair and a fine cameo at her throat.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m not sure what Barre expects us to do about it. If the cameo were cursed, it’s probably at the bottom of the ocean by now. Unless it’s shown up in Uncle Evann’s shop.”
Uncle Evann shook his head. “I’ve had no cameos brought in for quite some time,” he replied. No matter how vast the store’s inventory, Uncle Evann knew every piece. The storefront was crowded with antiques and curios from around the world, while in the back rooms, Evann and Sorren dealt with the dark magic items that found their way – legally or not – into Evann’s possession. Some of those dark items were destroyed, while Sorren passed others along to his network of secret operatives for safekeeping. Although the parlour was warm from the fire, I shivered. I’d handled several of those dark items myself, and I knew their power. One damned necklace had already tried to kill me; I had to admit I was sceptical of searching for another.
“If she’s showing up as a ghost, that makes it pretty clear what happened to her,” Coltt said. “But the cameo is probably off the coast of Bermuda. What can we do?”
Sorren took another sip of blood. “I believe the cameo is here, in Charleston. And I believe both the appearance of Felicity and the unusual ghostly activity are linked.” He leaned forward and met my gaze. “I have a strong feeling that we’ve got a necromancer here in the city, and I fear what we’ve seen is just the beginning.”
The only things I like less than pirates are necromancers. Then again, maybe I should qualify that statement, since in the eyes of the Navy, Coltt and I are technically pirates. I prefer to think of us as paranormal privateers, chartered by Sorren and his murky band of relic-snatchers, helping the good guys by plundering the bad ones. I avoid the Navy because I don’t think they’d understand the distinction.
“So who’s our necromancer?” I asked.
Sorren shook his head. “Don’t know yet. But I’m certain whoever it is has focused his power in the Battery. That seems to be the nexus of the disturbances.”
I let out a low whistle. “That’s one wealthy necromancer.” The Battery was a row of some of the finest houses in Charleston, so named because it fronted the harbour just behind the city’s port defences. The rainbow- hued homes, reminiscent of mansions in the Caribbean islands, had long been the preserve of the wealthiest and most prominent citizens in the city. Sorren knew how to navigate in that company, but it didn’t come naturally to country boys like Coltt and me.
“As luck would have it,” Sorren said, with a hint of a smile indicating that luck had little to do with it, “there’s going to be a grand ball at the home of a dear friend of your Uncle Evann’s. Everyone from the Battery will be there, as well as the folks who live south of Broad Street. And so will you,” he said, looking straight at me.
“Are you coming, too?” I asked, not sure whether Sorren could hear the uncertainty in my voice. Pirates I could handle. Old-money aristocrats I found much more frightening, on a whole different level.
Sorren chuckled. “I’m a bit too well known in certain circles,” he said. “There will be more than one esteemed reverend of the church in attendance who might find my presence . . . unsettling.”
“They’ll balk at a vampire and not a bloody necromancer?” Coltt broke in. “How’s that?”
Sorren gave an eloquent shrug. “Necromancers have a pulse. I don’t. Unlike the undead, necromancers and their sort have survived for centuries hiding in plain sight, usually among the most privileged and pious.”
“I guess I’d better dust off the company manners,” I said resignedly. Give me a good sword fight any day over a social event. Both are battles, but one is at least honest about it.
“I’ve trained you better than that,” Sorren chided. And it was true. Under his tutelage, I had mingled among the wealthiest and most powerful men in the former colonies, with them none the wiser to the charade. And usually, while I mingled, Coltt was busy thieving in the darkened rooms upstairs.
“The ball will keep the Battery’s residents occupied, and it’s very likely they’ll give their servants the night off, so it should be easy for Coltt to slip into the houses and look for clues to the whereabouts of our necromancer,” Sorren added.
“And what kind of clue is that?” Coltt demanded. “Perhaps a sign that says ‘Ring bell for the necromancer’ or some such?”
“You’re the best thief in the New World,” Sorren replied smoothly, and added, “trained by the best thief in the Old World,” with a hint of pride, tugging at his collar to indicate himself. “I have full confidence in your abilities to find our man.”
“Just make sure this necromancer likes fancy dress balls,” Coltt said darkly. “I don’t have your strength or Dante’s magic. I’m not the man for a fight.”
I personally knew that, when his back was against the wall, Coltt could be utterly ruthless in battle, but I also knew that the memories of those few awful times weighed more heavily on him than they did on me. Maybe it meant Coltt was a nicer person than I am. Or maybe I’d just lost so many of the people I cared about that I no longer worried about God keeping score.
“The ball is tomorrow night,” Sorren replied. “I’ve had an associate get me the plans to as many of the great homes as he could; Coltt will no doubt find them useful. Evann’s probably already gotten his hands on the guest list and been to his sources for news. And as for you, Dante” he said, with a glance in my direction, “a haircut and a shave might be in order. I’ve taken the liberty of having a new outfit delivered to your rooms. I believe you’ll look quite acceptable in it.”
I sighed. Sorren had taught me long ago that the best spies looked good enough to fit in and unremarkable enough not to be remembered. I feared it was my lot in life.
The next night, Evann and I headed out. We were dressed like aristocrats, with a carriage and driver (thanks to Sorren) that rivalled the best in the city. Coltt had caught a rental coach as far as Meeting Street, where he would walk the rest of the way to attract the least notice. Evann and I intended to have our driver let us out by the main door, but someone’s coach horse had bolted, and the street in front of the mansion was a tangle of people, policemen and panicked horses, so we had our man let us out on Church Street just a block or so from the Battery, with instructions to pick us up in the same place afterwards.
The ball was just beginning to get lively when we arrived. “Welcome, gentlemen,” said the servant who met us at the door to take our cloaks. “You’ve arrived just in time.” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “The musicians have warmed up and the crowd is lively, but the sideboard is still full, if you hurry,” he said with a wink.
He turned away just as I saw a button fall from my cloak. I bent to retrieve it, and saw a small, intricate design at the outside corner of the stone step. It was a symbol of some sort, drawn in a yellow, chalky powder, very small, as if not to attract notice. My button fell next to it, so I couldn’t avoid seeing it, although otherwise, I would never have looked down. I stood, and, for an instant, saw a look of stark fear cross the servant’s face, until his mask of genial welcome slammed back into place.
“Evann! How good of you to come!” I looked up to see Eudora Hallingsworth, the doyenne of the Battery, holding out her arms to greet Evann with a prim kiss on each cheek. Mrs Hallingsworth was descended from the families whose names matched the streets and plantations of Charleston, as close as we got in these post-colonial days to local royalty.
“Honoured to be your guest,” Evann said, making a low bow and kissing her hand with a rakish raise of his eyebrows.
Eudora Hallingsworth chuckled. “Really, Evann! Such a show you make,” she protested, clearly thrilled at the attention. “And who is this with you?”
