I looked at my brother, who seemed overly eager. “Yep,” I answered, and we headed outside.
“I’m sitting this one out,” Eli said. “I have some things to get in order with Noah.” He kissed me, and the others made goofy noises. “See ya in a bit.”
“Okay,” I answered, and gave him a saucy smile.
Jack and Tuba had unloaded the bikes. I rode with Luc; Seth with Phin. Before Seth slung a leg over Phin’s bike seat, I stopped him with a quick pat-down. Seth’s green gaze, slightly humored, met mine.
“Yeah, I got my silver, Sis. Don’t worry so much,” he said, then kissed my nose, pushed my glasses down and in front of my eyes, and slid his shades on. Phin handed him a half helmet, despite the no-helmet law of South Carolina, and Seth snugged it in place.
My brother looked and acted way older than fifteen these days.
“Just checking,” I answered, then threw my leg over Luc’s bike seat. He turned, handed me my half helmet, and grinned. “Law or not, I’m not taking any chances with yours or your brother’s noggins.” He looked at me over his shades. “Ready?”
I pulled my helmet on. “Been.”
With a laugh, Luc jumped and kick-started the bike; Phin did the same, and we pulled down the driveway, past two tall palms, and onto the street.
For several hours after, we rode every street and alley of historic Charleston; from Market Street, to Church Street, past the white exterior of the French Huguenot Church, the unique salmon-colored Unitarian Church in Charleston with its square-topped steeple, up to Marion Square, and then down again. We learned King Street, Queen Street, Meeting Street, the open market, the historic district. The church district lent tall spires that stabbed the sky, and the French district had cafés and shops. That was all pretty easy to get the hang of. It reminded me a lot of Savannah, although we had more squares. Still, it was pretty easy to get, and simple to get the feel for. For a couple more hours, we rode; no alley, no side street next to a tourist shop, no restaurant, went unsearched. Late afternoon approached fast.
Then we rode out a ways, to the industrial part of the city, where the scenery wasn’t so picturesque. Compared to the clean-lined historic district, with its palms and white buildings and pristine parks, this part of the city had an underground, postapocalyptic feel to it. These streets and barred-windowed businesses were purposely kept out of the travel mags and tourist brochures. Everything looked … dirtier. Rather, forgotten. We pulled up to what appeared to be an old brick warehouse. In faded red letters against a gray metal sign, the words MALLORY’S FISH MARKET stretched in an arch. The moment Luc killed the motor, a single door opened and Noah Miles stepped out.
He looked dead at me.
“Know the city now, do you?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, and glanced around. “Where’s Eli?” I asked.
“He left about an hour ago. Had to go make arrangements with Garr, Preacher’s cousin.”
Luc braced the weight of the bike with his legs, and I stayed on the bike. “So where’s the fight club?”
Noah rubbed his jaw and grinned. “Not anxious, are you? Already packin’ silver?”
“I’m ready to get this over with,” I answered. And dammit, I was.
He nodded, and the others we’d met at the Dupré House the night before filed out and stood behind Noah. Street tough and ready to fight as they were, one would have a hard time believing they were actually vampires. Jenna, no more than nineteen, was of medium build and had long blond dreads she wore pulled back, similar to Noah’s. Saul was Asian, early twenties, and had zero readable expression on his face. Cafrey and Tate, I’d learned, were brothers from Arkansas, both with buzzed hair with a sturdy, kick-ass build.
“So,” Noah said, “screw the pleasantries, yeah? Welcome to Charles Town. Now, before we get dirty, which only happens after the sun dips, there’s someone we gotta see.”
Getting dirty meant free running, which I’d later discover, Noah and his guys were totally sick at. But we had a few hours of daylight left, and apparently, someone wanted to see us. “Who?” I asked. “And why?”
“Garr,” Noah said. “He’s waiting for us just a ways out of town.” He grinned at me. “Eli’s there, too. And not only do you mortals need to eat, but he wants to see da crazy painted white girl Preacher man been talkin’ bout, dat’s right.”
“Well,” I said, unable to stop the grin from tipping my mouth upward. Noah sort of had that effect on people—on me. He had that cocky, quick-witted, smart-ass attitude that, I don’t know, I thought was pretty funny, I guess. I met his gaze. “I’m starved, so let’s go meet him.”I gave my brother a glance; he grinned. Then, Noah and the others disappeared back into the building. Minutes later, one of the garage doors lifted and Noah backed out in a kick-ass blue restored muscle car. I had no idea what it was, but I had to say it was totally Noah.
