Chapter Eight
David tapped the keypad, waking his laptop. He finished buttoning his shirt as the screen came to life. His background check on Dr. Charlotte Sinclair was complete. He scanned the screen, but the further he scrolled, the more the acid bubbled in his stomach.
This couldn’t be right.
He picked up his cell and called the home office.
“Department 13.”
He focused on the report again. “Brenda, it’s Bale.”
“Agent Bale. What can I do for you?” Brenda had been the one constant in his life for the past ten years. She’d come to his department as a Quantico washout. Her superiors looked down on her penchant for working with psychics and thinking outside of the metaphysical box.
A perfect fit for a top secret agency of the government that prided itself on defending the red, white, and blue from threats most people wouldn’t believe even existed.
And there was no one on earth he trusted more.
“I brought in a historian for this project. She’s an expert on the sinking of the Sea Dog. My gut says there’s more to her than that. I ran her background, but King’s search engine is malfunctioning.”
“That’s impossible, sir.” Some paper shuffled on her end of the line. “I don’t have any reports of a problem. Are you seeing an error screen?”
“No.” He shook his head, scrolling down again. “But I’m only getting her maternal background. It’s like she has no father.” He set the laptop aside and stood. He thought clearer on his feet. “I need to talk to King.”
She sighed. “You know how he hates the phone.”
“He hates everything, Brenda.” David rubbed the back of his neck. “Put him on.”
“You got it.” She placed the line on hold, and “I Put A Spell On You” came through the line. He ran his tongue across his teeth, not allowing himself to smile. Someone in his department must’ve changed up the government-issue elevator music.
Finally, a hoarse baritone rumbled in his ear. “This is Kingsley.”
“Hey, King, it’s Agent Bale. I’m having trouble with the specialized search engine.”
“Impossible.” The end of the word slurred.
David glanced at the clock. Jesus, it wasn’t even eight in the morning yet. “Damn it, you were supposed to be going to your meetings.”
“I’m fine. Even piss drunk, I’m the best computer programming shaman you have.”
“That may not always be the case.” David sat down on the edge of the bed and poked at his laptop, choosing his words carefully. “I’m trying to get a background check on this historian in Savannah, and nothing is coming up on her paternal side. She had to have had a father at some point. Can you figure out what’s wrong?”
“Operator error, no doubt.” Kingsley’s clipped British accent made him sound condescending even in his current sauced state. “Email me the information, and I’ll send you a full workup.”
Propping the phone between his ear and shoulder, David fired off an email from his laptop. “Done. I need this information today.”
“Pushy and impatient, just the way I like my women.”
“Focus, King.” David rolled his eyes. “This is important.”
“Then why are we still talking?” The line went dead.
David shook his head, sliding his cell into his pocket. When he’d found Kingsley Pratt in a bar twenty years ago, his power wafted off him like pheromones to a trained agent. But even after years of interventions, they couldn’t keep King away from the bottle.
His little girl had frightened him to the core of his being. He thought her psychic abilities were his fault. When David offered King an escape from the Serpent Society, he took it, but he never recovered. Not completely. And David didn’t have time to put the pieces back together.
He grabbed his coat and headed out the door. Hopefully Kingsley could get him Dr. Sinclair’s full report in a few hours.
And if he didn’t, David figured that was answer enough.
Until then, he had a meeting with a medium.
…
Charlotte got out of her car and hurried toward the museum, but her mind was miles away. Back at her house, she’d left Keegan with the map of the three buildings with a serpent-shaped pathway connecting them.
He’d looked like shit, as if he hadn’t slept at all last night. She couldn’t help but check her liquor cabinet as she made breakfast. Nothing was missing. It probably wasn’t a fair leap, but the few times she’d met up with him, he’d been in a bar with alcohol in his hand, and as he enjoyed reminding her…he was a pirate.
Growing up with an alcoholic father made her suspicious. She couldn’t help it.
