The Source

As I scanned the building’s lines, I became aware of a figure leaning up against the gray kiosk that stood before it. He wore a dirty red baseball cap, the bill of which he had pulled down to hide his eyes. His clothes were worn, his jacket torn on the shoulder. By outward appearance, he could have been one of Savannah’s homeless. Even though he didn’t look directly at me, I felt his interest in me, his intention that I should notice him. He lifted his cap and ran his hand through his hair. My heart pounded when I recognized him. It was my mother’s driver, Parsons.



I pushed away from the table and darted out the door. Parsons had already made it halfway down the block, and he raised his hand and waved, signaling me to follow him. I felt like I was walking in a dream. Uneasy memories of his masklike face and out-of-sync voice warned me to turn around. But still I felt compelled, whether by magic or curiosity, to follow this odd man, disguised as a homeless man to avoid notice. Parsons turned at Habersham and laid an envelope on one of the benches in Warren Square. Without pausing or giving me another glance, he pulled his cap tightly over his eyes and headed over to a rusted Impala parked at the far end of the square. The car shot out black puffs of exhaust as it fired into life. I watched Parsons pull away, and ran to the bench to grab the envelope he had left behind.



My name was scrawled on it in unfamiliar cursive. I ripped the envelope open, and a piece of card stock fell to the ground. I picked it up without looking at it, then pulled out a folded sheet of paper from the envelope and read:



My dear daughter,



If you are reading this, then our time together has been cut short, and my most trusted servant, Parsons, has been obliged to risk his own life to deliver this to you.



I returned to Savannah in the hope that I would find a way to make things right. To make peace with my family. To help you save your sister from the hell to which the line has sentenced her. To reclaim our lives together. To watch your child grow in the way I was denied the joy of watching you and Maisie as you matured into the strong, beautiful women that you are.



I failed to protect your sister, but I have not failed to protect you. The witch families have used your fear to extort most of your rightful powers from you. They have also constrained your direct access to the energy of the line, but I have created another source of power for you, one over which they have no control. I grant you now the only inheritance I can, the full use of the power I have collected through Tillandsia. Use the enclosed invitation to gain entrance to Tillandsia and claim your birthright. Protect yourself. Protect your child. Trust no one.



With more love than words can express,



Your mother



    I refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope. I felt the card in my hand, letting my finger run over the engraving. “Tillandsia,” I read aloud. The word and a two-color drawing of the black-and-red door were all that had been printed on the front. On the reverse, handwritten in an unfamiliar but elegant script was “Mercy Taylor and Guest,” and beneath our names, the message, “Tonight, sunset. Black tie required.”



TWENTY-NINE



“Are you ready to admit you need help?” Emmet’s voice came from behind me.



“Are you still following me?” I said, turning. Rather than feeling angry that I was being stalked—again—I was happy to see a friendly, if taciturn, face.



“Yes,” he said and sat down next to me. He leaned in closer, his warm breath tickling my ear. “You must understand. I’ve not only been tasked with teaching you. It is also my duty to protect you, at least until the families are sure you can protect yourself.”



“Or to spy on me and keep me in line until they can figure out a way to do away with me.”



He pulled away from me, his eyes wide, and his skin momentarily flashed back to the color of the gray dirt from which he had sprung. “No, Mercy. You must believe me. I believe I have made my feelings for you clear. Even if the families do not have your best interest at heart, you must realize that I would never assist in any effort to bring you harm.”



“At least not knowingly,” I said and watched his face as the possibility that the families had been lying dawned on him.



“They instructed me to follow you. I have been following you. Practically everywhere you’ve gone for months.”



I stopped and looked up into his stoic face. He had braced himself for a burst of anger, but I still had none. Deep down, I’d known it all along, even before Ryder had attested to Emmet’s constant, invisible presence. I’d felt him nearby, and had taken comfort from it. I shook my head and started to go, but he reached out and caught my forearm in his massive hand. “I was there Mercy. There when you encountered the Tierney man. There when your mother took you. And I was there in the Tillandsia house when the skylight crashed in on her.”



So it really had happened after all. “And you reported everything to the families?”



He shook his head. “Not all of it. Only as much as I felt necessary. That you accidently damaged the old man, yes. That a collector has come to Savannah, yes. That Peter is not human and that you have been meeting with your mother, no. That is why I denied having pulled you from the Tillandsia house. If I had admitted to being there, I might have been forced to share the truth about your interview with Emily.”



“So why the editing for my family?”



“Because I don’t know whom to trust, and you shouldn’t make assumptions regarding anyone’s goodwill for the time being either.”



“Even yours?”



He scooped up my forearm into his strong hand. “If it keeps you safe, if it makes you vigilant, then yes. Doubt me as well.” I tugged on my arm, and he released his grasp. “Show me the paper you hold. Please.”



In spite of his own warning to trust no one, I couldn’t bring myself to doubt his goodwill. I handed the card and the letter over to Emmet, who examined them minutely, as if they were a palimpsest whose secret text would reveal itself under scrutiny.



“I’m afraid that’s all she wrote,” I said.



“It would be foolhardy to attend,” Emmet said as he returned the papers to me.



“But I must. This could be my only hope of bringing Maisie home. Besides, if any of what my mother has said is true, she gave her life for this.”



“Perhaps it is true. And perhaps this letter is from your mother,” he said, pausing to consider his words. “But consider this: a woman capable of faking her own death once could certainly do so again.” I had not allowed this thought to surface in my mind, but now that it had arisen, I could not deny the possibility, even though I know what it meant. If she had done such a thing, I meant nothing to her. Emmet allowed me no time for reflection, no respite for my conflicted emotions. “I must inform you that your Aunt Ellen has gone missing. Neither Iris nor Oliver is overly concerned, as she has begun drinking again. Evidently, they consider disappearing part of her standard drinking behavior.”



I nodded. “That much is true, I’m afraid.”



“I am not so sure this time. I know you love her. Your devotion to her is evident, but for your own safety”—he seemed to sense my growing determination to knock down anything he might say against Ellen, so he went for the big guns—“and for the safety of your child, you have to consider that Ellen herself may have arranged Tucker Perry’s assassination to throw you off guard and lure you to Tillandsia.”