I can't help but feel bad. She must be looking for the ruby necklace, a hunk of which is nestled in my pocket. Though not bad enough to tell her what happened. Jack raises one eyebrow and smirks, clueing me into the fact he's thinking the exact same thing.

She wipes her hands and tiptoes over the carnage, making her way to the double French doors.

"Aren't you going to clean this up?" Cooper's brows pinch.

She flicks her gaze at Jack and me. "Isn't that what your little friends are for?"

Jack shakes his head. "Actually, no."

Missy's stilettos freeze in their tracks. Spinning, she paces toward my brother, stopping only when she's right under his nose. Though he's at least eight inches taller, thanks to her supersized platform heels, she's almost able to look him in the eye.

"What did you say?" Her voice is laced with menace.

I bite my tongue, knowing that nothing good can come from getting involved. If anything, it'll only make matters worse.

Jack tilts his gaze to meet hers. "I don't work for you so you can't order me around."

Her lips part, curling up at the side. "But your daddy does. And your daddy's daddy worked for the Beaumonts, just like your great-granddaddy. So really, it's just a matter of time, isn't it, Johnny-boy? So clean up this mess. Now." She pokes an acrylic fingernail into my brother's chest.

Jack's nostrils flare and his clenched jaw ticks.

Cooper lurches forward, wedging himself between Jack and Missy, forcing Jack back a few steps. Looming over his stepmother, both in height and heft, he says, "Let's get something straight. Jack's my best friend, not my employee." He glances over his shoulder and gestures to Jack, whose face is still flushed crimson, to stand down.

Jack draws a deep breath and obeys, stepping back several strides before tripping and collapsing on a cushion-less sofa fame. I scurry over the piles of debris to join him, eager to offer at least some silent support. There, I grab his hand and squeeze tight. It takes several seconds, but he reluctantly grips me back.

Cooper's face softens as he turns back to Missy. "Listen, we didn't come here to give you a hard time."

"Really? You could have fooled me. Now make yourselves useful while I go find that good-for-nothing caretaker." She pushes past Cooper and climbs over the rest of the junk she's strewn over the floor.

Chapter Six.

I pull back a cl.u.s.ter of leathery bearberry and snip an extra-fat handful of the bright green stems, dropping them in my sweetgra.s.s gathering basket. After the supreme weirdness with Missy and Beau, Miss Delia's garden is the perfect refuge, a quiet place to breathe in the fresh, raw scent of nature. It would make an ideal subject for an impressionistic painting, with tiny globs of vibrant color standing in for the myriad flowers and plants that fill this little slice of Eden. If only I had the time. For the last several days, rather than breaking out my travel easel and oils, I've been toiling in the dirt, clipping and cataloging the extensive inventory of plants and herbs, then grinding them into powder for Miss Delia to test for our Break Jinx. So far, none have had the explosive power we saw in the Psychic Vision with Sabina. With two-and-a-half weeks left before Cooper's birthday, I hope we find it soon.

Ordinarily, working the garden would be paradise, but today it's the exact opposite thanks to Taneea. Mercifully, I haven't seen much of her lately since she's either been holed up in her room, or out on one of her "walks" around the island. Though, if the black car we saw the other day has been involved, I doubt she's done much walking. Whatever has kept her busy, she hasn't been here. Until today.

"Could it get any hotter?" Taneea whines for the thousandth time as she fans herself in a rocking chair on the porch.

Miss Delia spins her wheelchair around on the stone path that winds through the garden. "I reckon it will."

Taneea tugs at her clingy low-cut tank. "My clothes are soaked. Haven't you heard of central air?"

"Sure have. But generations of my kin lived without it. I figure I can do the same. A little perspiration never killed anyone."

"Gross." Taneea crosses her arms.

Though I hate to admit it, Taneea's got a point. It is sizzling. But it's South Carolina in the summer, for cripes' sake. If you're not okay with sweating and occasionally stinking, you probably shouldn't get thrown out of your house and forced to live with your great-grandmother on St. Helena's. This island isn't exactly a hot spot, but there's got to be something she can do-go to the library or movies, even volunteer at the hospital-anything but hang around here griping and ruining everyone else's good time.

