The Sinner. Amanda Stevens

Seven Gates.”

      “Where are you staying?”

      “I’ve rented a small house near the cemetery. Annalee Nash is my landlady.”

      “Annalee Nash.” A frown flitted across his brow. “I understand she’s the one who hired you for the restoration.”

      “She is. The house I’m renting from her is just down the road a quarter of a mile or so. It’s the white one on the right.”

      “I know the place well. Screened porches, lots of fruit trees. A tire swing in the yard.” He hesitated. “Used to be an old storage shed behind the orchard.”

      “It’s still there,” I told him.

      “If you’ve been here all summer, I’m guessing you’ve heard the rumors about that place.”

      “What rumors?”

      Before he could answer, one of the officers called over to him. “Hey, Detective! The locksmith just pulled up. Malloy’s headed up there now to show him the way back.”

      Kendrick nodded and started to return to the grave, but before I could stop myself, I reached out and grasped his arm. “What rumors?” I asked, my voice far more breathless than I would have liked.

      Another hesitation. “It’s probably just talk. Nothing for you to worry about.”

      Then why had he brought it up?

      I pulled my hand away, embarrassed by the contact.

      His eyes glinted darkly. “I’ll take your advice and give the state archaeologist a call. But regardless of her schedule, we can’t wait to recover the body. I don’t know how long the weather will hold and the sooner we get her out of the ground, the sooner we can get an ID. Maybe you’ll be able to help us with that.”

      “I wouldn’t count on it. I don’t know many people in town. Just Annalee and a couple of college kids I hired early on. As I told Officer Malloy, they didn’t last long.”

      “You fired them?”

      “No, they left of their own accord. Cemetery restoration is backbreaking work.”

      “Nevertheless, I’ll need their names and a way to reach them if you have it.”

      “I’ll make sure to get you their information, but I can’t imagine they had anything to do with this.”

      “It’s just routine. I’ll be in touch,” he promised as he strode off to join the others.

      I stared after him for a moment, more shaken by our encounter than I could logically explain. Perhaps it was the penetrating quality of those peculiar eyes or the notion that he might know more about me than he’d let on. That he might even know about those cages and the watcher in the woods. Whatever the reason for my disquiet, I had no intention of ignoring my instincts about Detective Lucien Kendrick.

      * * *

      A little while later, the chatter around the graves rose as the locksmith finally arrived. He was a wiry, ponytailed man named Martin Stark. Unlike the young police officers first on the scene, Stark displayed not the slightest hesitation as he strode through the grass toward the graves. I admired his economy of words and motions even as something about his impervious approach tripped an alarm bell. If the hands surprised or repulsed him, he didn’t let on. Maybe he’d seen worse during the course of his career, but there was something about him that bothered me. A kind of latent excitement that made me search his face in much the same way that Kendrick had scrutinized mine.

      Despite my wariness, I edged closer so that I could hear what Stark had to say about the cages.

      “...an owl’s head,” I heard him explain.

      “What’s the significance of that?” Kendrick asked.

      “Most of the locks with these emblems were manufactured before the turn of the last century, but this one is newer. Back in the late nineties, the company resurrected the design to commemorate their centennial. Someone must have bought up a supply and hung on to them. They’re good locks,” he added. “Hardened steel body and a tubular key cylinder. Difficult to pick, but I’ve yet to come across a padlock of any kind that couldn’t be opened with bolt cutters or a drill.”

      “You brought the necessary tools?” Kendrick asked him.

      “Of course. Just let me know when you’re ready.” He was still talking to Kendrick, but suddenly his gaze vectored in on me, as though he’d been aware of my presence the whole time. His unblinking stare seemed oddly hostile and I glanced away, keeping my gaze focused on the caged grave.

      By this time, a small army of personnel had gathered. More discussion ensued and a number of phone calls were made. After another half hour of inactivity, I finally gave up and went back to the cemetery to finish my workday.

      As I went about the usual chores, I tried not to think about those delicate hands clinging to the grate or that unseen presence watching from the woods. I did my best to tune out the voices drifting up from the clearing.

      And hours later as I lay awake in the hammock, my dog, Angus, curled up nearby, I even managed to convince myself the remains inside that caged grave had nothing to do with me. Nor did Detective Kendrick. I would finish my job in Seven Gates Cemetery, return to Charleston to prepare for my next restoration and that would be that.

      But any hope I’d had of escaping unscathed vanished the next day when I caught sight of an old nemesis lurking in the shadows of the church ruins.

Four

      It was midmorning and I’d already been cleaning headstones for hours. The police had arrived sometime earlier to search the area surrounding the mortsafes. Other than an occasional shout as they scoured the woods, the day had been quiet. I was surprised that the curious hadn’t come yet, but maybe word was just now getting out about the murder. In any case, I welcomed the solitude because I had a lot on my mind. I did not welcome Darius Goodwine.

      He stood so deeply in the shade of the church ruins that I thought at first I had imagined him. After a restless night, perhaps exhaustion and my subconscious had decided to play a cruel trick on me. The longer I stared, though, the more substantial he became, like a fully manifested ghost.

      But Darius Goodwine was no ghost, even though there was a fantastical element to his sudden appearance. He seemed so dreamlike against the backdrop of crumbling brick arches that I found myself biting down hard on my bottom lip to make certain I was fully awake.

      Nearly two years had passed since our last living-world encounter, and in the ensuing months I’d prayed that I would never see him again. I’d hoped he wouldn’t come back to collect on the bargain that I’d foolishly and desperately struck with him. At the time, my only concern had been to save Devlin’s life, but Darius Goodwine was not the type of man who granted altruistic favors. I’d always known there would be a price to pay for bringing Devlin back from the other side. Now, as I felt Darius’s gaze upon me, I shuddered to think what dark compensation he’d come to extract.

      A breeze blew across the graves, billowing his loose clothing. Where his shirt parted, I could see an amulet resting in the hollow of his chest and another hanging from a leather cord wound around his wrist. He was a very tall man, nearly six and a half feet. His height alone commanded attention, but it was the magnetic quality of his presence that kept my gaze riveted.

      Devlin had once insisted that Darius Goodwine’s ability to manipulate and control his followers stemmed from the power of suggestion rather than the magic he claimed to have divined from his time studying with a powerful shaman in Africa. But Devlin was wrong. I’d learned the hard way that Darius Goodwine not only had the ability to cross over to the other side and converse with the dead, but he could also enter the dreams of the living and influence their thoughts.

      Once a respected professor of ethnobotony, he’d let his greed and obsession