The Prophet

and, in the spring, the lavender gloom of their lilacs. Summer brought sweet roses; winter, luscious daphne. A perfume of death for every season. Each unique, each invoking a different emotion or a special memory but always reminding one of the past, of the fleeting nature of life.

I don’t know how long I stood there with eyes closed, drowning in melancholia as I drank in the evening scents. Misery still held a firm grip, so perhaps that was why I didn’t see him straightaway. Or even sense him.

When I finally spotted his silhouette, he was little more than a deeper shadow on the veranda, but somehow I knew who he was. What he was. I had the strangest urge to turn and dash back through the gate, but my muscles wouldn’t obey and so I stood there suspended in fear.

In all my years of seeing ghosts, I’d never encountered one quite like Robert Fremont. He could emerge from the veil before dusk and after sunrise, and he could converse with me. Or at least…he communicated in a way that made me think he was speaking. He wasn’t just in my head the way Shani had been. I could hear his voice. I could see his lips move. How he managed any of that, I had no idea. Nor did I understand how he could sit there so calmly on the steps of my sanctuary, a place no other ghost had ever penetrated.

That was the most frightening aspect of his manifestation. None of the rules seemed to apply to him, and so I was completely at his mercy with no way to protect myself from him.

The timing of his appearance couldn’t be a coincidence. Nothing about this evening was happenstance. Not the nightingale, not my run-in with Devlin, not even Shani’s disturbing nursery rhyme. Taken alone, each might seem incidental, but together they meant something specific. There was a word for such a string of events. Synchronicity.

And as I stood there staring through the deepening twilight at the murdered cop, I could feel myself being drawn into something dark and mystical. A supernatural puzzle for which there might be no earthly resolution.

Slowly, I walked through the garden, the crepuscular scent of the angel trumpets perfuming the air with an under note of dread. I came to a stop at the bottom of the steps to gaze up at him.

He looked much as he had the first time I’d seen him, his nondescript attire that of an undercover cop who needed to blend seamlessly into the criminal underbelly of Charleston. As always, his eyes were hidden by dark glasses, but I could feel the power of his dead gaze through those lenses. The sensation was chilling.

“Amelia Gray.” The way he spoke my name was like the prick of an icy needle down my spine.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“You know why. It’s time.”

The hair at the back of my neck lifted. “Time for what?”

“To make things right.” His voice was deep and hollow like a well, and I shivered again as he watched me from behind those tinted lenses. I tried to avert my eyes, but he held me enthralled.

I’d forgotten how handsome he was, how perversely charismatic even as a ghost. Despite his dark skin—and the fact that he was dead—he’d always reminded me of Devlin. Both possessed that same smoldering charm, that same dangerous allure. They’d once been friends, and I had a feeling it was my association with Devlin that had allowed Robert Fremont into my world.

“We have a lot to talk about,” he said.

“We do?”

“Yes. Maybe you should sit. You look a little unsteady on your feet.”

Was it any wonder?

But I didn’t want to sit. I wanted him gone, banished back to the realm of the dead, along with Shani and Mariama. I considered bolting past him into my house, into my sanctuary, but I wasn’t altogether certain it would protect me from the likes of this ghost. For all I knew, he could follow me inside, and I didn’t want to lose the peace of mind of a hallowed place, illusionary though it might now be.

My legs felt leaden as I climbed the steps, the burden of his unspoken demands already a heavy weight. He didn’t rise, but then I could hardly expect him to. Why should a ghost be bound by earthly ceremony? Especially the spirit of a man whose life had ended in murder.

I sat down on the veranda, placing distance and the shopping bag between us. I felt nothing more than a faint chill emanating from his presence, and even that might have been my imagination.

“I told you once that I needed you as a conduit into the police department,” he said.

“I remember.”

“I need more than that now, I’m afraid.”

I was afraid, too. Deathly so.

“I need you to be my eyes and ears in this world. The living world.”

“Why?”

“Because you can go places I can’t enter. Talk to the people who won’t see me.”

“No, I mean…to what end?”

“As cliché as it sounds, I need you to help find my killer.”

I stared at his manifestation in silence. “How is it you can do all these things—converse with me, invade my sanctuary, appear to me as though you’re still alive—and yet, you don’t know who murdered you? Shouldn’t you know? You told me once you had a gift. You said that’s why you were called the Prophet.”

“I never claimed to be omniscient,” he said, and I thought he sounded annoyed, whether at my questioning of his ability or his current limitations, I had no idea. “I could never control the visions.”

I could relate. I had no control over my gift, either.

“Haven’t you read anything about my death?” he asked.

“Not much.”

“That’s disappointing. I would have thought after our last meeting you’d want to know more about me. You struck me as the curious sort. Or was I wrong about you?”

That aroused a spark. “I’ve been a little preoccupied since that night. I was almost murdered myself, remember? And I have a living to make, a business to run. But…” I paused to draw another breath. “I did look you up once. There wasn’t much on the internet about you and I don’t talk to Devlin. How else was I supposed to learn about you?”

He sighed. “I was hoping you’d be a little more resourceful.”

I wasn’t exactly thrilled with him, either. I really wanted him to just…vanish. “In that case, maybe you should look to someone else for help.”

“There is no one else. I searched a long time to find you.”

That gave me pause. “How did you find me?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Not my concern!” My voice hardened. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t look you up because I wanted nothing more to do with you?”

Careful, a little voice warned. I’d already been the recipient of one ghost’s ire that night. It wasn’t wise to provoke another.

He took a moment to answer. “You have a backbone, at least. That’ll come in handy.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

“Maybe I was a little too quick to judge you. You have to know that I have a lot riding on this relationship.”

We had a relationship? The notion of that made me shiver.

A neighbor walked by on the street. She gazed up at the house, then hurried on past. I saw her glance over her shoulder once. She must have thought me crazy, sitting out there in the dusk arguing with myself. I could hardly blame her. If not for Papa’s ability to see ghosts, I might have wondered about my sanity a long time ago.

“What happened to you?” I asked with grudging curiosity. “I know you were killed in the line of duty—” I broke off. “Is it okay that I speak so bluntly about…?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Good. I didn’t want to have to walk on eggshells around him.

That drew me up short again. Even my internal dialogue was starting to freak me out. How had Robert Fremont managed to slip into my life so effortlessly? How had I allowed myself to accept him so readily?

He’s a ghost. He’s a ghost. He’s a ghost.

I chanted the mantra to myself even as he continued to converse with me.