The Sinner. Amanda Stevens

a hand to my chest, tracing the outline of the key resting beneath my shirt. “How do you know about those?”

      He smiled. “Have you forgotten that I have eyes and ears everywhere?”

      “Even in the Ascension Police Department?”

      “Everywhere.”

      “Even on the other side?”

      “Everywhere.”

      “What do you know about those cages? About the victim?” I demanded.

      “I know she won’t be the last to die unless you unmask her killer.”

      I stared at him in shock. “Unmask her killer? How am I supposed to do that?”

      “Think back.” His voice dropped to a silky murmur, soothing and hypnotic. “In all your years of research and cemetery work, surely you’ve come across references to other secret societies. Some, perhaps, with close alliances to the Order of the Coffin and the Claw. Have you never heard of a group called the Eternal Brotherhood of Resurrectionists?”

      I frowned at the unfamiliar name. “No. But I know that body snatchers for hire in the early nineteenth century were called resurrectionists.”

      “That was in Europe,” he said. “Here in the Lowcountry there was a more literal meaning—those who raise the dead.”

      A shudder rocked through me. Those who raise the dead. What did he mean by that?

      He continued to scribble in the dirt with the end of the stick. “For generations, the Order of the Coffin and the Claw provided men of a certain class and breeding—men like Devlin and his forefathers—protection from their indiscretions and unsavory appetites, but the Brotherhood promised them immortality.”

      “How?” The flesh on the back of my arm crawled and I looked down to find a corpse beetle inching toward my wrist. Repulsed, I tried to flick the insect into the grass, but the pincers dug into my skin and clung. I glanced across the grave where Darius had drawn a likeness of the beetle in the dirt. He wiped away the image with the palm of his hand and the one on my arm disappeared.

      For the first time since his arrival, I felt the shock of real fear. Darius Goodwine was up to his old tricks and everything inside me warned of imminent danger. I wanted to rise and put more distance than a grave between us, but my limbs suddenly felt weighted.

      He was in control now, I realized. I could protect myself to a certain extent, but he was clever and cunning and knew too many ways around my defenses. I’d insisted that I wouldn’t discuss Devlin, and yet that was exactly what we’d done for almost the entirety of his visit. I’d convinced myself that I could keep him out of my head, but he’d slithered underneath the slammed door and manipulated my perception.

      No more than a moment had passed since I’d glanced at the ground, but Darius had already etched another symbol. Where he’d wiped clean the rendering of the beetle, he’d drawn three linked spirals. I’d seen a variation of the emblem before, but there was something sinister about his depiction.

      “Do you recognize it?” he asked, still in that same numbing voice.

      “It’s a Celtic triskele. The spiral of life.”

      “A triskele, yes, but the origin isn’t Celtic. The symbol dates all the way back to the Egyptians. Since the beginning of time, the concept of triplism has taken many forms in many different cultures. Maiden, mother, crone. Land, sea, sky. The Trinity. For the Resurrectionists, the interlocking spirals represented birth, death and resurrection. You’re familiar with the concept of a dual soul?”

      “Yes. According to some beliefs, the soul and spirit divide upon death. The soul leaves the body and transcends its earthly bounds, but the spirit lingers to interfere in the lives of the living. That’s why graves in Gullah cemeteries are sprinkled with white sand. Sometimes whole graveyards are covered in order to keep the dead from coming back as bakulu.”

      “You have it partially right.” The stick continued to move in the dirt even though Darius’s gaze never left me. “When the final breath is drawn, the soul is immediately aware of death and transcends. But the spirit lingers in the body, not to interfere in the lives of the living as you suggest, but because it isn’t yet conscious of death. While the spirit still resides inside the deceased, transference may be attained.”

      “Transference?”

      “A powerful spell by which the spirit can be harvested from the dead and transplanted into the body of a living host.”

      “You mean possession.” My voice grew heavy with dread as I flashed back to what I’d witnessed and experienced in Kroll Cemetery.

      “It may be easier to think of it this way,” Darius said. “Possession is more of a hostile takeover, but transference is a peaceful merger with a willing vessel. The essence of the dead is allowed to exist in the living host, thus attaining immortality.”

      “This is all very fascinating,” I said, with far more bravado than I felt. “But I still don’t understand what any of it has to do with me.” I drew my hand away from my neck and found another beetle clinging to my flesh. I flicked the insect to the ground where it scurried into one of the spirals. The symbol disappeared, leaving the poor beetle exposed in the dirt. When I looked again, I saw that the insect was nothing more than a pebble.

      “Nothing is as it seems,” Darius warned. “The Resurrectionists are skilled in deception and trickery, as are their enemy, the Congé.” He pronounced the word kän-zhā.

      “Who are they?” I asked.

      “Zealots who believe it their mission to stamp out that which they do not understand. Someone with your gift and abilities would be wise to steer clear of them.”

      The Resurrectionists. The Congé. It was all very much Greek to me. But his voice was so honeyed and persuasive, I found myself nodding in agreement even though I hadn’t a clue what he meant. I realized that he had once again found a way through my defenses and I tried to summon my resistance as I fought off the seductive lethargy of his hypnosis.

      “Do you understand now why you were summoned?” He peered into my eyes, into my soul.

      “I don’t understand any of this,” I said.

      “You were summoned because you are the only one with enough power to end this.”

      My heart thudded in agitation because I instinctively knew that what he said was true. I might not be familiar with the players or the particulars. I might only understand a sliver of his convoluted missive, but I’d known from the moment I entered the caged grave circle and experienced that strange vacuum that I had been called to this place for a purpose. My gift was needed to track an uncanny killer. Yet I continued to resist because a part of me still wanted to believe that I could control my own destiny.

      I mustered up a flimsy argument even though my fate was undoubtedly sealed. “You do realize what you’re asking of me, don’t you? Trying to uncover a murderer could get me killed. At the very least, I could be arrested for interfering in an official investigation. The authorities won’t take kindly to me poking my nose into places it doesn’t belong. I have to live here until I finish the restoration so I’d rather not get on Detective Kendrick’s bad side.”

      Darius’s head came up and I saw a shadow move through his eyes. “Lucien Kendrick?”

      His reaction startled me. “Yes, do you know him?”

      “Our paths have crossed,” Darius said darkly as his gaze darted toward the woods. “From what I’ve heard about him, he is a ruthless and relentless investigator.”

      “Then why not let him do his job?”

      “You’re still asking the wrong questions,” he said with a rare spark of impatience. “Like your wretched John Devlin, you’re still trying to run away from who you are and what you’re meant to be.”

      “Or maybe