Beautiful Darkness (Caster Chronicles 2)

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, I’m a genius.” She was matter-of-fact, as if she’d just said she was blond, or British.

“So why did you come to Gatlin? We’re not exactly a genius magnet.”

“Well, I’m part of the AGE, Academically Gifted Exchange, between Duke University and my school. Will you pass the mayo-nnaise?”

“Mann-aise.” I tried to say it slowly.

“That’s what I said.”

“Why would Duke bother to send you to Gatlin? So you could take classes at Summerville Community College?”

“No, silly. So I could study with my thesis adviser, the renowned Dr. Marian Ashcroft, truly the only one of her kind.”

“What is your thesis about?”

“Folklore and mythology, as it relates to community building after the American Civil War.”

“Around here most people still call it the War Between the States,” I said.

She laughed, delighted. I was glad someone thought it was funny. To me, it was just embarrassing. “Is it true people in the South sometimes dress up in old Civil War costumes and fight all the battles over again, for fun?”

I stood up. It was one thing for me to say it, but I didn’t want to hear it from Liv, too. “I think it’s time to get going. We’ve got more books to deliver.”

Liv nodded, grabbing her fries. “We can’t leave these. We should save them for Lucille.”

I didn’t mention that Lucille was used to Amma feeding her fried chicken and plates of leftover casserole on her own china plate, as the Sisters had instructed. I couldn’t see Lucille eating greasy fries. Lucille was partic-u-lar, as the Sisters would say. She liked Lena, though.

As we headed for the door, a car caught my eye through the grease-coated windows. The Fastback was making a three-point turn at the end of the gravel parking lot. Lena made a point of not driving past us.

Great.

I stood and watched the car skid onto Dove Street.

That night, I lay in my bed and stared up at the blue ceiling, my hands folded behind my head. A few months ago, this would’ve been when Lena and I went to bed in our separate rooms together—reading, laughing, talking through our days. I had nearly forgotten how to fall asleep without her.

I rolled over and checked my old, cracked cell. It hadn’t really been working since Lena’s birthday, but still, it would ring when someone called me. If someone had.

Not like she’d use the phone.

Right then, I was back to being the same seven-year-old who had dumped every puzzle in my room into one giant, miserable mess. When I was a kid, my mom sat on the floor and helped me turn the mess into a picture. But I wasn’t a kid anymore, and my mom was gone. I turned the pieces over and over in my mind, but I couldn’t seem to get them sorted out. The girl I was madly in love with was still the girl I was madly in love with. That hadn’t changed. Only now the girl I was madly in love with was keeping secrets from me and barely speaking to me.

Then there were the visions.

Abraham Ravenwood, a Blood Incubus who had killed his own brother, knew my name and could see me. I had to figure out how the pieces fit together until I could see something—some kind of pattern. I couldn’t get the puzzle back into the box. It was too late for that. I wished someone could tell me where to put even one piece. Without thinking, I got up and pushed open my bedroom window.

I leaned out and breathed in the darkness, when I heard Lucille’s distinctive meow. Amma must have forgotten to let her back inside. I was about to call out to tell her I was coming, when I noticed them. Under my window, at the edge of the porch, Lucille Ball and Boo Radley sat side by side in the moonlight.

Boo thumped his tail, and Lucille meowed in response. They sat like that at the top of the porch steps, thumping and meowing, as if they were carrying on as civilized a conversation as any two townsfolk on a summer night. I don’t know what they were gossiping about, but it must have been big news. As I lay in bed listening to the quiet conversation of Macon’s dog and the Sisters’ cat, I drifted off before they did.

6.15

Southern Crusty

Don’t you lay a finger on a single one a my pies until I ask you to, Ethan Wate.”

I backed away from Amma, hands in the air. “Just trying to help.”