The Visitor (Graveyard Queen, #4)(48)

His rejection devastated me. Of all the beings that had come and gone in my life, Angus was my constant, my touchstone, as close to a soul mate as I would likely ever know. We understood each other because we both had the sight.

He had turned on me once before, but only because he’d been afflicted by the evil that resided in the woods and hollows around Asher Falls. Even then, he’d somehow managed to banish the influence and come to my rescue.

Now it was something inside me that threatened him. That repelled him.

Even after I’d glimpsed the darkness inside Micah Durant, even after I’d slipped into Devlin’s memory, I hadn’t wanted to accept the evolution of my gift, but it was hard to discount Angus’s response to me. Suddenly, Darius Goodwine’s words came back to haunt me.

You’re not the same person as when we first met, nor will you be the same when our paths cross again.

*

Still shaken, I parked on the shoulder of the road and took a shortcut through the woods, emerging only a short distance from the entrance to the old section of Rosehill. The gate was unlocked, but I didn’t go inside. Instead, I turned to stare down into that secluded glen where I’d found the skeleton key necklace all those years ago.

I’d once asked Papa why the people buried there hadn’t been laid to rest on the other side of the wall, in consecrated ground. He had explained to me that in the old days, it had been customary to keep the bodies of criminals, suicides and other undesirables separated from the traditional burials. Not only were the remains exiled from hallowed ground, but they were also relegated to the northernmost part of the cemetery, where it was cold, dark and damp.

My gaze followed the dipping path into the copse. When I was a child, I hadn’t minded the gloominess of that corner. I’d felt very sorry for the outcasts who were buried there and had taken it upon myself to visit each grave so that the dead would know that I’d been there. But Papa refused to linger. He’d always made quick work of his duties, seemingly anxious to be back out in the sunlight. He’d never forbidden me to play there, but I wondered if he’d known just how much time I’d spent inside that shadowy enclave, reading aloud to the dead and weaving daisy chains to adorn their headstones.

I could feel a tug toward that murky place now, but I told myself the attraction was nothing more than my own curiosity. I really wanted to believe that. As I hovered there clutching the straps of my backpack, it came to me that I was standing on the exact spot where the two pathways diverged. A crossroads. Straight ahead lay the safety of hallowed ground. To the left, a slanting stone trail into perpetual twilight. I had a choice of destinations. I wanted to believe that, too. But even as the notion of free will flitted through my head, I was already picking my way along the broken flagstones, guided by the melancholy fragrances of damp earth and dead leaves.

A breeze drifted through the crowding oaks, rippling the leaves and stirring long curtains of Spanish moss. Despite Papa’s care, the years hadn’t been kind to this part of the cemetery. I could see a handful of fallen stones while others had succumbed to the tenacious clutches of ivy roots and vandals. The crumbling markers were mostly rough fieldstones and simple slate tablets. No angels resided here. No saints marked my progress along the winding pathway.

Deeper and deeper I traveled, my footsteps silenced by moss. I hadn’t been back that way in years and wondered if I would even recognize the headstone on which I’d found the key. But presently my gaze came to rest on a crumbling marker, and the flesh at my nape started to crawl. Time, weather and perhaps even a bolt of lightning had blackened the face of the stone so that the name was completely obscured. I had no idea who was buried in the sunken grave nor did it seem to matter.

I paused on the trail, gathering my courage before making my way through the dead leaves and underbrush to the back of the marker so as not to tread upon the grave. Pushing aside tendrils of ivy and brambles, I scratched away some of the lichen and then ran my hand lightly across the rough surface. I could feel a slight indentation in the stone and leaned down for a closer inspection. Perhaps it was the hazy light or the power of suggestion, but I fancied I could trace the outline of a shank, teeth and bow.

I removed the skeleton key from my backpack and placed it in the hollow. It was a perfect fit.

How many years had that key remained on the headstone, waiting for me to return? Why had it come back to me now? And how could it possibly be my salvation?

The wind picked up and the leaves started to quiver as the light faded. In the outside world, dusk hadn’t yet fallen, but here in this forsaken corner, the veil had already thinned and the ghosts were getting restless.

My gaze was still riveted on the headstone. As the chill of a manifestation settled over me, the key started to glow.





Twenty-Nine

“Amelia? What are you doing, child?”

At the sound of Papa’s voice, I snatched the key from the headstone and stuffed it in my pocket, guilt niggling as I turned to face him. I’d brought the key into the cemetery, so I wasn’t breaking any rules by taking it with me, but I had a bad feeling that Papa might consider my rationalization a matter of semantics.

“I was looking for you,” I told him. “I thought I heard you back here.”

“Come along. It’s getting on dark and your mother will be back soon.”

He took my hand as we walked back toward the gate. I could feel the unwelcome weight of the key in my pocket and I felt the same fear and confusion I’d experienced on that long-ago twilight because I somehow knew my life was about to take another terrifying turn.