This time I nodded. "I would, yes. I think that would be good."

Miabella.

"Yes?" It was my own voice. Who was calling? And who was I to answer?

Miabella.

"Yes."

Harry joined in. "Eden?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm all right." But I wasn't, not really. My hands, crossed against my chest. I held them out before me to watch them shake, and they were not my own. They wavered before me more distant and hazy than any oasis. And they were covered with blood.

"Harry?" I said in barely a whisper. "Harry?"

He was beside me then, an arm around my shoulders.

My hands were not my own.

They were covered in blood.

I swung around, pressing my crimson-smeared fingers against Harry's chest, but the gore wouldn't wipe away. "Do you see it?" I demanded, holding my palms out for them to inspect. "Do you see? It's his, it's Malachi's. I can tell. It's so close to mine. I can smell it. Tatie's right, there is a smell to us. . . . I must have done it—or maybe, maybe I haven't done it yet. Don't you see?"

"See what?" Marcus was baffled and frightened, but he wanted to help. "Is there something wrong with your hands? Give them here."

"Yes, they're—" I looked down at them again, just to make sure. "They're all . . . they're all . . ." The blood remained, and it might have spelled my cousin's name, with such certainty did I know its origin. But how? And why?

Then I saw, in a long, neat line, heads bowed and hands folded together, a string of brown-robed monks file solemnly past the door behind Harry and Marcus. Each man held a strand of red and black beads with which to pray, and every hooded face was pointed toward the stone floor. I counted five, ten, twelve. The thirteenth monk paused in the doorway, lifting his face to stare directly at me. The red and black beads hung limply from his hand, wrapped securely around his knuckles.

You will not make them see. He said it in Spanish and I understood perfectly, though I could not have explained how. They are not like us. They call you a witch, but we would have made you a saint for your gift. And it is a gift, though you don't think so now. Your hands are clean, child, for you died blameless in the eyes of God. He turned away from me then, and rejoined his fellows in line.

When I looked at my hands once more, they were as clean as if I'd only just washed them, and even beneath my fingernails there was no trace of red. "I don't understand."

Harry and Marcus still hovered, Harry with his arm nearly supporting me and Marcus fluttering at my side, desperate to be assigned some useful action.

"I'm all right," I said, ducking woozily out of Harry's grasp and swatting at his arm. "Stop grabbing at me. I'm all right. But—but I need to go lie down, or just close my eyes for a while—there's too much, there's too many people here."

"Too many people?" Marcus stood astonished. "You haven't seen a soul except for—"

"Stop it. Don't say it like that." I put my hands over my face and then faced them both again. "You don't understand at all. You understand even less than I do, so I don't know what help you're going to be."

Harry summed it up with one word. "Ghosts?"

"Yes, ghosts. Ghosts, spirits, souls . . ." I emphasized the word for Marcus, who was very nearly cowering away from me. "What's the matter?" I asked him. "What is it? Surely you knew; you two seem to know just about everything. You knew that I see ghosts, didn't you?"

"Y-y-y-yes, but I didn't know you could see them . . . here. I mean, we have them here?"

"You're joking! In this city? Has no one ever lived here before, or died here either? You said it was centuries old, do you think there's no trace of that? Good Lord Almighty. They're everywhere."

Across the room a fire blared to life in the stove corner and a large pot appeared, tended by a man who held the iron lid with his hands wrapped in rags. He dropped a long wooden spoon down into the simmering brew and gave it a stir, eyeing me with a half smile. I smelled chicken stock, runny and pungent with curry. I wrinkled my nose.

Yes, it's very strong, he said in that impossibly lucid Spanish, but the curry will keep them from tasting that the meat is not so fresh. Will you be staying with us tonight?

"Yes, I'll stay the night. But only the night. In the morning we have to go."

Harry nodded. He and Marcus were both trying to see who I was talking to, but to no avail. "That was the plan all along. I promise, first thing we'll go and find this place, and these people. Then we'll head away in the morning."

Again he spoke softly to Marcus and again I heard the word "poison."

I'm getting you ready, the dream man had said. I'm making you strong. But what sort of strength was this, that now all the undead crowded me close, when before it was mostly the three sad women. I did not like this kind of strength, and I was not at all happy to have it. I was exhausted and angry, and I wanted only to close my eyes and leave them that way for a very long time.