As amazing as the sex had been, his freak out, or whatever it had been afterward, took some of the shine off, slapping her with a reality she wasn’t sure she was ready for. Keegan had already lived at least three lifetimes now, maybe four. God only knew what he’d witnessed or the demons he ran from.
If she could help him find the Grail and stop the zealots from adding her to their radar, she could walk away and try to forget the pirate with adventure in his eyes. Being with him was exciting, but it also made her…wild.
He brought out a woman she didn’t recognize.
She adjusted the sticks in her bun on top of her head, and then tugged open the glass door. Bruce met her in the hall before she got to her office. “Morning, Dr. Sinclair.”
“You can call me Charlotte.” She smiled.
That adorable dimple formed in his cheek. “All right. It’s good to see you, Charlotte.” He cleared his throat and added, “A courier dropped by for you earlier. The package is on your desk.”
“Thanks. I wasn’t expecting anything.” She turned the corner and went into her office. Right in the middle of her desk was a pristine white 9”x11” envelope with Dr. Charlotte Sinclair scrawled on the front. But “scrawled” wasn’t the right word. Hand-lettered in old English calligraphy.
She frowned and went to her chair. She dropped her purse and bag and reached for the envelope. On closer inspection, the ink wasn’t a felt tip or ballpoint. Had to be from a fountain pen. She’d bet her boots, and these were her favorite pair, so…
She turned it over and opened the clasp on the back. Inside was a yellowed file folder marked St. Mary’s Home. She slid it free and lifted the cover to find faded rosters of girls, orphans who’d lived at St. Mary’s. The church kept these records under lock and key. How did they end up on her desk? And why?
A note was clipped to the inside.
Keegan doesn’t know these records exist. These documents will be collected in two days.
She turned the note over, searching for a sender’s name. Nothing. Staring at the folder, she groaned. She didn’t have time for another distraction. Not right now.
She started to put the folder in her drawer along with her purse, but curiosity got the better of her. If these records would help her better understand Keegan, she didn’t want to wait.
Charlotte flipped the pages backward to the very beginning, scanning the dates and the names. Keegan had donated the property to the church in 1876, presumably to help the orphans left behind after another plague of yellow fever decimated Savannah.
The home began as an orphanage for girls, but none of the names seemed familiar. What tied any of this to Keegan?
On a whim, she pulled up a new window on her computer to search the Savannah Morning News records. The paper had been around since 1850. All the older editions weren’t available online, but most of the headlines showed up, and if she needed the whole story, they had them stored on microfiche.
She started with the first group of girls, entering one name at a time. She got a hit on two of them: one girl tragically drowned, and the other, Rachel Darby, was mentioned in a headline. Savannah orphan Rachel Darby graduates from Wesleyan Female College with help from an anonymous benefactor.
Charlotte sat back in her chair. She glanced at her clock. No time to run to the paper to check the archives for the full story. She jotted down the reference number on a Post-it and stuck it to the front of the folder. After work, she’d stop by the newspaper offices.
Could Keegan have been the benefactor? If so, why? What connected an immortal pirate to a girl in an orphanage?
Her gut told her there was something there; she just needed to find it.
…
Keegan drove through the shaded streets of historic Savannah, too distracted to appreciate the way the late afternoon sun filtered through the Spanish moss draping over the massive live oak trees that lined the road. It lured you into the past, a haunting scene only Savannah could provide. He’d sailed into many ports during his long life, but he always came back here. There was no other city quite like it, where the past and the present comingled.
He kept driving, right through the city, and suddenly he realized he was nowhere near the three buildings he was supposed to investigate. Instead he’d driven through the gates of the Bonaventure cemetery and parked. Damn it. What the hell am I doing?
His hands trembled at his sides as he got out of his truck, wishing he could make himself turn and walk away. A breeze came off the water, singing a somber melody through the enormous moss-covered trees.
