I pulled the Jeep into the left-hand-turn lane at the Victory Drive traffic light and threw it into neutral as I waited. The sun beamed down through the canopy of live oaks and Spanish moss with ferocity, making me squint through the tint of my shades — and it was only nine a.m. I was neither a morning person nor a night person — I dealt with both times of the day equally well. But as my lily-white skin revealed, I wasn’t particularly fond of the sun. I burned fiercely. A thin sheen of part sweat, part humidity covered my exposed skin, and the slightest of breezes cooled me off. I watched patrons and traffic as I listened to the sounds of early-morning Savannah mixed with horn blasts, lost in my thoughts until a smooth voice from the car beside me interrupted.

“Hey, babe, nice dog. Really nice tats.”

I stared straight ahead, uninterested. A low growl sounded deep in Chaz’s throat, and though the double rejection probably pissed the guy off, he didn’t show it. I could feel his eyes on me, though, and I hadn’t even spared him a single glance yet. It was just a creepy feeling I’d come to pick off rather fast, and ignore even faster.

“Hey, don’t be shy, baby,” he said, as if I had a shy bone in my body. “You want to meet later? Show me all your tats?” He laughed. “You can leave your dog home.”

My arrow turned green, and I threw the Jeep into first gear. I held the clutch for a second as I glanced over at the guy and peered at him over the rim of my shades. Figured. A smart-dressed older guy in a new Lexus, wanting to get it on with something he probably thought was freaky — me. He probably had a wife and kids at home. He was so not on my agenda — now or ever. For some reason, guys seemed to think alternatively dressed and inked skin equaled an easy lay. Funny thing was, I really wasn’t anything, as in, I wasn’t Goth, or any other sort of character. I just had a . . . quirky, artistic sense of style. I smirked, then shook my head in amusement, because to me he was a sick freaking idiot. “You wish, gramps,” I said. Chaz barked, and I made the turn. I heard him call me a bitch, and for some reason it made me laugh. Even Chaz looked like he was smiling, with his tongue hanging out of his open mouth, the wind picking it up and flopping it all over. I’d been called way worse; you can believe it. Sticks and stones, baby. It took a lot more than a little name-calling to hurt my feelings anymore.

Through the small community of Thunderbolt, I weaved my way down Bonaventure Road, to the front gates of the cemetery. Although they’d been open since eight, the place looked totally deserted — strange for an August morning. Usually, the tourists were wandering in and out of the keeper’s building, meandering through the grounds, and checking out the famous monuments and infamously interred. I pulled in slowly past the keeper’s redbrick building, following the path to the far right, and crept along in second gear to the rear of the property. Bonaventure was the epitome of the South, with towering, two-hundred-year-old live oak trees draped in wispy moss, and dozens of narrow dirt roads leading back into the white marbled statues and gray headstones of the graveyard. In the spring, pink, fuchsia, and white azaleas lined the dirt lanes, and vines of wisteria hung like grape clusters. Quite pretty, actually. A slight salty breeze always seemed to be passing through, rustling the leaves and anything else that got in its way. The cemetery itself overlooked the Wilmington River and salt marshes, and I guess if I had to die and be buried somewhere, Bonaventure would be an okay eternal resting place. As long as it was far away from da hell stone, thank you.

I pulled the Jeep over, killed the engine, threw it into first gear, and set the emergency brake, then just sat for a moment as I took in the area. Something felt . . . funny. A slight breeze wafted through the leaves of the live oaks, and the faint rustling was the only sound in the cemetery. I scanned the rows of headstones, the white marbled statues and aged crypts, and realized it was way too quiet — even for a graveyard. Not one cricket, bug, or bird made the slightest of sounds. It was totally silent, and it weirded me out. And I don’t usually get weirded out. I glanced over at my dog, who had his nose lifted and was sniffing the air. He felt it, too. “Stay, Chaz,” I commanded. He whined but firmly planted his backside in the seat. He wouldn’t budge until I told him to.

I slid from the Jeep and started walking up the dirt path, my flip-flops slapping my heels, toward the back of the cemetery where da hell stone was located. The closer I got to the crypt, the stranger I felt, and an odd sensation crept over my skin. It tingled for absolutely no reason, and I was acutely aware of it as though hundreds of tiny ants crawled over me. More than once I glanced over my shoulder, and again — up — just like the night before. As if my feet had a mind of their own, my pace quickened. Funny thing was, so did my heartbeat, my breathing. It all accelerated.

Once da hell stone was in sight, I stepped off the dirt path and cut across the grass, the weird sensation growing stronger as I drew closer. Probably just my superstitions kicking in, but I was still jumpy, and I hurried even faster.

I got close to the crypt and stared in disbelief. I slowly eased to the jagged opening, only it wasn’t jagged at all. The rusted gate was in place, unbroken. It was as though nothing had been disturbed. Squatting down, I lightly ran my fingers over the aged steel; the edges where it fit perfectly against the crypt’s opening even looked rusted into place. It was sealed tight. Untouched. Unbroken. What the hell? I continued to search the ground, the dirt, the stone, for any signs of what had happened the night before with Seth and his buddies. I didn’t even see a Converse footprint. I even inspected some close-by crypts, and they all seemed to be in the same shape. Old, yet intact. No signs of vandalism anywhere. Nothing to indicate a group of teenage boys horsing around and stumbling out of a crypt.

Suddenly, I turned and jumped up at the same time, my hand flying to the back of my neck. It felt as though someone had breathed against my skin. I looked everywhere; no one was around. Far across the cemetery, I saw one of the workers pushing a wheelbarrow, but not a soul was close to me. Certainly not close enough to have blown on my neck. Not to sound like a baby or anything — I’ve been kickboxing for seven years and did plenty of street fighting before that — but I was done with my inspection of da hell stone. People? They didn’t scare me at all. I had handled the very worst of humanity, up close and way too personal. But spirits? Like I said earlier, I wasn’t completely convinced they existed, but Preacher was one hundred percent sure about the wudus, and that fact alone made me nearly break into a run. I hurried back to the Jeep, where my dog was waiting patiently, jumped in, and drove off like some big damn scaredy-cat. As I pulled through Bonaventure’s black pillared gates, I couldn’t help but feel like someone watched me, and twice I threw a glance over my shoulder. Very, very weird.

I wondered whether I’d been at the wrong crypt last night. I didn’t think so; I grew up here. I knew Bonaventure like the back of my hand, and I damn well knew where da hell stone was. The groundskeeper could have fixed it, but that fast? The gate had been rusted into place. It didn’t look repaired. It looked . . . ancient. And that was why I knew I definitely had to talk to Preacher. Something wasn’t right, and I felt in my gut that only he’d be able to figure out what. I’d talk to him tonight, once I finished my last appointment. My thoughts continued to ramble as I made my way back to Factor’s Walk, and by the time I walked through the back door of Inksomnia, I still didn’t have an answer. It bugged the absolute hell out of me.