The Visitor (Graveyard Queen, #4)(3)

“You’re going out of town?”

A longer hesitation and a shadowy flicker in those dark, dark eyes. “I’m having dinner with my grandfather at his house in Myrtle Beach.”

I lifted a brow but said nothing because I was completely taken aback by the revelation. Devlin and his grandfather had been estranged for years, ever since Devlin had decided to become a police officer rather than joining the family law firm. I suspected the hostility between the two stubborn men ran a lot deeper than Devlin’s career choice, but he had never really opened up to me about his family.

Turning away, he picked up his coat and tie. “His assistant seemed to think it a matter of some urgency, so I don’t know how long I’ll be there. If dinner runs late I may stay over and drive back in the morning.”

“I understand. I hope he’s not... I hope everything is okay.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Devlin said, but the shadows in his eyes belied his casual assurance.

I made no further inquiries even though I’d always been curious about Jonathan Devlin, an illustrious attorney and philanthropist who could trace his roots all the way back to the founding of Charleston. I’d walked past his mansion south of Broad Street any number of times, but I’d never met Devlin’s only living relative. I didn’t like to press him about his people because my own family had more than their fair share of secrets.

Determined to put those lingering doubts behind me, I set out on my morning walk as soon as Devlin drove away. I always enjoyed a brisk stroll through downtown where the magnolias were already in bloom and the city’s past lurked on every cobbled street corner. On those days when I arrived before dawn, I loved to pause on the Battery to watch the sun come up over the harbor. In that quiet time as the ghosts floated back through the veil and the tourists slept soundly in their beds, I had the city to myself. No secrets to worry about, no prickles at my nape to warn me of an uncanny presence. Just the dance of sunlight on water and the silhouette of Fort Sumter shimmering on the horizon. Right before the dew burned off, the trees would sparkle with diamonds, a fairyland of prisms so bright and beautiful I could scarcely catch my breath at the wonder of this city.

I was a relative newcomer to Charleston, having been born and raised in the small town of Trinity, but my mother was a native Charlestonian. She and my aunt had grown up in a small house deep in the historic district, in the shadow of all the grand mansions. Theirs had been a childhood steeped in genteel tradition and seasoned by middle-class reality.

As a child, I’d been captivated by the grace of their bearing and the charm of their Lowcountry accents. They were exotic creatures that bathed in rose water and dressed in crisp cotton. It was only when I grew older that I came to realize the effort that went into such elegant presentations. Like so many Southern women of a certain age, my mother and aunt’s upbringing had become their vocation.

I was not my mother’s daughter by nature or nurture. On most days, I dressed in jeans and sneakers and rarely bothered with makeup. My face was tanned and freckled from working in the sun, my palms callused from the hard labor of a cemetery restorer. I possessed none of my mother’s or aunt’s polish, and sometimes when I looked at myself in the mirror, I wondered how someone like me had caught the eye of a man like Devlin.

This was not a question born of self-deprecation or false modesty. I could acknowledge my attributes. I was well educated, well traveled and my profession kept me physically fit. I liked to think that my eyes were a standout, changing from blue to gray and sometimes green depending on my attire and surroundings. At the bottom of my irises were tiny elongated motes. When I was little, I’d discovered that if I squinted just so and used a bit of imagination as I peered into the mirror, those odd colorations gave my pupils the look of keyholes.

But no matter the color of my eyes, no matter my education, profession or intellect, I would never be one of those golden women who glided so effortlessly through life. For me there would never be yacht club luncheons or white-gloved garden parties or harmless flirtations over frosty mint juleps. That was Devlin’s old world, and because of who I was and where I came from, I would never be welcome there. For all its charm and allure, Charleston remained an insular place, one of bloodlines and traditions, a city perpetually turned inward by its rivers and harbor. I was an Asher by birth, a legacy imbued with great wealth and corruption, but I was also a Gray. My papa’s people were simple mountainfolk, and it was from that branch of the family that I had inherited my dark gift. Caulbearers, we were sometimes called. Those of us born with a veil. It happened every generation or so.

But as more of Papa’s secrets came to light, I was starting to suspect that my legacy ran far deeper than the ability to see spirits. I had been born dead to a dead mother. My grandmother Tilly had pulled me back from the other side by cutting away the veil of membrane covering my face and forcing air into my premature lungs, and now I sometimes felt that I belonged to neither world. I was a living ghost, a wanderer who had not yet found my purpose or place. But every new discovery, every broken rule brought me closer to my calling.

If only I could peer through the keyholes of my eyes and know the future, perhaps I could somehow change my destiny. But how did one fight preordination? How did one combat fate?

It was a question I pondered often in the dead of night as ghosts drifted past my window.

*

Back home and freshly showered, I carried my second cup of tea out to the garden, where I could watch the butterflies flit among the sweetspire. Somewhere down the street, a horn blared and I could hear the muffled roar of traffic on Rutledge as commuters headed to and from the Crosstown. But all was calm and quiet here in my little oasis. Or so I thought.