Four and Twenty Blackbirds (Eden Moore 1)

"What do you know about the Seminoles?"

"The football team or the Indians? I know they're both from Florida, that's about it. Why?"

"The Indians. And, uh, no reason. "

Dave thought a moment, ignoring my lie and leaving his hand on the door. "If you really want to know, there's a store downtown called the Crescent Moon. I went to school with the guy who owns it—we ended up at UT together for a while. He's not Native American himself, but he dabbles in the culture. He could help you out, maybe. His name's Brian Cole. "

Of course. Leave it to Dave, the Answer Man. I should have known he'd have the right connections. "Brian Cole at the Crescent Moon?"

"Yeah, it's one of those incense-smelling New Age shops. Tell him I sent ya. I'd try to think up some directions, but since you've become such a master of the phone book, I'll trust you to figure it out on your own. "

"Yeah, I will. "

Only after he was gone did I begin to feel tired. It had been a big day, and it was getting late—at least late enough that an independent retail shop would not be open. I retreated to my room and turned on the TV, trying to find a local channel that wasn't covering the manhunt at Eliza's. They'd catch him, I knew they would; but I didn't really want to watch it.

I gave up and turned it off, then hit the lights as well, still not knowing what I intended to do in the morning.

My dreams took a strange turn that night.

I often dreamed of the ghosts, and of the sticky swampland that had haunted my childhood. Frequently enough I heard Mae's quiet crying or her sisters' warning pleas, but that night the voice was different.

It was not vague, or tearful. It was not begging, or demanding. It was simply calling.

Come home.

In my sleep-choked state, I tried to interrogate the speaker with half-formed questions. "Who are . . . ?" "Where is . . . ?" "Why do . . . ?" I tried to remember the name on the stone. "John Gray?"

Come home.

As in my youth, I saw the book again, sitting on the table beside the vials of powders and syrups. I approached it slowly, like struggling through tangible fog. I needed to see what was inside. I needed to look in the back. I put out my hands and touched the dry leather of the binding. It crackled beneath my touch, as though it were alive or on fire. A fine yellow powder that was not dust covered my fingertips. But the hands were not mine—they were not my fingertips. They were different, bigger or smaller or older or younger, different. I couldn't see them. I couldn't feel them. I began to panic.

"I can't feel my hands," I blurted out, fumbling with the book.

You don't need them here.

"I don't . . . I do need them. Everywhere. " The book came open to a crinkly page covered with formulas and drawings. I think the sketches were plants, or trees, or roots; I saw words I didn't recognize: Korombay, diggi, sibitah kaaji . . . but the numbers ran together and I couldn't sort them out from one another. "What is this?"

You should know.

"But I don't. " I lifted the pages and pushed them over to the left, ten or twenty at a time in order to reach the back cover. "What is this? What is this?"

The speaker was chanting, softly but with increasing volume.

Asi goun goun ma . . .

Asi goun goun ma . . .

Asi goun goun ma . . .

One more page. I held it between my thumb and index finger. "What is this?" I turned it.

Violently, a giant black bird flapped out, up towards the ceiling, then back down to peck at my head. I shrieked and dove away, shielding my face with one arm and trying to close the book with the other. I slammed the covers together but the bird did not stop its assault. I waved my arms, trying to push it away and meeting the feathery pressure of strong black wings beating the air around me.

You can't put him back now. He knows you're here.

"What is this?" No. Not the right question. "Who? Who is this?"

Laughter. You said a name. John Gray. How much do you know, after all?