My patience at its end, I step away from the bearberry, shove my straw hat off my brow, and wipe the trickle of sweat dripping down the side of my face. Hoisting my basket of clippings, I carry it to edge of the porch near Taneea's chair. Her spicy perfume is strong and thick, almost like a guy's cologne, and smells vaguely like Asian spices.

Her lips curl into a self-satisfied grin. "Why don't you get Cooper to come over and drive me to the mall? I'm sure he wouldn't mind hanging out with an older, more experienced girl for awhile."

Oh no she didn't. My fingers ball into a fist, yearning to wipe that smirk off her older, more experienced, magenta lips. But instead, I breathe deep, straighten my fingers, and manage to smile back. "Sorry, he's busy with my brother today."

Her brow arches, hoisting her silver eyebrow ring upward. "You've got a brother? Is he hot?"

I choke a little, unaccustomed to thinking about Jack in those terms. "I guess."

She scoffs. "So that's a giant no. But I shouldn't be surprised if he's related to you." Chuckling, she whips out her iPhone. "That's okay. You'd be surprised at how easy it is to meet guys."

Leaning toward her, I keep my voice low so Miss Delia can't hear. "Like the guy in the black car? I bet your great-gran would love to meet him."

She quirks her brow. "How did you-" She cuts herself off, then plasters a big, fat, fake smile on her lips. Leaning toward me, she narrows her gaze. "Don't even think about snitching to the old lady. If I want to hitchhike into town, that's my business, not yours. Or hers. Trust me. You don't know what I'm capable of. And you don't want to find out."

"Hitchhiking? Do you realize how stupid that is?" I snort, completely unimpressed by her tough-girl routine. I've fought demon dogs and broken a flesh-eating curse; Taneea Branson's feeble threats don't even come close.

Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. "Listen, you little suck-up. You think that just because you pluck a few weeds in this garden that makes you something special around here. You're nothing. Just the hired help."

I square my shoulders, bolstered by the fact that Miss Delia chose me. "I'm not nothing." I almost add that I'm not even hired, that I work for free, but somehow I sense that will only undercut my position.

"Maybe so. But she's my great-grandmother. And no matter what she's promised you, blood is thicker than water." She sits back and crosses her arms. Her lips bend as if she's just realized she's held the trump card all along.

Maybe she has. Family is, after all, my bottom line, too. But even though she's struck a chord, I won't give her the satisfaction of backing down.

I set my hands on my hips. "Then you don't know her very well because Miss Delia makes her own decisions, for her own reasons."

"Uh-huh. We'll see. Until then, why don't get back to picking weeds." She snickers as she pushes off her chair and strides into the house, slamming the screen door.

Ignoring her, I walk back down the path to join Miss Delia. She's staring at the trimmed bearberry bush from under the wide brim of her straw hat. "You cut an awful lot of that plant. Too much in my estimation."

Biting my lip, I glance at what's left of the evergreen dotted with tiny pink, pear-shaped flowers that smell like green tea. "You think?"

She levels her gaze at me. "I wouldn't have said anything if I didn't."

"It was overgrown, so I cut it back. Was that okay?"

She narrows her lid over her good eye. "I suppose so. Though I don't generally like taking more than I need at any one time."

Which explains why the garden is so, shall we say, abundant. But she needn't worry, because after I grind some of the bearberry into a powder for her, I'll be using every last leaf for a special tea I'm planning to brew to help boost my energy and make conjuring a lot easier.

I just can't let Miss Delia know. At least not yet.

She hates shortcuts. Knowing her, this tea of mine will definitely qualify as one, but after the simple Protective Shield left me as drained as an empty bathtub, I can't imagine what'll happen when I conjure something really big. Say for instance, a spell to save Cooper's soul.

So rather than wait to be 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 gla.s.s, 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 sungla.s.ses. 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 a.s.sure 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, h.e.l.lo, sir." Her voice is high and flirty.

