The bad thing, and this I knew with complete clarity, was that I’d die for him. And if such a thing were possible, he’d die for me. Was that love? Obsession? Maybe it was both. But it was definitely something powerful, and I no longer had control over it. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. Talk about a high. It topped any drug I’d ever done.

I scooted from the booth and stood, dropped a five-dollar bill on the table, and waved good-bye to Martin as I headed out into the now-constant drizzle. As the distance between us grew shorter, I could finally see the lamplight shine off his disturbing eyes as they searched mine, and my heart slammed against my ribs. I knew that there were much greater horrors, and sorrows, than death. Unimaginable things that just a few short months ago I would have vehemently disputed ever existed. Vampires. They’re real. They exist. And they’re so not what you think they are.

And I was utterly, irrevocably in love with one.

“You know, looking back now I can nail the

exact moment everything around me changed.

What’s funny is, I noticed it right away, but it

never really registered. I just didn’t get it. Not

until later, after I realized vampires existed.

Know what it was? Cicadas. The moment it

happened, the cicadas silenced. I’ve not heard

even one, much less the thousands that filled

every single summer night since I was a kid.

They were my white noise, and they’ve gone.

Fled. And it’s annoyingly quiet around here.

How effed up is that?”

 — Riley Poe

Part 1

Disturbances

I am not afraid to die having thought of the issues of a dying hour.

— Anonymous epitaph, Bonaventure Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

Bonaventure Cemetery

August, after midnight

“Poe, you wiener, get your ass over here!”

“Shut up! I ain’t a wiener!”

Broken, adolescent male laughter echoed through the night air, and if I hadn’t been so damn mad, I’d have laughed, too. Something about hearing a group of idiotic pubescent fifteen-year-old boys say wiener just cracked me up. But right then, I wanted to strangle all four of them — especially the wiener. My younger brother, Seth. That little butthead knew I’d check up on him — especially when his plan included sleeping over at Riggs Parker’s house. Yet there I was, after midnight on a Friday night, peering through the fence surrounding Bonaventure Cemetery. After I’d worked all day. With the moon a waning crescent, shining through the canopy of trees, I could vaguely see their skinny little Levi’s weave and dart through the aged headstones and shadows.

Sleepover at Riggs’ house, my ass. They probably all told their parents they were sleeping over at each other’s houses. Didn’t they realize you can’t con a con? Guess not, because here I stood in the middle of the freaking night, just to make sure my little brother kept out of trouble. I watched them edge toward the back of the cemetery, and I followed down the fence line toward one particular live oak, stepping over several gnarled roots — not easy for those inexperienced in six-inch-heel boots. But I’d managed that fine art during my partying days on the cobbles of River Street. I was a total pro. Finally, they got within earshot once again, and they were so busy shoving and calling each other perverted names that none of them even knew I was around. Good. I’d sneak up on them, scare the crap out of them, then drag them all home before someone called the cops.

I gave my outfit a quick glance and then gauged the challenge before me. It just figured that the day I wore my leather miniskirt and spike-heel boots to the shop, I had to scale an eight-foot chain-link fence. If Riggs’ mom had called a little earlier, I would have changed. But I’d locked up and hurried out, and when I’d caught sight of them on Victory, I never would have thought the goofballs would sneak into Bonaventure. It wasn’t as easy to do as it’d been when I was a teen. So there I was, skirt, spiked boots, and all. Good thing no one but the dead would see my hiniesca (high-nee-sca is a juvenile, made-up word for ass, and I use it frequently) when I shimmied over the top. I drew a deep breath and gripped the bars with both hands. Even in hot, muggy August, the dew-covered steel felt cool beneath my palms. I found the old notches in the oak — the same ones my friends and I had used back in my wild days — dug the toe of one boot into the gash, and stretched my other leg out until it hooked the top of the fence. I used to hate being so tall, but once again my five-foot-nine-inch frame came in handy. Using my stomach and arms, I braced myself and eased my other leg up and over, then slowly slid to the ground. My skirt caught on the damp steel and inched completely up around my waist, and my heels sunk into the mossy dirt as I landed. I swore silently, pulled my heels free, yanked my skirt back down, and crouched, listening. Those little pecker-heads would pay for this.

A crash followed by a string of swears cut through the still air and drifted to my ears. What in the hell were they up to? Easing through the damp moss and fallen oak leaves, I made my way to the far back corner of the cemetery, close to the river; I followed their voices silently. I probably knew every single headstone at Bonaventure — my friends and I used to camp out here on a regular basis back in the day. Sick, I know, but true. Smoking joints while jumping headstones wasn’t my proudest moment in life, but neither was having sex against one. For the record, I gave up joints and grave jumping a few years back. Sex I still had, just not against headstones. As I crept closer, I dodged and toed my way around pinecones and cockleburs, pushing aside the long hanks of Spanish moss that dangled from the branches. Finally, beneath the shadows and moonlight, the boys came into view, and I stared, dumbstruck, as Seth and his pals disappeared into an old crypt.

That explained the crash. Damn — even I’d never done that, and I’d done a lot of crazy crap. But knowing what I knew from the Gullah? Hell and double no. I couldn’t believe Seth was going along with it. The name on that particular crypt was ancient; the words were nearly sanded flat with the stone, the rest covered by sap, moss, and age. Couldn’t read but maybe one or two letters at best. Preacher — a well-respected Gullah elder, herbalist, and conjurer, as well as a practiced hoodooist — had been a grandfather figure to me and Seth since Mom’s death. He’d called it da hell stone and told us a long time ago to stay away from it. When a Gullah conjurer warned you about something, you’d better believe it was nasty-bad. If you had even a scrap of gray matter in your crane-cap, you’d listen. They were descendants of the Africans brought to the eastern seaboard during the slave trade, and they knew some wicked-bad magic. Dark stuff. Some voodoo, some hoodoo, some traditional root medicine and herbal cures, some conjuring. All of it highly respected in the Gullah community. Jesus, Seth must have lost his friggin’ mind. I listened for a few seconds; the deafening cacophony of cicadas nearly drowned out the boys’ low chatter inside the old tomb. Damn, those bugs were loud.

With my backside pressed close to the aged stone, I slid sideways toward the crypt’s new, ragged opening. Mosquitoes sank into my bare thighs, and I swatted at them without making contact with my skin. They kept right on biting.

I pushed through a final fall of moss and peered downward, my breath catching in my throat. The mausoleum looked more like an old stone shanty — a slab about eight feet long and five feet wide, maybe four feet off the ground. From what Preacher said, though, the crypt itself was a helluva lot bigger belowground — even here in the low country. They had kicked in the old rusted iron gate at the entrance and had lowered themselves inside. I couldn’t see them, but I saw a light flickering and their shadows moving about. Great. They were probably waving around their lighters.They’d catch the poor old dusty corpse on fire and themselves right along with it. Dumbasses. I wasn’t a chicken or anything, but no way was I going down in there. This was da hell stone, and I wasn’t taking any chances. I’d just scare the hell out of them and watch their bony rumps scramble out of the crypt. Then I’d yank Seth by the ears and drag them all home. Juvenile, I know. But it was the best I could do. If only I had some classic firecrackers, like Black Cats or Whistling Moon Travelers . . .