Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,29
hands into the coat pockets, wrapping my right hand around the mausoleum key. An electric tingle washed over me, carrying subtle information, like flavors I could taste but had no words to describe.
“The remnants here”—I gestured around us—“are all sleeping. Proper burials are like that. Most spirits have someplace better to hang out. What’s left are the memories of loved ones visiting. They blend together, and it’s kind of pretty, actually.”
It was more like an abstract watercolor than a patchwork quilt. But with the key in my hand, I could sense which part of the psychic finger-painting we needed. Like called to like, and key called to lock.
Through the graveyard came the soft sound of metal on metal. I jumped and Carson did, too, but there was no way to tell where the noise had come from.
“You heard that, right?” I whispered, unsure and scared, despite all my big talk about the sleeping dead. In searching the dark, we’d ended up back-to-back, so nothing could sneak up on us through the silver-iced headstones and the black moon shadows beneath.
“Yeah.” His low answer vibrated through my shoulder blades. “But it could be a mile or more away. Sound carries at night.”
“Okay.” I made a tight fist around the key in my pocket. “But let’s hurry anyway.”
He swept out an arm, inviting me to take the lead. “Lay on, Macduff.”
Dude. He’d just quoted Shakespeare and given me the reins of this crazy train. It was a good thing I had more important things to figure out than the mystery of this guy. He was so much more than just the hired muscle.
I led the way through neat rows of modern marble headstones on to where the markers got more worn and more eclectic and uneven. There were a few small crypts, but we were headed to a sandstone building with marble accents and topiary guardians beside the door. A miniature mansion for the dead.
I stopped a few feet away, checking the place out with my other senses. Carson’s vitality made a distracting gravity well in the spiritual landscape. I adjusted for his presence like a pilot adjusts for wind speed. That wasn’t just me being girly. I had to do the same thing with Taylor, but I was used to him. Working with him was like a preset on my psychic radio.
“Hand me the key,” Carson said, before I could get too worried about Taylor and what was happening back at the Maguire mansion. I gave Carson the key as ordered, happy to let him take the lead in the tomb-robbing part. At the door he took a small flashlight from his coat pocket and used it to find the keyhole. Turning the key took some effort, but it finally gave way with a loud clunk of the tumblers.
The door opened smoothly. I held my breath as a swirl of air rushed in, pulling the dead leaves around our feet with it. But nothing deathly wafted out, and I allowed myself a sigh.
“At least it doesn’t look like Dracula is buried here,” Carson said, echoing my relief. I peered over his shoulder as he passed the flashlight beam over the vaults, which were sealed with smooth stone and marked with the names of those resting inside. The chamber smelled of metal polish and cold marble, with a whiff of classic floral perfume that said our Mrs. Hardwicke was around. It was clean, but felt echoing and empty, even to my remnant senses. Everyone there was long gone or sleeping deeply.
I slid around Carson and went in, my footsteps ringing. He followed my movements with the flashlight. The walls weren’t all marble—there was a stained-glass window at one end of the building, and another over the door.
“What are we looking for?” Carson asked.
A good question. “Something that doesn’t belong here, I guess.”
The beam swept over the marked crypts. Big family. Old mausoleum. Lots of crypts. Carson voiced what I was thinking. “Where do we start? I’m not breaking into a grave unless absolutely necessary. I didn’t bring a sledgehammer.”
“Give me a minute.” Alexis’s grandmother was just a faint glow in the shadows of the chamber, but the misty aura took on her familiar shape as I gave her my attention.
“Do you know when Alexis was last here?” I asked her. Was it too much to hope that Alexis had been wearing Mrs. Hardwicke’s pearls when there? If she’d been there. I was beginning to doubt the genius of this plan.