his cheeks, which deepened when he smiled, and his unruly blond hair, rumpled from the pillow.
What he’d seen that night — and the other times, too — had to be nothing more than tricks of his own mind.
At last, back in his bed once again, he put the book aside, switched off the light, and pulled the sheet over his body.
Outside, the moon still shone brightly, and the insects and frogs filled the night with their music.
It was a music that Michael had always before found soothing, but tonight he tossed restlessly, resisting sleep.
When sleep finally came, the face dominated his dreams, looming up at him out of the darkness, leering at him, reaching for him with gnarled clawlike hands.
Three times during the night he awakened, his body sweating, his muscles tense, still caught in the nightmare.
The fourth time he awakened, it was dawn, and the morning light finally seemed to drive the night specter away.
• • •
Clarey Lambert hadn’t slept at all that night. Clarey was past ninety, she was sure of that, but how much past she no longer bothered to reckon. After all, it didn’t matter. All that really mattered was that she was still alive.
Still alive, and still looking after things.
Clarey lived alone, five miles from Villejeune. Five miles as the crow flew, anyway. A lot farther when you went by boat. You had to wind through the bayous, watching all the landmarks, or you’d never find the place. And, in fact, very few people ever did find Clarey’s house. Often weeks would go by without Clarey seeing anyone, but always, just when she was running low on food, someone would show up and her stores of flour and rice, or whatever else she needed, would be replenished. For vegetables, she’d long ago cleared out a little patch on the island behind her house, where she raised okra and beans, and some sweet potatoes. Not enough to sell for money, but enough for herself, with a little left over to trade with the other swamp rats for whatever else she needed.
As the gray light of dawn began to brighten, Clarey stirred in the chair on her porch and stretched her bones. There were a few aches, but not too bad, all things considered. She heaved herself out of her chair, went into the shack she’d lived in most of her life — the shack in which she’d borne her children, and raised the only one who’d survived — and poked at the dying coals in the stove she used for cooking. She added a chunk of cypress to the fire, then put on a kettle of water.
Coffee — thick and black, well-laced with chicory — would drive the arthritis out of her bones.
She was still standing at the stove when she sensed someone approaching and she moved stiffly back out onto her porch, her still-sharp eyes scanning the bayous.
Sure enough, less than a minute later a rowboat emerged from the reeds and slid across the water. There were two boys in the boat, both of them in their late teens, both wearing dirty overalls held up by a single strap. Quint Millard feathered the oars, and the boat turned, drifting to a stop a few feet from Clarey’s sagging porch. From the bench in the stern, Jonas Cox gazed up at Clarey through eyes that barely seemed to focus. But though his expression revealed nothing, Clarey knew exactly what was in his mind.
George Coulton.
“It warn’t your fault, Jonas,” she told him. “You didn’t have no choice. You understand that?”
Jonas’s brow furrowed slightly. “Me and George was friends. I didn’t—”
“You done what the Dark Man made you do,” the old woman declared. “Ain’t nothin’ anyone can do about that. So you just remember that you didn’t do nothin’! You hear me?”
Jonas nodded mutely, and Clarey turned to Quint Millard. “You got somethin’ to tell me, too?”
“Saw someone new last night,” Quint replied.
Clarey’s body tensed. “New?” she repeated. “Where?”
“By the canals, where they’s buildin’ all them houses.”
The old woman’s countenance darkened at the mention of the development. She knew who the developer was — she knew who everyone in Villejeune was — and she didn’t like Carl Anderson. And it wasn’t just for what he was doing to the swamp, chipping away at it, draining a few acres here, a few acres there, ruining it for all the people and animals who’d lived in it peacefully for hundreds and hundreds of years. No, she had other reasons for hating Carl Anderson. His name had gone on her list years ago, long before he’d started encroaching on her beloved marshes.
“Who was the person?” Clarey asked, though after last night, she was almost certain she knew.
The children had been out last night, prowling through the swamp, guarding their master as the Dark Man went about his punishment of George Coulton. And Clarey, though she’d never left her house, had been there, too, her mind reaching out, sensing their wanderings, tracking their movements. Last night, though, she had felt a new presence in the swamp, felt the vibrations of someone seeking her out.
Her, and the children.
And the Dark Man.
Clarey had been aware of such a presence before, and always known who it was.
Michael Sheffield.
She’d followed Michael for years. She’d sensed him often, feeling his way through the swamp, unconsciously searching for something of which he had no understanding. And for years she’d kept him away, refusing to reach out to him, unwilling to guide him to the tiny island at the far edge of the swamp, where the Circle gathered.
Perhaps if he knew nothing of who he was, if he took no part in the rituals of the Circle, he would be able to escape.
Escape unscathed, from the evil into which he had been born.
But last night Clarey had felt another presence, a new presence. It wasn’t nearby, nowhere near close enough to be sensed by anyone but herself, but much closer than she’d ever felt it before.
“It’s a girl,” Quint said now, and Clarey closed her eyes for a moment, hearing the words she’d been expecting.
“She’s come back,” she breathed, barely aware she was speaking aloud. “He promised me she wouldn’t. He promised me he’d leave her alone.”
She stopped speaking, feeling Quint Millard’s eyes upon her.
“But she’s one of us,” Quint said. “Soon’s I seed her, I knowed.”
“Did she see you?” Clarey asked.
Quint hesitated, then nodded, knowing he couldn’t lie to Clarey. “She tried to follow me. But she couldn’t, ‘cause she don’t know how. I kept close to her and didn’t let nothin’ happen to her.”
A heavy sigh escaped Clarey’s throat. “You done right, Quint. But I reckon the police’ll be snoopin’ around, and I don’t see no good in them talkin’ to either one of you two. So you just lay low, hear?”
Quint nodded, but Jonas’s empty eyes narrowed. “If’n they find me, what’ll I tell ’em?”
Clarey’s lips tightened bitterly. “You don’t tell nobody nothin’. Ain’t nobody’s business what goes on out here. An’ if ’n you say anything, I cain’t help you anymore’n I could help George Coulton. So you just lay low an’ keep quiet, just like always.”
Jonas was silent, staring sullenly at his lap. “It ain’t right,” he finally said.
A great wave of pity washed over Clarey. No, it wasn’t right. None of it was right. But that it wasn’t right made no difference. It was the way things were. “Go on, Jonas,” she told him softly. “Go on and find somewheres to hide. And don’t you fret yourself none. Ain’t none of it your fault.”
Jonas Cox frowned slightly, as if uncertain whether to believe her words or not. But at last he nodded as Quint Millard dipped the oars back in the water and leaned into them. Once again the little boat turned, and a moment later was swallowed up by the dense foliage.
Clarey waited until Jonas and Quint were gone, then went back into her house. The kettle of water was boiling on the stove, and she threw a handful of coffee grounds into the pot, then poured water over them. The grounds floated to the surface, and Clarey added a pinch of salt. In five minutes or so the grounds would sink to the bottom and the coffee would be ready, just the way she liked it.
In the meantime, she had some thinking to do.
She knew who the girl Jonas had seen was, and had prayed that this day would never come. But the girl had
