The Line (Witching Savannah, #1)(2)

“Mind the cobblestones,” I warned as we approached the old ballast-lined roadway. “They’ve been the death of more than a few people, and not just from tripping over them. Back in Savannah’s dueling days the men who were too poor for pistols used these stones as weapons. Many an argument were ended by a well-aimed shot-put or slingshot.”

The River Street regulars—the shopkeepers, the homeless, and the waiters—waved when they saw me and called out my name as we passed. I hadn’t been lying to the guys when I’d told them I was a native. My family had been in Savannah since shortly after the Civil War. We were a part of its weft and weave, even if we weren’t to be counted among its founding families.

I led the group to the frozen drink bar and waited outside, mentally plotting out our route and spinning through my standard list of lies. I would lead the guys counterclockwise through the city, stopping upstairs at Factors Walk where I’d point out the ironwork from the old Wetter mansion. Then I’d share my malicious theory that the missing body of Alberta Wetter’s relative, Mrs. Haig, had been served to the family as their Christmas Eve dinner by a kitchen slave whom Mrs. Haig had mistreated. Next, I’d take them down Bull Street, not only because it was the oldest street in Georgia, but also because it was a fittingly named path for the Liar’s Tour. We’d work our way over and stop at the Juliette Gordon Low house, where I’d talk about how the CIA once used Girl Scout cookies to test the effects of LSD on a wide population. Outbreak of UFO sightings, anybody?

I’d spin a few tall tales along the way about anything that caught the guys’ attention, until we had made our way over to Colonial Park Cemetery. There, I would relate how the Nobel Jones family came to change their name to De Renne. Of course my story didn’t play out well on any conventional timeline, but making the apocryphal Rene Rondolier, historic Savannah’s answer to Boo Radley, the progenitor of the surviving branch of the Jones line made for great storytelling. Forbidden love, two murdered children, trumped up charges. It was the kind of tall tale people wanted to believe, even when I kept repeating with every other breath that I was lying through my teeth. It had also very nearly sent Aunt Iris into a fit of apoplexy, so I tried to use it only a few times a year. I’d pick out a few stones on Colonial’s back wall to talk about and then I’d drop the group off at the Pirate’s House, where they could have dinner or carry on with their drinking, whichever they chose.

I put on my best smile to welcome the guys as they spilled out of the bar and back onto the street. “Room for one more?” a newcomer asked. It was Tucker Perry, a middle-aged lawyer and real-estate developer. His blond curls were carefully coiffed to appear carelessly tousled, and they framed soulless pale blue eyes. He glowed with a golfer’s tan and the easy insincerity of a man who has always believed he’s at the top of the food chain. “I’ve been wanting to come with you for quite a while, and there’s no time like the present.”

“We’re already under way, maybe some other time,” I said, using my best poker face to hide my distaste for the man.

“Oh come on now, Mercy.” He smiled, narrowing his eyes in a way I am sure he thought was seductive. “Let me tag along, I promise I won’t be any trouble.” The guys shifted a little, waiting for a cue from me. I held my ground, and Tucker took it as a challenge. “Has she told you any of the spooky stuff yet?” he questioned the others. “I’m not talking the ghost stuff. You know our girl Mercy here is a witch, right? She and her whole family.”

Everyone knew the Taylors, and ever since our arrival, Savannah’s tribal knowledge has allowed that we were witches, even though most of the tribe didn’t really understand what the word “witch” meant. My family had always had enough money to ensure a welcome into polite society, but in most situations, that welcome never extended beyond the most superficial of levels. Truth was, we’d always been held at a respectful arm’s length, sensed to be useful but dangerous—kind of like a nuclear power plant. People liked to benefit from our presence, but they didn’t want to think about us too often or in too much detail.

But while my family tree was electric with power, I had none of it. As fate would have it, I was the first total dud in a line of witches that could be traced back at least six hundred years. Although no one other than my Aunt Iris’s husband would ever say so openly, my family viewed my lack of power as an unfortunate if not entirely debilitating birth defect. Well, maybe that’s too strong. Maybe they saw it as being on par with my ginger coloring—not ideal, but nothing to be ashamed of.

“Mr. Perry, if I had any magic powers, I assure you that I would use them to make you disappear,” I said, provoking a laugh from my group.

Perry didn’t like being refused, and he liked being laughed at even less. “No seriously, Mercy. Tell them,” he said. Then, turning toward the men, “Trust me, her aunt Ellen and I have shared some very unusual pillow talk.”

“I think we should continue on with our tour,” I said, ignoring Tucker’s comment. “Maybe another time, Mr. Perry.”

“Oh, I do hope so, Miss Taylor,” he said, reaching out to touch me. I stepped back quickly, and my guys stepped in between us, forming a protective wall. Over their shoulders I could see Perry lifting his hands in surrender, an oily smile on his face. He turned and started walking south on River Street, but then stopped and called back to me.