The Line (Witching Savannah, #1)(58)

Through the lens of the power, I felt as if I were seeing the city for the first time in many ways. Periods of the past interlaced with future possibilities in a way that was confusing at first. Houses rose and fell, the street was paved and then it wasn’t. Towers I had never imagined seeing in Savannah sprouted and then faded. Everything was jumbled up before me, but with each step my focus was narrowing in on the now.

I let my feet carry me forward without questioning their steps. I realized that I was moving away from my home in an ever-expanding spiral. I felt as if I were once again a little girl, playing blind man’s bluff. Savannah called “warmer” or “cooler” to me as I continued along. I approached Whitfield Square, and its gazebo was like an arrow pointing me farther south. My pace quickened as I continued down Habersham past the small liquor store. Instinctually I drew closer and closer to the broadcasting tower on Huntington. And then I knew. I turned onto Huntington, moving as if the air itself were carrying me back toward Drayton, toward Forsyth Park.

I felt her nearby—her vibrations and the scent of her magic, ripe with earth and ash. It pulled me closer and closer to old Candler Hospital. Georgia’s oldest hospital, it had opened decades before the Civil War began. The misery of the past roiled from the building like heat off a blacktop. Victims of the yellow fever epidemic had passed through its doors on their way to their final reward—or were sometimes hurried toward it by the doctors who coveted their bodies for dissection. The indigent and the mad had also been hastened inside, few of them ever to leave. During the Civil War, piles of amputated limbs had practically reached the second floor. Even today, thirty-something years after it had been closed as a hospital, Candler seemed glutted, choked on the wretchedness it had absorbed for centuries. Toxins both real and spectral emanated from the building, and the rusted and peeling ironwork seemed to threaten tetanus if you so much as glanced at it.

As I circled to the front of the hospital, I sensed a barrier that separated the building from the world around it. The faculty with which I sensed this barrier was almost sight, almost touch, but independent from both. As I focused on the barrier, I caught a fleeting glimpse of it, a wall of cold blue flame that encapsulated the building.

A spirit on the other side of the barrier flung itself against it again and again, reaching out to me in supplication. He crouched there, naked and unwashed, and my sympathy for his plight drowned out my own fear and disgust. One instant he was there, on his knees, his bloodied hands beating against the wall that held him. The next he and the barrier had vanished from my sight, and the building was bathed in normal late morning light. He must be the soul of one of the madmen who had lost their lives there, I realized. I continued to circle the building until I reached the Drayton Street side. I had seen the defunct hospital so many times while walking in Forsyth Park, but I had never really taken it in before. Well, maybe I had, but only with ordinary human eyes.

The large Candler Oak stood sentinel before it, its Spanish moss–covered limbs nearly three hundred years old. It was an old friend of mine, having served me in many games of hide-and-go-seek over the years. I felt compelled to touch it, to run my hand against its bark and experience it as a witch. I tentatively traced its side with my index finger, and the tree shimmered its welcome, seeming to recognize my touch and invite it. I splayed my whole hand against it, letting my palm scrape against the immense trunk. Suddenly dozens of vivid impressions crossed my mind. I closed my eyes. The ancient oak was trying to communicate with me by sharing the feeling of its deep roots in the cool soil, the sensation of hot sun on its leaves, and the deep sense of place it knew, which could never be understood by those who moved across the face of the earth.

I opened my eyes, and burning in the wood before me were two symbols, similar to those that Oliver had carved into the wood I was now wearing as a pendant. A spell had been placed here and, with the magic running through me, I could see it. The first symbol looked like the letter Y with a line drawn through its vertical center. A defense, a source of protection, a warning. The second looked something like a fish standing on its tail. Property, a parcel of land. I didn’t know their names, but the magic within me explained their purpose. These runes strengthened the spell that held the mad and desperate energies of the old hospital in check, keeping them locked in place so that they couldn’t spread out into the rest of the city.

I considered the wisdom of freeing those who were trapped on site. It wasn’t the smartest or safest thing to do, but I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them there forever. Maybe this was the one unselfish thing I could accomplish today. I cast my mind out around the spell, checking for any weak spots, and as I did, a shrill and piercing sound rose in my ears. It was deafening from the start, and it kept getting louder and louder until the pain caused my knees to buckle. The warning was clear—I wasn’t to meddle.

I was still on my knees looking up at the hospital when I felt strong hands grasp my shoulders. My sense of hearing returned in a rush of words.

“Mercy, are you okay?” I spun around to see Jackson. His eyes widened and then narrowed as he took in the new glow that Oliver’s magic had given me. An angry crease formed on his forehead. “What’s wrong with your eyes? What have they done to you? What have you done to yourself?” he asked, his voice full of misery. “I can feel the magic on you.”

I looked into his eyes, feeling their blue warmth, and wanted to possess him, the strength of Oliver’s need to seduce momentarily overpowering the effects of Jilo’s spell. The look of distaste on his face was a cold slap that triggered my conscience and stopped me from acting. I knew that something had changed in him. I had seen him look at Maisie with adoration thousands of times, but he was repulsed by the power in me, even though it was inconsequential when compared to hers.