Beneath the Black Moon (Root Sisters) (24 page)

She
had seen smoke rising from the Anderson kitchen when she rode up, but other
than that, there was no sign of anyone. Hating herself, Cam opened the door and
slipped inside of the house. She half expected to be face to face with some
horrified maid or butler, but instead she found herself alone in the front
foyer. There was a grand spiral staircase to her right, and Cam headed that
way.

She
had woken that morning from a full night of dreaming about Brent. His image was
haunting her. She couldn’t forget about him, but she couldn’t be with him. And
all of the while fear clawed at her, struggling to get the best of her. She had
made up her mind that something had to be done, and so she had quietly taken
one of her father’s horses and ridden to the Wickers Plantation. There was evil
here, perhaps not the same evil that had drowned her, but evil all the same.
She wanted to get to the root of it, to understand why there was such black
magic in sleepy Gaynor County.

Cam
found Hattie’s door easily; it reeked of conjure and evil. Her heart was in her
throat as she put her hand on the knob and eased the door open.

The
first thing she noticed was the overpowering scent of flowers. Somone, probably
John, had filled the room with fresh flowers. He had probably hoped that it
would comfort Hattie in her illness, but Cam found the flowers almost as
unnerving as the conjure. They reminded her of the flowers that had filled the
house after her mother’s death.

The
Cam caught sight of Hattie, and all thought of flowers fled her mind. At first
she thought the girl was dead. It was only as Cam froze, horrified, that she
noticed the frighteningly faint rise and fall of the woman’s chest. Hattie was dreadfully
thin, so emaciated that there were hollows around her eyes and mouth. Her skin
was bloodless, her lips pale and cracked, and even in sleep there was a pained
expression on her face. Someone had brushed her hair recently, and the way the
dark strands were spread over the pillow only added to the morbidity of the
picture.

Cam
put a hand to her mouth, suddenly pitying Brent’s family so much that she was
sick. At least Solange and Sam had died quickly. Seeing Hattie this way had to
be the slowest and most agonizing of all tortures.

But
it was like Solange’s death in a few key ways. It was senseless. It was cruel.
And it was conjure. Cam stared around the room at Hattie’s belongings, many of which
were still packed. The woman must have fallen ill not long after moving to
Gaynor.

What
is the connection?

Someone
had cursed Hattie. Someone had cursed Cam. Kat had cursed Solange. The pieces
were all there, but none of them pieced together.

The
muffled call of a bird roused Cam from her thoughts. She likely only had a few
minutes before some maid or even John came to tend Hattie. It wasn’t much time,
but with a little luck Cam might be able to find the source of the evil that
tormented Hattie.

She
hated the idea of rummaging through the woman’s belongings, but if she didn’t
find the root of the illness then no one would. Cam closed her eyes and stood
there, swaying as the evil pressed around her, skimming over her skin and
making her sick. She summoned her own strength and senses, and began to walk
with her eyes still closed. She stopped when she felt the evil level with her
face, practically burning into her skull. She was almost afraid to open her
eyes.

Don’t
be stupid, Cam.

Actually,
her fear was very intelligent, but the mental reprimand was enough to make her
open her eyes.

She
was face to face with a…. hatbox. It was stacked on top of several other
hatboxes and probably looked perfectly harmless to someone like Brent or John.

She
opened it with cold, numb fingers. The smell hit her first. It stank of decay,
of a deathly rot. And no wonder. Inside were more than half a dozen reptile
parts. Lizard limbs and the bones of snakes and skinks. Cam almost dropped the
box, she was so revolted. They weren’t clean, bleached bones, but were instead
rotting. Skin still clung to most of them, and the combined scent of the flesh
and the conjure was nearly enough to make her faint. It was a nasty way to
curse someone.

“We
should talk.”

Cam
slammed the lid back on the hatbox and nearly screamed. Brent stood in the
doorway. She could see his suspicion, like a shadow in those penetrating green
eyes. Their eyes met and her pulse jumped. There was energy in his stance,
power in the anger that was slowly rising on his handsome face.

Cam
was familiar with power. She knew power. She had seen it in the twisted, knobby
hands of her grandmother as the old woman sewed charm bags and cast spells. She
had recognized it in the quiet force of Caro’s rootwork. She had found it in
herself when she practiced conjure, when the fury and the longing and the love
inside of her were finally channeled and she could release all of the
nightmares that lurked inside.

Brent
was different. His power was overt, masculine. He didn’t hide it and he didn’t
flaunt it. It clung to him, coloring his gaze and lending the faintest air of
menace to every movement. Now, as she remained silent, the suspicion was
morphing into anger, and while part of her wanted to quickly mumble a lie and
flee, the devil’s child inside was more interested in testing him. Her less
prudent half envied his power and wanted to shake his control, to tempt him to
the brink and give him a taste of the fury and the helplessness that she knew
so well.

Anyway,
he likely wouldn’t believe a lie. He had probably been watching her for several
minutes. He was always watching her, Cam thought, and couldn’t deny that the
idea satisfied her.

“What
are you doing here?” Brent asked, and Cam could hear the division in his voice.
The conflict between his desire and his outrage.

“I
wanted to see what was wrong with her.”

“Oh?”
Brent cocked an eyebrow, fury on his face. “And have you diagnosed her?”

“Possibly.”
Cam told him, refusing to back down. The man had no qualms at all spying on her
family, but when someone else investigated his loved ones, suddenly it was a
different game. “Do you know what’s in that hatbox?”

She
hadn’t thought it was possible that he could get angrier, but somehow he
managed it. “Do you really think that I would stoop to rummage through my
sister-in-law’s belongings?”

