Afterlight

We walked, nonstop and silent, all the way to Taylor Street, where the old Gullah turned right. When we hit Monterey Square, he crossed the street and stopped at the large white-brick historic three-story building on the corner. Black wrought-iron balconies on the second and third stories faced the square; the house was canopied by mammoth, moss-draped oaks — typical of the district. On the front gate hung a brass plate that read HOUSE OF DUPRÉ, 1851. Sure — the Dupré House. I’d seen it a hundred times growing up; I never knew anything about it or its inhabitants, and I couldn’t understand why or how they’d be able to help my brother, unless they were some rich, radical interventionists. Preacher, though, he had co

As if Preacher had heard my thoughts, he stopped at the front step and turned to me. It was dark enough out now that I could see only the whites of his eyes, his silver hair against his ebony skin, but I knew he studied me hard. He always did. “You drink your tea dis mornin’, right?” he asked.

The odd question stu

“You didn’t skip any mornin’s since I been gone, right?”

I knew better than to question right now. When Preacher was dead serious about something, he didn’t play around, and right now he was serious — no matter how bizarre the question was. “No, sir, I didn’t skip any mornings. I never do.” Inside, though, I was screaming What the freak do you need to know that for? I wisely kept the comment to myself.

“I know you, girl,” Preacher said softly, “and it’s killin’ you to keep dat purty mouth shut. You wa

If I wasn’t shaken before, I was now. I don’t think I’d ever heard my surrogate grandfather say so many words at one time in my entire life. But Preacher man would do anything for me and Seth, and that was what all this was about — Seth. “Yes, sir,” I answered quietly. Just the fact that Preacher warned me against someone putting their hands on me put my guard instantly up. He knew I had a thing about people — strangers — touching me. I had reflexes I couldn’t help. Besides. Why would anyone in the Dupré House touch me? I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I promise,” I said, and hoped like hell I could keep it.

Preacher gave a single nod, then turned to the door; he didn’t have to knock or ring a bell. The moment I stepped into the porch light beside him, the double-hung slabs of solid oak and brass opened, and an older man in a pristine tailored gray suit stood in the entranceway. Tall and wiry, with close-clipped gray hair, he gave me a double take, then addressed Preacher.

“They’re waiting for you in the study, monsieur,” the man said with a vague French accent. He didn’t verbally acknowledge me, but he checked out my dragons, angel wing, and attire: a gauzy flower-print skirt that came just above my knees, a ripped white tee, black leather ankle boots, and a wide black velvet choker. “This way,” he said, and inclined his head. He started up the foyer, back ramrod straight, and turned into a room off the main floor, near the back. We followed, my heels clicking sharply against the parquet flooring, breaking a deafening silence. Antique vases, ancient oil portraits, and pristine turn-of-the-century furniture adorned what small portion of the house I could see. The moment I stepped into the room, I stiffened. No fewer than fifteen people were gathered, and all sets of eyes rested on me as we entered. Only six weren’t Gullah. A young girl, who seemed to be around the same age as Seth, stood beside an elegant, petite older woman and an older man. Immediately, my gaze sca

“Bonsoir, ma chère,” the elderly man said as he slowly rose from a wine-colored upholstered wingback chair near the hearth. His gaze locked directly onto mine as he drew closer, and I found it difficult to think of anyone or anything else except him and his voice. He moved so gracefully, it almost seemed as though he glided across the massive room. Stopping just a few feet from me, he gave a small, sophisticated bow and a warm smile. “Accueillir à la maison de Duprè.”

I stared blankly at the man, and just as I was about to tell him I had no idea what the hell he was saying, I felt Preacher’s hand move to the small of my back. I took that as a sign to keep my mouth shut.

“Oh, Gilles,” said the petite woman, also with a French accent, “in English, love.” She gave me a glance.

“Ah, oui — pardon,” the man — apparently Gilles — said to me, switching to English. “My apologies, young lady. ’Tis an old habit difficult to break, I’m afraid.” He gave me a curt nod. “Welcome to the House of Dupré.” A sharp cerulean blue gaze met mine and held it. “We’ve been expecting you.”

What I wanted to say was, That’s great, really, but how can you help my brother? And what about the guy over there who has been stalking me? Firm pressure at my back from Preacher kept the question in check. With my eyes, though, I screamed, What’s going on? Why have you been expecting me?

In the next instant, Preacher began speaking to Gilles Dupré in perfect French. I waited, stu

Gilles glanced down at our joined hands, and I watched his eyes follow the tail of my dragon tattoo up my arm before finding my gaze. Again, the sensation of complete fascination came over me as he spoke. “Riley Poe. The painted one,” he said, almost with admiration. “You are well loved by your dark brethren here, as is your brother. You are . . . family.” He released my hands and gave a grave nod. “I do understand about family, ma chère.” With a long, elegant sweep of his hand, he glanced to the others. “This is my family, Ms. Poe. There sits my beloved, Elise, my sweet daughter, Josephine, and my boys” — he motioned farther with his hand — “Séraphin, Jean-Luc, and over there in the corner, brooding, is my eldest, Eligius.”