Clarissa was gaping at her. “Floating head?”
“I…uh…” Jeez, talk about awkward. How did she explain having a conversation with a disembodied head without sounding like she’d been sampling a few too many magic ’shrooms?
Clarissa leaned forward, her expression excited. “Did this head by any chance have a number branded on it?”
Jemma’s fork clattered onto her plate. “How did you know that?”
“I received a similar visitation a few years ago. Before the spirit disappeared, it revealed that it was one of Nettie’s captured souls. Apparently the numbers are a method of cataloging.”
Horror and disgust ricocheted through Jemma. “Oh my God! That’s…that’s…”
“Disturbing?” Clarissa offered with a nod. “I know.”
Though a part of her knew she’d regret asking, the need to understand the dark weirdness she’d been pulled into outweighed her desire for ignorance. “How exactly does one go about capturing a soul?”
“Do you remember the bottle Nettie tried to get you to drink from last night?”
Recalling the amber vial brimming with such evil, sparkling effervescence, she shuddered. “You called it a soul catcher. If…if I drank from it, I would have ended up like one of those floating heads?” The look in Clarissa’s eyes was all the answer Jemma needed. She gulped, her heart thudding at the realization of how close she’d come to succumbing to the soul catcher’s hypnotic allure. Sweet Jesus, what twisted evil resided within Nettie that she would condemn people to such an existence? Then again, should it surprise her? The woman hung out with zombies, for God’s sake.
“Did the entity speak to you?”
The sound of approaching footsteps momentarily distracted her from Clarissa’s question. She waited until Griff and Ms. Peach both took their seats before answering. “Yes, but most of the conversation didn’t make much sense. There was something about a horned goat and gorgonzola. Wait, that’s not right.” She plopped her chin in her hand, racking her brain for the strange word the spirit had given. “Garambola? Nope, that’s not it either.”
“What in the devil are you talking about?”
She met Griff’s confused gaze and quickly filled him in on her little chitchat with the floating head. His excitement matched Clarissa’s when she recounted the quizzical clues the entity had given. She certainly didn’t understand why anyone would be thrilled over a goat and a word that may or may not have to do with stinky cheese.
Griff ignored his plate of food while he stared at Clarissa. “I wonder if the horned goat could be referring to the statue that was left at Whispering Oaks?”
Clarissa tapped her fork against her bottom lip. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Frustrated at her complete cluelessness, Jemma cleared her throat, managing to snag Griff’s attention. “Okay, I give. What is a whispering oak?”
“It’s the plantation Nettie owned. The historical society took it over several years ago but gave up on the idea of restoring it after the fifth electrical fire.”
“Fifth?”
The corners of Griff’s mouth tugged upward in a mockery of a smile. “You have to give the historical society an A for effort. Unfortunately that’s still no match against a ghost who’s determined to keep them out.”
“Apparently.” Jemma shuttled her gaze between Griff and Clarissa. “You really think the answer to destroying Nettie might be under that statue?” An ember of hope sparked to life, despite knowing it was probably too good to be true.
“There’s only one way to find out.” Clarissa shoved away her untouched plate, her face set with determination. “Who feels up for a road trip?”
Thirty minutes later, Jemma started wondering just how insane she was for agreeing to take an afternoon joyride to a haunted plantation belonging to the deranged ghost voodoo queen who was jonesing for her blood. Judging from the rigid set of Griff’s jaw, he wasn’t too thrilled with the decision either.
His hot glare lifted to the rearview mirror for the hundredth time. “I still say Jemma should have stayed back at the coven house with either me or Logan. We could be sending her right into a trap.”
The backseat creaked as Clarissa shifted restlessly between Ms. Peach and Gloria. “Or maybe that’s precisely what Nettie wanted and expected us to do—separate. There’s more safety in numbers. You know that.”
Griff’s fists clenched around the steering wheel. Obviously his realizing the possibility didn’t necessarily equate with him going along with Clarissa’s plan like a good little boy scout. The fact that Griff was worried only skyrocketed Jemma’s concerns and added to the goose bumps taking over her skin. It didn’t help that the air blowing from the dashboard vent kept blasting her like an arctic front.
Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, she rubbed her arms. “Uh, neither of you are suggesting that Nettie sent that spirit to me, right?” Though now that she thought about it, what better way to set her up for a fall?
Griff relaxed his grip on the wheel and sent her a reassuring look. “More than likely she didn’t. But it’s still a good idea to be on our toes.”
They turned onto a narrow road that was bordered on either side by massive oaks dripping with stringy moss. The surrounding landscape held a wild, untamed quality, as if the land had decided to revoke any claim to civilization. After bumping along for approximately another half mile, they arrived in front of the dilapidated ruins of a plantation house. Large portions of the roof and exterior frame were charred and blackened, which explained the distinctive scent of smoky charcoal drifting through the vent.
Griff killed the engine and climbed from the SUV. Shaking off the creepy-crawly sensation skittering down her neck, Jemma clicked her seat belt free and shrugged off the restraint. She joined the others outside just as Logan roared up on his motorcycle.
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “There goes any hope of not waking the dead.”
Looking every inch his bad-boy self, Logan stored his helmet and dismounted the bike. “So where’s this infamous statue?”
“Back by the slave cabins.” Clarissa pointed to an area in the distance. “They’re roughly five hundred yards beyond that copse of snake grass.”
“Knew I should have brought my damn hikin’ boots.” Grunting, Logan started toward the overgrown path.
While the others trekked after Logan, Jemma stayed behind with Griff as he grabbed a shovel and the shotgun from the rear hatch of the Pathfinder. Her attention kept returning to the plantation house. Something about it fascinated and repelled her. She could almost feel the hot stares of unseen eyes, hear the seductive echo of a faint whisper in her eardrum. Licking her lips, she took a step forward. A palm clamped around her forearm and she yelped. Jerking her gaze upward, she peered into Griff’s worried eyes.
“Jem, the statue is this way.”
“Um, right. Guess I sort of zoned out for a second there.”
After sending the house an apprehensive look, Griff tugged her toward the path. She tried to ignore the shotgun strapped to his shoulder. Better not to think about the possibility of them needing it.
They walked for what seemed like an eternity, the relentless pounding of the sun and attacks from bloodthirsty mosquitoes adding a special kind of hell to the adventure. By the time they reached the slave cabins, Jemma figured she must resemble a sweaty, welt-covered lobster. Shoving a straggly clump of damp hair off her face, she scanned the lineup of moldering shacks. She shivered, an overwhelming sadness plowing into her at the atrocious inhumanities the slaves must have endured.
Griff rubbed her neck, bringing her back to the present. “The statue isn’t much farther.” He led her a few more yards beyond the cabins, where Logan was hacking his way through the towering stands of bamboo. She hadn’t seen him with the machete earlier—he must have had it strapped to his leg or something. Good thing the weapon hadn’t come undone during the ride over. Talk about that puppy leaving one hell of a nick.