“It’s a ’sixty-nine Camaro Z28 RS with hooker headers, four-speed mucie, 373 psi, and four-wheel disc brakes,” Luc offered. He turned and looked at me, the sun glinting off his silver hoop. “In original Leman’s blue with a black leather interior. Saved it from the junkyard and restored it himself. Pretty sick, huh?”
Noah pulled the car alongside Luc’s bike and gave me a smile any other woman would have fainted dead over.
I merely shook my head and grinned.
“Boys and their toys,” I said. “Dead, undead—you’re all the same.”
Noah flashed his white teeth. “Follow me.” He pulled out, his exhaust rumbling, and we fell in behind him.
Heading north on Highway 17, we eased out of Charleston following Noah. Approximately twenty-eight miles later, we hit the small town of Awendaw and turned east toward the river. I held on to Luc as we turned down a narrow gravel lane that led back into the wood. The sun was beginning to drop lower in the sky, and shadows fell long and jagged from aged live oaks across the palm fronds and sweetgrass hugging either side of the lane. I knew we grew closer to the river; the pungent smell of sea life clung to the humid air like fog. Up ahead, Noah’s taillights lit up as he pulled in front of a small, older river house; painted green several years before, it had a screened-in porch and a single yard lamp. Luc pulled next to the Camaro and killed the engine. I swung my leg over and off the bike.
“Come on,” Noah said, grinning, suddenly at my side and grasping my elbow. A deep, singsong voice that sounded strikingly familiar broke through the night air.
“Awe, now, dere she is, den,” a tall, wiry black man said from the top step of the screened-in porch. “You come on over here, Riley Poe, and bring your brodder; dat’s right. Let me take a look at you two.”
I threw one more glance at Luc, whose back was to me as he spoke, and for a second I thought to crank up my strigoi hearing and eavesdrop. I didn’t get the chance. Garr, Preacher’s cousin, stopped me. No—I mean literally. He stopped me—with a lot more strength than an old man should have had. I stared at him.
Garr flashed me a gap-toothed smile.
Then, it hit me. He had tendencies.
A little something Preacher had left out.
As Garr led me up the steps into his river cabin, Noah, Phin, and Seth on my heels, he let out a deep, amused chuckle.
“Well, baby,” he said, and we stepped into the cabin. “We got some catchin’ up to do, me and you.” All of six feet five inches, he looked down at me. The ceiling fan whirring in the living room seemed about to take his head off. “Now, we ain’t stoppin’ in here, no, sir.” He inclined his head, adorned with a faded Awendaw Blue Crabs cap, perched slightly crookedly. “Straight out da back door, to da pavilion. Your Eli is waitin’ for you out dere.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You like crabs, don you, girl?”
I smiled. “Yes, sir. I do.”
“Good, den. Let’s get out dere before dey all get eaten.”
Garr left no chance for me to discuss anything with Noah or Phin. He continued to pull me through the little river house, straight out the back door, and down a long wooden dock over the marsh. A slight breeze kicked up and blew briny air across my cheeks, and the rustle of saw grass blades scraping against one another nearly soothed me.
Nearly, but not quite.
Once at the end, three other Gullah standing by Eli raised their heads and grinned. Two were older, maybe in their late fifties, and one was younger, midtwenties. The barefoot younger guy, bare-chested and wearing cut-offs to his knees, was dumping a basket of live crabs into a large pot of boiling water. Metal crab baskets lined the dock, and two long metal, green-netted scoop nets rested against a lawn chair in the middle. Two large coolers sat beside them. The boy nodded, keeping his gaze trained on me. Eli walked toward us.
“Come on in here, girl,” Garr said, and led us into the screened-in boathouse. A long, well-used wooden table and benches took the length of the small house; covered in newspaper, a large pile of boiled crabs, red from cooking, sat heaped in the center.
“Sit,” he said, and crossed in front of me to sit on the other side. “Eat.” Old gnarled hands picked up a crab, pulled off the claw, and pulled the pincers apart. He sucked the juice from the claw, then cracked into the meat with a tiny hammer.
Eli stepped inside and found a seat beside me. Seth slid in next to me, on the other side; Noah and Phin crossed over and sat on the other side, next to Garr. A few minutes later, Luc wandered in and sat next to Seth. We all ate. The young Gullah brought in plastic cups and a cold gallon milk jug filled with sweet tea, then poured our glasses and left.
“You see, girl,” Garr started, in between bites of white claw meat, “Charles Town in a bad way, dat’s right. Just like Savannah. Maybe worse,” he said. “Dat Preacher, he told me what happened over dere, with da hell stone.” He shook his head. “Dat’s bad stuff, dem Arcoses. But dem Duprés, dey handled it good, wit your help.” He glanced at Seth. “You all right, boy?”