Four and Twenty Blackbirds

About that time Harry gave up on the bed and turned to the wardrobe against the far wall. In it were rows of old-fashioned dresses and skirts, jackets and robes. He pushed them aside and pulled them out a few at a time, examining them and then tossing them on the undone remains of the bed.

My luck wasn't any better. I'd made my way through all the dresser drawers and had decided to try her bathroom. "Go on," I said as I opened the narrow door. "I'm going to check in here, but I can still hear you."

"Very good. Yes, it was another beginning. And this thread of the story I think will be mostly news to you. After Gray was dead and Juanita was raving out in the swamps about bringing him back, the threats began. At first they were vague and without any substance, but gradually they became more specific. Gray's cult was determined to avenge him, and they began by bringing about the deaths of the four men who'd collaborated in his death. One by one they died of agonizing, lingering illnesses, and after each death Juanita would leave behind some token claiming responsibility. The day each man died, a bloody swatch of cloth cut in the shape of a man would appear nailed to the door of the room where he passed on. No one ever saw anyone deliver this calling card, and no one ever heard the nails being pounded in. But everyone knew who was responsible.

"Then, one after another other members of the clergy began to die as well. The group was nearly down to nothing, and those who remained either fled or lived in terror. Just when they thought St. Augustine's church might close forever, a smallpox epidemic seized the city, and although many perfectly ordinary, decent people died, so also did Juanita Gray. Thus, the mysterious deaths ended. When the plague had passed, it seemed as though all had returned to normal.

"Then, roughly around the time your grandfather Avery fled Tennessee, things began again. By then the church had been restocked with a fresh supply of God's servants—in fact, most of them had nothing at all to do with Gray's killing, if they even knew of it at all. But within a month, three died; and a month later, two more. It was then that we received the warning."

"Uh-huh," I said from the bathroom, and the indistinct syllables echoed off the grayish ceramic tiles. The room was clean, but the fixtures likely hadn't been updated since they'd been put in. Although it seemed in no way large enough to hold the missing book, the medicine cabinet appealed to my nosiness and I opened it, swinging the mirror aside.

Harry prattled on from the master suite. "One morning a priest found a letter tacked to the confessional. It said, in short, that John Gray would never die, and that there remained one hundred and fifty years to retrieve him. His followers had found a new leader, and together they were conserving and concentrating their powers. And when Gray returns and his vengeance becomes complete, neither the church nor anyone within it will remain standing."

"Heavy threat," I called, reaching inside the cabinet. Mostly it was filled with the ordinary sorts of things an old lady would have—prescription medications, a pair of nail clippers, some eye drops, and some cotton swabs—but also there were two slim glass bottles stopped with corks.

"It was no idle threat, either. The church tried to keep an eye on the doings of Gray's cult, but it was a difficult task. Not only did they live out in the woods but they were a tight-knit group with a tendency to kill anyone who asked too many questions about them. The information we do have has taken one hundred and fifty years to accumulate, and it has cost more than a few lives."

"So they—this cult of John Gray's, I mean—it's still up and running? There are still people who are trying to bring him back to life? I thought his body was burned. What are they planning to raise, a cloud of ashes?" I held one of the glass bottles up to the light. The label was a piece of notebook paper that had been affixed with Scotch tape. "Half of this at a time," it read. Sure enough, the bottle was about half-empty.

"Yes, something like that. This is why it's taken them so long to get their act together, and this is where the threat to you comes in." In the next room, Harry quit digging through Eliza's things and came to stand in the doorway. "Tell me," he said quietly. "Your aunt—the one who raised you. How is she doing?"

I set the odd little bottle on the edge of the sink and turned to face him. "What do you mean, how's she doing? She's fine."

"Are you sure?" His hands were twisting at one of Eliza's slippers.

"Of course I'm sure. What are you getting at?"

He put his eyes and the shoe down on the floor. "This cult, or these people in it—they believe that to have children is to dilute their power. The more children, or the more descendents such as grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren, the less life energy is available to them."

"And?"

"And, those cousins of yours I mentioned?"