“Have
you looked in there?” Cam asked him again, raising her voice. She was glad that
he had caught her, glad that he finally understood what it was to have someone
prowling where you were most vulnerable. “Have you seen what’s in there?”

“I
will assume,” Brent said finally, through clenched teeth, “that you are not
making this fuss over a hatbox that contains…. A hat?”

“No,”
Cam said, swallowing at the memory of the stench inside of the box. “And I
don’t think that they belong to her, either. Unless she’s trying to curse
herself. That seems unlikely.”

“Curse?”
Brent’s expression changed suddenly. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll
see,” Cam said, stepping around him before he could stop her. “And if you want
her to get better— burn them.” She turned and walked quickly down the hall,
hoping that he would look before he followed her. There was a pause, and then
she heard him crossing Hattie’s room to open the hatbox. She broke into a run.

Just
as Cam reached her horse, which was tied to a short tree on the corner of the
property, Brent emerged from the house and waved to her. The gesture was
commanding, an order to turn around and return to him. Cam ignored it. She
still had his poppet in her right pocket and the vial of ashes in her left, and
they were all the reminder anyone should need that Camilla Johnson and Brent
Anderson were not meant to be.

***

“Cam!”
Grandma called her as she passed the kitchen. Cam had just stabled her father’s
horse and was hoping to return to the house without running into anyone.

Oh,
well.

“What
were you doing?” Her grandmother asked sharply as Cam joined her and Caro in
the kitchen.

“I
was at Brent’s—”

“We
know where you were,” her grandmother said disapprovingly.

“Mary
had a vision.” Caro explained.

“She
saw you in danger,” Grandma said. “What were you doing?”

“I
was looking around,” Cam said. She was reluctant to tell them what she’d found.
They’d find a way to blame Brent, and Cam didn’t want to hear one more accusation.
“What danger?”

“She
says someone was watching you.”

“I
didn’t see anyone.” Cam said.
Apart from Brent…

“We’ve
talked about this,” Grandma’s fingers clenched as she gripped the back of a
kitchen chair in her frustration. “What were you thinking, going there alone?”

“I
needed some answers.”

“What
you need is to stay where you belong— here!” Grandma exclaimed. She frowned.
“Cam? Are you listening to me?”

“I’m
going inside now,” Cam heard her own voice as if it was spoken from a long way
away. “I haven’t been sleeping well.” She didn’t wait for her grandmother to
respond. She felt slightly numb as she pushed the kitchen door open and
stumbled out into the sunlight. She stared at the sunlit lawn around her and
wondered when she had gone from loving Cypress Hall to feeling like it was a
blanket wrapped around her face, stifling her and stealing her breath.

***

She
hadn’t been lying about not sleeping well. That night she faced her bed the way
a warrior would survey a battlefield. She couldn’t bring herself to lie down,
to surrender to the thoughts that tormented her. Cam reached for the ashes, but
she knew even as her fingers closed over the vial that she needed more than
dust and dead conjure tonight.

Sorry,
mama.

No,
the ashes couldn’t help her tonight, but she knew who could.

No.
You can’t. You know you can’t.

She
paced for hours, her distress growing with each moment that passed. She was
tired of her own weakness, her own paralysis. Every way she turned she was
confronted with secrets and problems that had no solution.

Sometime
after midnight, Cam finally gave in. She was almost afraid as she stood and
walked to her window, afraid that he wouldn’t be there, afraid that he had
given up. She was afraid that he had finally found someone normal and honest to
want, and even to love. But no, there he stood. She could sense him watching
the house, feel it with every fiber of her being. Her senses had always been
sharp, but around him they were so fine-tuned that she could feel his essence
rippling through her.

She
went to him. She walked beneath the fog that had settled over the forest. It
was different than last time. Rather than burning desire she felt an
overwhelming coldness that only he could banish. She wanted to touch his face,
to hear his voice and revel in his strength. Last time she had gone to him
because she wanted him. This time she went because she needed him.

He
met her halfway. He looked like a warrior, striding through the mist toward
her. He must have read the longing in her eyes, because he didn’t speak. Their
lips met as they stood under the silver crescent of the moon. Cam closed her
eyes, allowing herself for the first time since her drowning to forget about
black moons and blacker magic.

This
time when they made love it was gentler. It was just as intense, just as
intimate, but slower and more precious. It felt like a vision. Like conjure.
They moved together like dream lovers, without words because none were
necessary. That which was needed was given. That which was offered was taken.

They
didn’t fall asleep afterwards, but the warm silence between them was just as
restful. Cam rested her head on his shoulder and could feel his pulse
thundering beneath her cheek. She felt incredibly relaxed. He shifted beneath
her, inhaled as if he was about to speak and then hesitated.

“What?”
Cam asked. Even her voice sounded relaxed. She hadn’t felt this well in weeks.
“What?” She asked again, when Brent didn’t answer.

“Marry
me.”

Just
like that, she was as tense as she had ever been. “What!” She pulled away from
him, stood and stared down at him.

If
her reaction wasn’t what he had hoped for, he didn’t show it. “I love you. Marry
me,” he said again, this time more commandingly. He stared up at with her with
the green eyes that were imprinted into her very soul, and she had to look
away.

She
had thought that the drowning was the most terrifying thing that could happen
to her, but this… this came very close. It was as though he was trying to make
things harder on her. One day her grandma was insisting that they make a poppet
of him, and the next he was proposing marriage.

It’s
your fault
, a little voice said.
You’re the one who has
been sleeping with him.

That
was true, it was her fault. But how was she supposed to know that he would
propose marriage. Diana’s fling certainly hadn’t stuck around to get married.
Hell, he’d left the
state
. But there was Brent, looking up at her as if
her answer meant everything… And Cam wanted to say
yes
so badly she felt
sick.