sucked dry the next time, I’m taking matters into my own hands, using her spell book and ingredient list to concoct my own formula to build up my reserves. Which, I think is pretty darn brilliant. The magic gets the energy it needs to work, and I get to stay conscious. Win-win.
Miss Delia stiffens in her chair. Her jaw tenses as her eyes search the yard, gazing past the bottle tree to the road beyond. “Something’s coming, Emma. Best watch yourself.”
A split second later, thick gray clouds roll in, darkening the sky. A cool breeze whips through the clearing, rushing over the bottles dangling from the live oak, creating a low moan. Dread creeps over my skin like a colony of ants. I’m not sure whether to freeze in place or run and hide.
A car engine roars in the distance. The sound grows louder as it nears. Moments later, a shiny black sedan rumbles around the curve in the road. The extra-wide tires chew up the vegetation on the lane leading to Miss Delia’s house. Pulling up past the bottle tree, it stops at the foot of the path. I squint hard at the vintage Lincoln. Could it be the same one Taneea climbed into last week? It’s similar, but I honestly can’t tell because I didn’t look at the other one all that closely.
The engine continues to rattle so loud it vibrates my chest. I’m not the only one affected by the sound. A flock of tiny birds cheep amid the branches of the live oak, then scatter into the wind. Peering into the darkened glass, I try to make out who’s driving, but it’s impossible to see. After a long few moments, the motor finally cuts off.
The driver’s side door opens. One black boot emerges, followed by the other. A second later, a short, rail-thin man with chocolate-brown skin exits the car wearing a pitch-black suit and blue-framed sunglasses. He’s not old but he’s not young either, though I’d guess he’s probably about my dad’s age. Grasping a dark leather briefcase, he shuts the door with a thud , then smiles, revealing two rows of arctic-white teeth.
My stomach twists. Breathing deep through my nose, I work to compose myself, not knowing what’s going on, but somehow realizing I’ve got to keep my cool.
“Show no fear,” Miss Delia mutters under her breath. Clutching the armrests on her chair, she gazes at her visitor.
He nods. “Good day, ma’am. I’m looking for Mrs. Whittaker.” His accent is southern, but he’s not from South Carolina. Maybe from somewhere in the Deep South, though it’s hard to pinpoint where.
“You found her. Though it’s Miss . Hasn’t been Mrs. for a long time.” Her voice is low and gravelly.
His narrow chest expands. “I’m Claude Corbeau. Might I come up your walk?” There’s a hint of the bayou in his speech, though it’s gone almost as quick as I hear it. But there’s no mistaking the strained formality of his words, as if he’s trying to hide his true roots and come off as something he’s not.
“Depends. What are you selling?”
“Oh nothing, I assure you. I’m merely here on a social call.” He turns his eyes toward me. “And who might you be?”
My mouth opens to answer but my throat is suddenly as dry as a cotton boll and my tongue as heavy as lead.
“She helps tend my garden. And she’s none of your concern.” Miss Delia yawns, patting her open mouth with her wrinkled hand. “I’m afraid I’m not up for a visit this afternoon. You know how us old folk need our naps. Perhaps you ought to come back another day.”
His smile slips just for a second, but he quickly recovers. “I promise this won’t take long.”
Taneea opens the screen door and saunters out onto the porch. She’s changed into a black corset top and a black miniskirt. “Whew, thank goodness the sun’s gone away. Though knowing my luck, it’ll probably only last a few minutes.” She brushes her bangs off her face. “Well, hello, sir.” Her voice is high and flirty.
Miss Delia’s face hardens. “Taneea, could you fetch
Miss Delia stiffens in her chair. Her jaw tenses as her eyes search the yard, gazing past the bottle tree to the road beyond. “Something’s coming, Emma. Best watch yourself.”
A split second later, thick gray clouds roll in, darkening the sky. A cool breeze whips through the clearing, rushing over the bottles dangling from the live oak, creating a low moan. Dread creeps over my skin like a colony of ants. I’m not sure whether to freeze in place or run and hide.
A car engine roars in the distance. The sound grows louder as it nears. Moments later, a shiny black sedan rumbles around the curve in the road. The extra-wide tires chew up the vegetation on the lane leading to Miss Delia’s house. Pulling up past the bottle tree, it stops at the foot of the path. I squint hard at the vintage Lincoln. Could it be the same one Taneea climbed into last week? It’s similar, but I honestly can’t tell because I didn’t look at the other one all that closely.
The engine continues to rattle so loud it vibrates my chest. I’m not the only one affected by the sound. A flock of tiny birds cheep amid the branches of the live oak, then scatter into the wind. Peering into the darkened glass, I try to make out who’s driving, but it’s impossible to see. After a long few moments, the motor finally cuts off.
The driver’s side door opens. One black boot emerges, followed by the other. A second later, a short, rail-thin man with chocolate-brown skin exits the car wearing a pitch-black suit and blue-framed sunglasses. He’s not old but he’s not young either, though I’d guess he’s probably about my dad’s age. Grasping a dark leather briefcase, he shuts the door with a thud , then smiles, revealing two rows of arctic-white teeth.
My stomach twists. Breathing deep through my nose, I work to compose myself, not knowing what’s going on, but somehow realizing I’ve got to keep my cool.
“Show no fear,” Miss Delia mutters under her breath. Clutching the armrests on her chair, she gazes at her visitor.
He nods. “Good day, ma’am. I’m looking for Mrs. Whittaker.” His accent is southern, but he’s not from South Carolina. Maybe from somewhere in the Deep South, though it’s hard to pinpoint where.
“You found her. Though it’s Miss . Hasn’t been Mrs. for a long time.” Her voice is low and gravelly.
His narrow chest expands. “I’m Claude Corbeau. Might I come up your walk?” There’s a hint of the bayou in his speech, though it’s gone almost as quick as I hear it. But there’s no mistaking the strained formality of his words, as if he’s trying to hide his true roots and come off as something he’s not.
“Depends. What are you selling?”
“Oh nothing, I assure you. I’m merely here on a social call.” He turns his eyes toward me. “And who might you be?”
My mouth opens to answer but my throat is suddenly as dry as a cotton boll and my tongue as heavy as lead.
“She helps tend my garden. And she’s none of your concern.” Miss Delia yawns, patting her open mouth with her wrinkled hand. “I’m afraid I’m not up for a visit this afternoon. You know how us old folk need our naps. Perhaps you ought to come back another day.”
His smile slips just for a second, but he quickly recovers. “I promise this won’t take long.”
Taneea opens the screen door and saunters out onto the porch. She’s changed into a black corset top and a black miniskirt. “Whew, thank goodness the sun’s gone away. Though knowing my luck, it’ll probably only last a few minutes.” She brushes her bangs off her face. “Well, hello, sir.” Her voice is high and flirty.
Miss Delia’s face hardens. “Taneea, could you fetch
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