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“When they brought you in…” Thomas says. He doesn’t finish, but I know what he means. I put my hand on his shoulder and give it a shake.
“I’m fine,” I say, and sit up a little with only a minimal struggle. “I’ve been in worse scrapes.”
Standing on the other side of his room with his back to all of us, acting like he’s got a lot more interesting things to be doing, Morfran gives a snort.
“Not likely.” He turns around. His wire specs have slid most of the way down his nose. “And you’re not out of this ‘scrape’ yet. You been Obeahed.”
Thomas, Carmel, and I all do that thing you do when someone is speaking another language: we look around at each other and then say, “Huh?”
“Obeahed, boy,” Morfran snaps. “West Indian voodoo magic. You’re just lucky that I spent six years on Anguilla, with Julian Baptiste. Now that was a real Obeahman.”
I stretch my limbs and sit up straighter. Except for a little tenderness in my back and side, plus the swimmy head stuff, I feel fine.
“I’ve been Obeahed by an Obeahman? Is this like how the Smurfs say they smurfing smurfed all the time?”
“Don’t joke, Cassio.”
It’s my mother. She looks awful. She’s been crying. I hate that.
“I still don’t know how he got into the house,” she says. “We were always so careful. And the barrier spell was working. It worked on A
“It was a great spell, Mrs. Lowood,” A
“What happened? What happened after I blacked out, or whatever?” I’m interested now. The relief of not being dead has worn off.
“I told him to come out and face me. He didn’t accept. He just smiled this terrible smile. Then he was gone. There was nothing but smoke.” A
“He was an Obeahman. What he is now, I don’t know. Any limitations he had left with his body. Now he’s only force.”
“What exactly is Obeah?” Carmel asks. “Am I the only one who doesn’t know?”
“It’s just another word for voodoo,” I say, and Morfran slams his fist into the wood corner of the counter.
“If you think that then you’re as good as dead.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. I haul myself to my feet, unsteadily, and A
“Obeah is voodoo,” he explains. “But voodoo is not Obeah. Voodoo is nothing more than Afro-Caribbean witchcraft. It follows the same rules as the magic we all practice. Obeah has no rules. Voodoo cha
“But the cross—I found a black cross, like yours for Papa Legba.”
Morfran waves his hand. “He probably started out as voodoo. He’s something much, much more now. You’ve gotten us into a world of shit.”
“What do you mean I’ve gotten us?” I ask. “It’s not like I called him. ‘Hey, guy who killed my dad, come terrorize me and my friends!’”
“You brought him here,” Morfran growls. “He’s been with you the whole time.” He glares at the athame in my hand. “Hitching a ride on that damn knife.”
No. No. That can’t be what’s happened. I know what he’s saying now, and it can’t be true. The athame feels heavy—heavier than before. The glint of its blade in the corner of my eye looks secretive and traitorous. He’s saying that this Obeahman and my athame are linked.
My brain fights it even though I know he’s right. Why else would he bring the knife back to me? Why else would A
“He killed my father,” I hear myself say.
“Of course he did,” Morfran spits. “How do you think he became co
I don’t say anything. Morfran is giving me the piece it together, genius look. We’ve all gotten it at one time or another. But I just got un-mojo-ed five minutes ago, so cut me some slack.
“It’s because of your father,” my mom whispers. And then, more to the point, “Because he ate your father.”
“The flesh,” Thomas says, and his eyes light up. He looks to Morfran for approval, and continues. “He’s an eater of flesh. Flesh is power. Essence. When he ate your father, he took your dad’s power into himself.” He looks down at my athame like he’s never seen it before. “The thing you called your blood tie, Cas. Now he has a link to it. It’s been feeding him.”
“No,” I say weakly. Thomas gives me this helpless apologetic expression, trying to tell me that I wasn’t doing it on purpose.
“Wait,” Carmel interrupts. “You’re telling me that this thing has pieces of Will and Chase? Like it carries around part of them?” She looks horrified.
I look down at the athame. I’ve used it to send away dozens of ghosts. I know that Morfran and Thomas are right. So just where the hell have I been sending them to? I don’t want to think of this. The faces of the ghosts I’ve killed flash behind my closed lids. I see their expressions, confused and angry, filled with pain. I see the frightened eyes of the hitchhiker, trying to make it home to his girl. I can’t say that I thought I was putting them to rest. I hoped so, but I didn’t know. But I sure as hell didn’t want to be doing this.
“It’s impossible,” I say finally. “The knife can’t be tied to the dead. It’s supposed to kill them, not feed them.”
“That’s not the Holy Grail in your hand, kid,” says Morfran. “That knife was forged long ago with powers best long forgotten. Just because you use it for good now doesn’t mean that’s what it was made for. It doesn’t mean that’s all that it’s capable of. Whatever it was when your dad wielded it, it isn’t now. Every ghost you’ve slain has made this ghost stronger. He’s a flesh-eater. An Obeahman. He’s a collector of power.”
The accusations make me want to be a kid again. Why isn’t my mommy calling them big fat liars? The seriously, completely wrong pants-on-fire kind? But my mother is standing silent, listening to all of this, and not disagreeing.
“You’re saying he’s been with me the whole time.” I feel sick.
“I’m saying that the athame is just like the stuff we take into this shop. He’s been with it.” Morfran looks somberly at A
“Why doesn’t he do it himself?” I ask wearily. “He’s an eater of flesh, right? Why does he need my help?”
“Because I’m not flesh,” A
“Bluntly put,” Carmel observes. “But she’s right. If ghosts were actually flesh they’d be more like zombies, wouldn’t they?”
I start to waver by A
“What does any of this matter, right now?” A
She says that for my benefit. There’s an edge of protection in her voice. I look at her gratefully, standing by my side in her hopeful white dress. She’s pale and slender, but no one could mistake her for weak. To this Obeahman, she must look like the feast of the century. He wants her to be his big retirement score.
“I’m going to kill him,” I say.
“You’re going to have to,” Morfran says. “If you want to stay alive yourself.”
That doesn’t sound good. “What are you talking about?”
“Obeah is not my specialty. It’d take more than six years to do that, Julian Baptiste or no. But even if I was, I can’t take that hex off of you. I can only counter it, and buy you time. But not much. You’ll be dead by dawn, unless you do what he wants. Or unless you kill him.”
Beside me, A
Dead by dawn. Okay, then. I don’t feel anything, not yet, except for a low, weary hum all through my body.