Miss Delia's face hardens. "Taneea, could you fetch me a gla.s.s of sweet tea? I'm mighty thirsty." Her eyes stay trained on Mr. Corbeau. I glance at the table next to her wheelchair. Her gla.s.s is still full.

"You've got plenty of tea, Great-gran." Taneea steps off the porch in a pair of black peep-toe sandals.

"I suppose I do," Miss Delia answers without taking her eyes off her visitor.

"You going to introduce me to our guest?" Taneea asks.

Mr. Corbeau beams. "Well h.e.l.lo-Taneea, was it? You can call me Claude. Clearly, you're a young Ms. Whittaker. I can see the obvious resemblance."

Is he blind? They might be related but they look nothing alike.

Claude turns his attention to Miss Delia. "Lord, you must have been a gorgeous woman in your prime." He whistles.

Mrs. Delia crosses her arms. "Sweetmouthing me won't get you very far, Mr. Corbeau. How about you tell me the reason you've come to call?" Her lips mash into a thin line.

He stands on the edge of the garden. "Is that an invitation? It's so much easier to speak face-to-face than shout across your l.u.s.trous garden."

"Sure, come on up," Taneea answers before her great-grandmother has a chance to say a word.

Quick as lightning, Claude opens the gate on the picket fence then bounds up the walkway, almost a skip in his step.

Miss Delia's gnarled hands tighten into liver-spotted b.a.l.l.s. She shoots me a cautionary glance. This is where I'm supposed to use that strength she warned me about. Against what I'm not sure, but I breathe deep and brace myself just the same.

Approaching the chair, Claude extends his arm toward Miss Delia, a stiff, ivory-colored business card wedged between his first two fingers. "I appreciate you agreeing to my visit on such short notice."

"You mean no notice." Miss Delia doesn't reach for his card.

He pauses, taking her in. "Yes, coming unannounced is unforgivably rude. But given your reputation for generosity, I thought you'd find in your heart to be hospitable." He shoves the card in my direction.

Huh? What the heck is he talking about? I glance at the embossed print on the thick card stock. A surge of electricity zips up my limbs. "You're from the King Center?" The words blurt from my suddenly unfrozen mouth.

He turns his head in my direction. "I just started actually. Are you familiar with the organization?"

I nod. "Y-yes." Only too well.

"What is it?" Taneea twists a fuchsia strand around her index finger.

"It's the Lowcountry's premier Gullah museum." Claude beams with pride. "We house the most impressive collection of Gullah art and historical artifacts in the country."

"Do you have air-conditioning?" Taneea asks.

He laughs. "Of course. The exhibits require a climate-controlled environment."

"Nice. Is it open to the public? Because when I'm not melting from the heat, I'm losing my mind on this frigging island."

Claude laughs. "Then you must absolutely visit. Our collection is extensive and we're always searching for volunteers. I promise you'll be quite cool. And while you're there, you could see your...grandmother's donation." He scans Miss Delia's face for some confirmation of their relation, but she doesn't twitch.

"Grammy's in Chicago. Delia's my great-gran. She won't buy a new TV or get cable so I seriously doubt she'd donate anything decent to a museum." She laughs as if she's just made some hilarious joke, but instead she's only managed to humiliate the only person willing to take her in.

"That's enough now, child. I think you've got some tidying up to do in the house, don't you?" Miss Delia asks.

Taneea shakes her head. "Nope. I'm done for the day. Your house is so small it doesn't take long to clean." She bats her lashes.

My tongue burns like fire, desperate to utter every nasty insult that's piling up in my brain. If I wasn't trying to make nice in front of a guy who works for the museum I stole from, I'd totally tell her off.

Claude smiles. "Oh, your great-grandmother did indeed make a donation. An impressive one at that. It's the reason for my visit."

"Was there a problem with the paperwork I signed?" Miss Delia asks. "I don't have the best eyesight, as you can tell from my cataract."

"Oh no, everything was in order."

"Then why are you here?" I ask, unable to keep silent. You'd think they'd be happy to get a treasure box filled with pirate gold.