"Yes?" I gripped the porcelain sink behind me and sat against it. I did not like where this seemed to be going.

"They're . . . they . . . their line was much like yours—it was not a large branch of the family. But all of them, beginning with the oldest and working down to the youngest—the farthest from Avery, that is . . . all the blood relations. They're all dead."

"You're lying." My head was growing light. "There's some mistake. You don't know I was related to those people. You can't possibly know that."

"Eden, we've been tracing your genealogy since before you were born." Harry could see from my expression that it would take more than words to convince me, so he muttered, "Hang on," and shuffled out of the room.

My mind was racing so hard I barely noticed Harry leave. When he returned, he silently handed me a scrapbook. I took it grudgingly and began flipping through it, only to find pages and pages of obituaries. By the time I reached the last two entries—a little girl, Cora, whose forlorn pose in her grade school picture could have doubled for one of mine; and my own grandmother—my eyes were teary enough that I could barely read. But still I protested. "These people all died of random diseases. There's nothing here to prove there's any connection between them."

"The cut-out cloth men came in the mail. There is no mistake."

"There is a mistake. Nothing is wrong with Lulu, and nothing's wrong with me."

Harry held out his hands, palms out and fingers up, trying to calm me or keep me back. "Listen to me, Eden. Someone has tapped into Avery's energy line and is drawing his power. He was the only one who was ever strong enough to attempt the magic needed to resurrect John Gray, and whoever this is will certainly need every ounce of it he can get. You and your aunt Louise and her younger sister are the last remaining descendents. Only a few days remain before the gateway closes and they lose Gray forever. That'swhy we have to find that book. Without the book, they have nothing—not the power to harm us nor the power to resurrect him. They can't raise Gray, and they can't hurt any of you."

I pivoted and slammed the cabinet closed, then planted my hands on either side of the sink. The mirror splintered, leaving the image a fragmented, bug's-eye view, but I could still see Harry's tragic, haggard reflection in the mirror. His gray eyes were bloodshot and tired, but his jaw was set. He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

"Don't you understand, Eden? Before I came to Eliza, I was Father Harold Frazier. If they bring Gray back, we're all done for. You, your aunt, and me too. I'm a member of the order they've targeted. They're coming for us all."

I looked down and turned the faucet handle. The pipes squealed and hissed, then finally provided a tepid stream that grew hot as I held my hands under it. "You're off your rocker. You ought to be out there with Malachi. The two of you could talk about God all the livelong day. I'm sure you'd have a fabulous time."

"Eden, you can't ignore this. It's too close now."

Steam was rising from the sink, and the water was hot enough to scald my hands, but I held them under the nozzle anyway. The broken mirror went damp and muted with white fog just the way I wanted it, and after a minute or two I couldn't see Harry's pleading eyes boring into the back of my head. "It isn't true," I said, reaching for the soap in order to validate my use of the sink. "It just isn't true."

"I understand that your aunt has been in ill health of late."

I wheeled around and hurled the bar of soap at his face. It landed against his forehead with a wet smack before bouncing out into the bedroom and sliding to a halt against the wall. "You shut your mouth."

"Call her, then," he insisted, wiping bubbles out of his eyebrow.

"Maybe I will!" I stomped past him towards the hallway in search of a telephone, but I'd barely left the room when Harry called out.

"Eliza doesn't have long distance. Use my cell phone." He withdrew a small black phone from his trouser pocket and held it out to me. "Take it. Call."

I snatched it away and began to dial, my fingers slipping on the rubberized buttons. I should've rinsed better.

No one was answering at home.

My fingers started shaking. Small slivers of white were stuck beneath my nails, rendering anything I touched a bit soapy. I messed up Dave's cell phone number twice, then managed to dial it correctly. I wrapped both hands around the receiver and pressed it against my aching head.

"Dave?"

"Eden, where have you been? I've been trying to call you for hours!"

"I'm—I'm sorry. Something came up and I left the hotel, but I'm all right," I couldn't help but notice Dave's voice was half an octave higher than it ought to have been. "What's the matter?" I asked, even though I surely wouldn't like the answer. My chest, throat, and ears began to congeal into one solid lump.