Many of the headstones leaned, long-forgotten loved ones whose families had all passed away lifetimes ago. Now they teetered off-center, a reminder of the cruel passage of time. More than a hundred years ago, he’d spent every day here. Angry, heartsick, and unable to end his torment, he’d trudged through these gates over and over. He couldn’t stop himself.
Finally, his pilgrimages ended as the twentieth century began.
Yet here he stood again.
He rubbed his forehead, still unsure why he’d come. With a sigh, he walked a familiar path to a weeping angel at the back corner of the cemetery. The drapes of Spanish moss hanging from a huge tree hid the area from most tourists passing through to take pictures and read the marble markers.
Ducking under the foliage, he made his way closer. When he’d bought this plot, the cemetery had been much smaller, with far fewer tourists and visitors. His chest tightened with each step until finally, he stood before her.
Here lies
Jessica Darby
Taken from this world in 1876
Cherished angel
Gone too soon
Keegan knelt down, wiping the dust from the weeping angel’s face. “Don’t know why I’m here, Jess.”
His voice was raw and shaky, but saying her name out loud released some of the pressure building in his chest. “Losing you would’ve killed me, if that were possible.”
He glanced over his shoulder to be sure he was alone. “I was weak. I probably still am. But I met someone, and it scares the shit out of me, Jess. I…” He rolled his eyes. “I’m a fool. After last night, she thinks I’m insane. Hell, maybe I am.”
His vision blurred. He rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. “I failed you and little Rachel. And I’m no good for this woman either, but I ache for her. I’m still a selfish bastard. After lifetimes, I haven’t changed. Maybe I don’t know how.”
He stood, staring down at the angel. “Colton’s not going to drink with us this time. I’ll lose him, just like I lost you.” He stared into the distance, his own words tormenting him. “Immortality is only a gift when you don’t have to watch others die.” He ground his teeth. “There was a time, after the fever took you, that I wished I could die, too.”
Raking his hand through his hair, he looked back toward the entrance to the cemetery. “Here I am, telling my problems to a woman long dead. Maybe I am nuts.” He took one last look at the angel. “I never told you my secret, about the Grail.” He cleared his throat. “But Char knows. Not having to hide myself from her is freeing…and fucking terrifying. And every second I spend with her makes me hunger for a thousand more.”
He groaned. What the hell was he doing? Pouring out his heart to a marble monument. This wasn’t going to solve anything. Keegan sighed. “Thanks for listening, Jess.”
He kissed two fingers and placed them on the angel’s cheek before he turned to go back to his truck. Once he got outside the cemetery, his phone buzzed. Agent Bale’s name lit up the screen. “Bale?”
“Keegan. Glad I caught you. We made contact with the online sellers who claim to have the Grail. They want to meet to discuss terms.”
Keegan stopped walking. “I thought our Serpent boys had it now.”
“All we know for sure is that they met with them; we don’t know who has custody of it right now. That’s why I need you to go to the rendezvous.”
“When and where?”
“At the fountain in Forsyth Park in an hour. I’ll be nearby, covering you. If things go south, give me a sign, and I’ll be right there.”
Keegan chuckled, allowing his accent to bleed through. “What be the sign, Captain?”
“Captain works. Shout, I’ll be there.”
Keegan ended the call. He didn’t have his gun on him, but his dagger was strapped to his calf. What could they do, anyway? Tough to kill an immortal man.
But none of them was exactly sure how immortal they were right now. Their gunner, Eli, had barely survived his car accident.
John Smyth, their boatswain, was a numbers man. He believed if the Bible said “a day in Thy courts is better than a thousand,” then it stood to reason that one sip might have given them a year of the Lord’s time. Three years on earth would equal one day in the heavens. So they’d lived almost three hundred years in this world now. Without another drink, this would be their final lifetime. They’d age and fade away just like everyone else.
But Keegan wasn’t ready yet. Maybe he never would be. The world had so much to offer, to see, to touch and taste. Unlike Colton, he didn’t yearn for a family or to watch children grow while he aged.
When Keegan held the cup in his hands again, he’d take another swallow without a second’s hesitation.