I let Harry and Marcus lead me to the room where I would spend the remains of the night, and fell into bed without even washing my face. I lay staring at the ceiling, half gasping, half choking. I couldn't look anywhere without seeing them. Some of them were monks, and occasionally I would see a conquistador or an Indian, but they wandered the halls and the rooms as though they were yet alive. It was more than enough to keep me from sleeping.

All night long they passed my door, a strange cavalcade of brown hoods and copper-skinned locals. Sometimes there was prayer, and sometimes there were loud words, but more often I saw only the silent ones shambling past without a sound. They were so perfectly real at the edge of my vision that I could not say who was living and who was only an echo of the dead. Surely there could be no sleep with such company.

Besides, I was so worried about Lulu that it was making me even sicker to my stomach. I'd have an ulcer before this was all over, but I didn't dare call—I could only assume the news would not be good, but she was still hanging on. Of that much I had to keep faith.

There was no other option.

She could not die.

But to guarantee that, I'd have to find Gray's cultists, and quickly.

I must have dozed, though, for I did not hear the door open and the man come into my room. Just like the rest, when I rolled my head to see him, I could not tell if he was among the living or dead. He was dressed in a robe like the one Marcus wore, but his head was covered and his face concealed by shadow.

He ducked his head, bowing gently and folding his hands. "I understand you are not feeling well. Harold thought you might wish for something to aid your sleep." His voice was nearly a whisper, low and soft, and it invited confidence. It implied that he was alive, and that I was secure. Although I couldn't see him well, I got the impression that he must be a very old man beneath the cowl.

I didn't respond except with my stare, and he seemed embarrassed, or maybe he was only polite and reserved.

"I . . . I have a tonic here, if you'd like."

"Okay."

He fed it to me like I was a baby, propping me up with a pillow and spooning the drink into my mouth. I took it obediently, even willingly. I wanted nothing more than to sleep deeply enough to keep the ghosts away, and even though the tonic was bitter, I had the strangest feeling that it could only help.

By the time I'd taken the last spoon, I was already losing consciousness. I wanted to thank the monk, but the words were thick in my mouth.

He removed the extra pillow from behind my head and pulled the covers up under my chin with a grandfatherly tuck. Then he held his hands above me, in a blessing, I suppose, and murmured something I didn't understand—a Latin prayer, I thought. But the last words I heard were understandable enough that I suddenly remembered where I'd heard his voice before. But by then it was too late to cry out.

He took my hand in his.

You're on your way back to me.

Oh yes, soon you'll be home, child. And you'll be mine once again.

10

Gone South

We arrived at Highlands Hammock State Park in early mid-afternoon after another six-hour drive. While the map showed that the area of the park was quite large, the official entrance was barely more than an outbuilding, a sign, and a small parking lot. Though there were several other cars, we didn't see any people aside from the woman in the ranger's station who gave us our pass. She suggested that we register to camp, as the park closed at sundown each day, but after a quick consultation, Harry and I declined the invitation. Some cursory scouting was in order before we stormed the place, and besides, neither of us had any burning desire to camp in the middle of a swamp unless it was absolutely necessary.

If Harry was right, the main road ran fairly close to where the land in question must be, out on the south side of the preserve. According to the maps from the rangers' station, one of the catwalks extended far enough down to possibly come near it as well. We decided to hike the trail like ordinary tourists first, and then return later for a closer, less legal look.

I wasn't happy with the delay, but Lu's life—and likely my own—depended upon our success, so we forced ourselves to proceed with caution. I stalked along the path behind my companion, who stared into the surrounding water as if it were tea and he might read the leaves that floated on the murky surface.

A two-by-four boardwalk on stilts disappeared back through the trees, and we climbed up on it to follow.

The narrow wooden path was raised above the water, but only by a few disconcerting inches. I could have dipped a toe into the scum without any trouble, but something about the smell of the place prohibited it. The air was heavy with the scent of rotting, soggy wood, and of other things decaying where the alligators had left them to soften and stink. Overhead the sky was almost blotted out by the interlacing branches of the tall cypress trees strung with fuzzy gray moss, and it was difficult to see deeper than twenty yards into the woods, so thickly did those black trees grow.