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Lucky for me, they worked perfectly fine for my digestive system, and I was starved. I turned onto Abercorn, hit all the squares, crossed Bay Street, and finally pulled onto the cobbles. The moment I turned onto the merchant’s drive, the scent of urine from a busy Friday night stung my nostrils. That’s something they don’t put in the tourist mags of Savannah—weekend public urination in the historic district. Nasty. Just freaking nasty.
    I parked the Jeep at the back entrance of Inksomnia, pulled the emergency brake, and shifted it into first. I grabbed the drinks. “Let’s go, Bro, before I start gnawing on that paper bag. Hey, will you take Chaz out for a walk? He probably needs to pee.” Chaz was our three-year-old Australian shepherd. Blue merle, one blue eye, one brown. Cool as hell, that dog, and we’d gotten him from a rescue organization two years before.
    Seth’s eyes still looked hazed as he climbed out. “Yeah, sure.”
    It was then that I truly noticed the silence in the streets. Not human silence, as I still heard music pouring from the Boar’s Head, laughter, and the occasional blast of a horn or the wail of a cop car in the distance. I even heard old Capote playing his saxophone on the river walk. But the cicadas? Crickets? Night birds?
    Dead silence.
    I shoved the key in the lock and went inside, Seth on my heels, and immediately Chaz was there, barking and wagging his backside. “Hey, boy,” I said, scrubbing the fur between his ears. “You miss us?” Seth grabbed the leash hanging from the wall, snapped it onto Chaz’s collar, and headed out with a waste bag. I watched him for a minute, until they disappeared up the walk. Before I closed the door, I glanced over my shoulder, out into the afterlight (the Gullah pronounced it afta-light ).
    I saw nothing; I felt everything.
    Seth and Chaz came jogging up the cobbles, so I waited until they were inside; then I locked the door and threw the second bolt. Soon, though, I’d find out that locks and bolts were for the ignorant. In reality, they were absolutely freaking worthless.

Part 2

    THE BEGINNING
    W hen the alarm went off at eight the next morning, I was surprised to find I’d actually had enough sleep despite the late-night escapade at Bonaventure. Although I didn’t open shop until eleven, I loved the morning on the riverfront, and although I was completely unpredictable ninety-eight percent of the time, I was a total creature of habit for the last two percent: Gullah tea. I know—to look at me you’d never think for a second I enjoyed strong-steeped African tea with cream and sugar in the mornings. I looked more like a . . . Red Bull type of girl (I saved the Bull for midday). But Gullah tea was absolute heaven, and I drank it every single day. Slipping out of bed, I threw on a black tee and a pair of frayed jean shorts, pulled my hair into a ponytail, slipped into flip-flops, and eased downstairs. I took Chaz for a short walk, poured a heaping serving of dog food into his bowl, and eased out the back entrance of Inksomnia. I briefly glanced down as I left and made a mental note to paint my toenails later. The black-purple polish I’d put on just two days before was already chipping off. I hated chipped polish. Total trash.
    The thick, humid August air smacked me in the face and clung to my skin as I made my way down Factor’s Walk to the back side of Preacher’s store, which sat directly next to mine. Da Plat Eye. Literally, it meant the stink eye , or the evil eye , in Gullah, and was a wicked-cool herbs, potions, and magic store. Preacher and his wife, Estelle, belonged to a small but tight-knit community of Gullah who grew their own loose tea and other herbs out on what they simply referred to as Da Island—one of the small barrier islands off the coast of Savannah. The tea was out of this freaking world. As I said, Preacher was an herbalist and conjurer, highly sought after for all sorts of cures for illnesses, hexes—you