“Sounds like she knackered you.”
“If that’s British for pissed me off, then yes. I’m finished dancing around with her. We need the figurehead, and she can rot in a cell. I’m not cutting a deal on this one.”
He ended the call and got in his car, taking out some of his frustration by pounding his hand on the steering wheel. There had to be a piece of the puzzle he was missing.
Heather would be a good place to start.
Chapter Twenty-One
Drake checked the address again. This was the place. He peered through the passenger window of his truck, at the tiny white cottage with faded haint-blue shutters that matched the ceiling of the porch. A worn sign read Hand-dipped Candles. Spanish moss hung like thick spider webs from the drooping branches of the ancient live oak trees surrounding the property.
A bead of sweat rolled down his back as he parked on the side of the dirt road and got out of the truck. Heather wouldn’t drink from the Grail. He accepted her decision. If anyone understood the isolation that immortality could bring, it was him.
Last night still had him rattled. After discovering the Serpent Society so close to Heather’s house, and knowing her sister had been lurking outside the window left him desperate to protect her, and if she wouldn’t accept a sip from the Holy Grail, he had to find another option. There had to be a way he could save her without making her immortal. He could honor her wishes and still save her from the storm that was coming.
He’d heard stories about the root doctors since the first time they docked in Savannah, but he’d never needed one. Until now. According to Greyson, the candle shop was only a small part of Miss Bianca’s business.
Drake hadn’t asked Greyson if he’d used her services before. It was possible the gunner heard rumors about the place without ever visiting. In the late 1950s, when people started to get litigious, the low country root doctors retreated into the shadows of Savannah.
But the magic was far from dead.
The problem was finding a practitioner willing to work with him. Drake wiped his brow and knocked on the door. A lace curtain fluttered out of the corner of his eye, but the window was empty by the time he turned.
No one answered.
He banged on it again. “A friend sent me. I’m looking for Miss Bianca.”
Nothing. Fuck.
He headed for the truck. This was a long shot anyway.
Hinges squeaked behind him. “Who are you?”
He froze. “Drake Cole,” he said without turning around. “My friend said I could find Miss Bianca here.”
“You want a spell candle?”
“Something like that. He told me Miss Bianca was a gifted root doctor.” Drake slowly pivoted around.
“Then he told you wrong.”
The African-American woman standing in the doorway looked to be in her twenties, maybe thirty, but he doubted it. Her long, thin braids cascaded over her shoulders, her jeans sat low on her hips, and her Scallywags concert tank almost made him smile. Apparently, she was a fan of Keegan’s rock band. The crew’s pilot fronted a Southern rock band in this lifetime and they had a strong following with the locals in Savannah.
“Sorry for the trouble. I must’ve misunderstood Greyson.” He turned to go.
“Wait.” She cleared her throat. “No reason you can’t look at the candles.”
Couldn’t hurt. Maybe he could win her trust and she’d introduce him to Miss Bianca.
Drake followed her inside the house. Expecting some kind of eccentric den, he was surprised at the neat storefront of Miss Bianca’s shop. Unlike the faded exterior, the interior had been recently painted, and one of those flat tablet cash registers like Bob’s new one at the restaurant sat on the counter. Candles lined the shelves on one wall, and the other was full of glass containers with herbs and remedies he hadn’t seen for over a hundred years. Greyson was right. This was the place.
Now he just needed to find Miss Bianca.
He glanced at the woman beside him. “I told you my name. I didn’t catch yours.”
Her thick accent made it clear she was a native Savannahian. “People round here call me Miss Bianca.”
Drake coughed, choking on his surprise. This woman looked nothing like the hoodoo priestesses in the movies.
She raised a brow. “Not what you were expecting?”
“Just thought you’d be…older.”
“Doesn’t take age to work magic. Transference of power and training. When Mother Lorenda passed, her mantle fell to me.” She gestured to the herbs. “What kind of spell are you after?”
“Why are you willing to help me now?”
She brushed her braids behind her shoulder. “Greyson is a friend. If you know him, that’s good enough for me.”
“Thank you.” Drake skimmed the names on the glass bottles like he might recognize a potion. “I need something that will heal any wound, even bring someone back from the other side if they need it.” He searched her eyes and quickly added, “I’m not asking for immorality, just a second chance at living.”
She crossed her arms. “Dark magic carries a heavy cost.”
He pulled out a few gold doubloons from his pocket. “There’s more where this came from.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Shaking her head, she took the gold and whispered, “The Loas like to barter, and a mortal life will come at a high price.”
“I’ll do anything to save her.”
She slipped the coins into her jeans and went to the wall of herbs. “Come back tomorrow night. I’ll know their demands by then.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Look, most people come to me for love and money spells. I’m afraid this could end up costing you more than you’re ready to sacrifice.”
Drake shook his head. “I’d die for her.”
He was halfway out the door when she answered, “You might have to.”
…
Heather paced the length of her living room, arguing silently with her dead grandmother about her very alive twin sister. Ashley was due to arrive any minute, but that didn’t stop their
