Seizure(39)

“Flash forward fifty years,” Hi said suddenly. “The Exchange Building is constructed over the remains of Half-Moon Battery. Its cellars are later converted into the new Provost Dungeon.”

“Okay,” Ben said. “Let’s assume the map’s treasure tunnels are somewhere near where the Provost Dungeon is today. What next?”

“We get inside,” I said. “Poke around.”

“And how do we do that?” Ben asked.

We shouted the answer as one.

“Ghost tour!”





I UPENDED A bulging Hefty bag and disgorged the contents.

Crumpled clothes tumbled to the paving stones. My fifth heap so far. Once again, I began sorting mismatched garments into smaller piles.

Friday morning. Seven a.m. Saint Michael’s on Broad Street.

My cotillion group was providing manpower for a winter clothing drive, and I’d been tasked with organizing donated articles. A mountain of black plastic bags loomed on my right, proof that parishioners had heeded the call.

Community service is fundamental to the debutante system, providing cover for the excess and redefining snobbery as “charitable work.” We participated in at least one major project per month.

Not that I’m complaining. Charity is the upside to an otherwise vapid tradition. Helping the less fortunate is the only part of cotillion I actually enjoyed.

I tossed a musty flannel shirt onto a stack, nose wrinkling at the smells of sweat and moldy tobacco.

Okay, maybe not “enjoyed.” More like “appreciated.”

While my hands worked on autopilot, my head moved ahead to the evening. We Virals would be taking the Fletchers’ ghost tour that night. Since it was the weekend, Kit had relented and given me a pass until ten o’clock.

I’d almost forgotten to show up this morning. Yesterday’s craziness had driven the cotillion event from my mind. Whitney remembered, however, and had texted a reminder thirty minutes before I was due.

Which explained my current look: an Outward Bound T-shirt, running shorts, sandals, greasy ponytail, and a double layer of Lady Speed Stick.

I’d volunteered to work outside. Alone. No one had objected.

Saint Michael’s is the oldest church in Charleston. Its famous spire rose two hundred feet behind me, gleaming white, an eight-foot iron weathervane crowning its apex.

The courtyard was pleasantly cool. White brick buildings formed the sides, shading a grassy enclosure bordered by a trestle-covered cobblestone walk. In the center, flagstones paved a circular space set with four curved benches, each now serving as one of my garment sections.

I was subdividing clothing by gender, then separating youth sizes from adult. Grabbing a pair of raunchy bell-bottoms, I tossed them on the proper stack. A college kid might buy them for a seventies party. Or maybe the style would come back. Who knew?

Jason appeared, lugging three more trash bags.

“They found these in a crawl space under the rectory.” Dropping the newcomers with a grunt. “Enjoy.”

“Fabulous.”

“Any interesting styles? I bet you could craft a wicked retro look.”

There’s a Brett Favre Jets jersey,” I said. “XXL. That’s worth what, two, maybe three bucks?”

“I’ve got my eye on that kilt.”

“Shrewd.”

Jason finger tapped his temple. “Always thinking.” Then, after a pause, “How are you getting home? I could drive you. I don’t mind.”

“Thanks, but Ben is picking me up.”

“Ben.” Jason shook his head. “I guess you’re taking community service to heart,” he quipped.

“Out of bounds,” I warned. “Ben’s a good friend.”

“He’s a prince. Enchanting. Tell him I miss him.”

I let the dig slide. I couldn’t force people to like each other. No point trying.

“If you change your mind, my truck’s out front.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Now get back to work. God is watching.”

“Adios.”

I worked through two more Hefties, then turned to the first sack from the rectory basement. It was old and grimy, the plastic dried and brittle. Without Jason’s explanation, I’d have assumed the bag held actual garbage.

Great.

The first sack contained several dozen ragged and stained towels. The second held an assortment of moth-eaten ceremonial robes.

The third sack knocked me silly.

Cutting the tie unleashed a noxious stench. Whatever lurked within smelled like dirty diapers covered in mildew, or fetid meat left too long in the sun.

I dropped to a knee, certain I’d retch.

Instead, it happened.

SNAP.

Lightning struck. My blood boiled. Sweat pumped from my pores. My senses flickered, exploded. Colors, sounds, and smells slammed into my brain.

The flare traveled my veins and nerves, unbidden, unstable. For the second time that week, my powers had ignited without being called. Hair-trigger sensitive.

Reaching blindly, I found and jammed on my sunglasses.

Breathe. Relax. Breathe. Relax.

Calm returned. Slowly, my pulse descended.

I checked for spying eyes. The courtyard was empty. I slumped onto a bench and repeated a soothing mantra.

You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.