Chapter 13
DAHLIA
Ipeeled out of the Willowberry parking lot like the hounds of hell were on my tail.
Considering recent events, that wasn't too far from the truth.
Margaret and Sarah stood huddled next to Cami with their hastily packed bags looking pitifully small against the enormity of what they'd just escaped.
Sarah's face was tear-streaked but determined.
Margaret kept glancing over her shoulder like she expected harvesters to materialize from the Spanish moss.
"You'll be safe here," I called through my rolled-down window. The words felt hollow. Nowhere felt safe anymore.
Cami gave me a tight nod. "I've got them. Go do what you need to do."
I gunned it toward the plantation's exit. My knuckles were white against the steering wheel. The image of those harvesters materializing out of thin air kept replaying in my mind. "Those bastards knew exactly where to find them," I said, breaking the heavy silence as we hit the main road.
"They knew the exact location," I continued. “Someone's been feeding the Collector intel. And that someone has access to information that should've died with the original Guardians. Until a couple of hours ago, we had no idea their family was even still alive."
“They could have followed us,” Kota mused from the passenger seat. “That’s probably how they found them and attacked when they did.”
"I’m not so sure about that. The surveillance equipment is proof they were already aware," Dre added grimly.
"But how they pinpointed the family in the first place is the million-dollar question. As for their timing, I think you’re right that they attacked because we showed up.
They knew we would put a crimp in their plans by protecting Margaret and Sarah. "
My phone buzzed against the dashboard mount. Cyran's name flashed on the screen. Perfect timing, as always. "Lia, thank Christ," his voice filled the car through the speakers when I answered. "I tried to catch you before you left Willowberry, but you'd already pulled out. We have a situation."
I snorted, taking a turn a little too fast. "Join the club. What fresh hell are we dealing with now?"
"Two more families have vanished. The Beauregards never made it to the safe house last night. And the Ashfords haven't been seen since yesterday afternoon. Both houses show signs of struggle, but no bodies."
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. "Son of a bitch."
"It gets worse," Cyran continued. I could practically hear him running his hands through his hair. "The timing fits with the one on Margaret and Sarah.”
“Someone's accelerating the timeline, and we're playing catch-up," Kota pointed out.
I pressed harder on the accelerator. Time was no longer a matter of essence. It was slipping through our fingers like sand. My stomach dropped to somewhere around my ankles. "It's the harvesters."
"There's more," Cyran continued, his usual composure cracking around the edges. "I received a call from someone claiming to represent the surviving Castellano bloodline. He said he's been maintaining Guardian traditions at Lafayette Cemetery and wants to meet with us."
"That's where we're headed right now," I said, feeling that familiar tingle of either really good luck or a trap so obvious it insulted our intelligence. "According to the vault records, the Castellanos are the cemetery keepers."
"Be careful, Lia. After what happened with Marcus and the surveillance at Fountain House, we can't trust anyone claiming Guardian heritage without verification," Cyran advised.
The warning was unnecessary, but appreciated.
Trust had become a luxury we couldn't afford when family members were betraying one another and fake researchers were mapping Guardian bloodlines with military precision.
Thankfully, traffic was light, and I was able to drive like a bat out of hell across town.
Lafayette Cemetery No. 3 sprawled before us like a city of the dead when I pulled through the entrance.
Its weathered tombs and crooked headstones created a maze of shadows and secrets that I usually loved exploring.
The place had been semi-abandoned since Hurricane Katrina, which made it perfect for someone to work undisturbed.
It also made it an ideal spot for an ambush—just our luck.
"This feels like déjà vu," Dre observed as I parked near the rusted gates, her hand already moving to check her weapons. "Except this time, we're walking into potential hostile territory without backup."
"When do we ever have backup that actually helps?" I muttered, killing the engine.
The humid Louisiana air hit us like a wet blanket as we climbed out of the SUV.
My magical senses were already prickling with awareness.
This place was saturated with old power.
The kind that had been fermenting for decades.
My magic bubbled to the surface, and my instincts were itching to attack.
Hopefully, I didn’t blow any crypts up because I was so keyed up.
As we approached the first row of tombs, a figure emerged from behind a weathered mausoleum.
He was tall and lean. He was in his late sixties, with the kind of weathered hands that spoke of decades of physical labor.
His clothes were worn yet practical. His work boots, faded jeans, and button-down had seen better years.
It was his eyes that got my attention. They held a particular mix of wisdom and wariness that came from carrying magical knowledge.
"You must be the Six Twisted Sisters," he said, approaching us with careful, measured steps. "I'm Thomas Castellano. I've been waiting for someone like you to show up for about thirty years."
"Mr. Castellano," I replied, studying his face for any signs of deception. My bullshit detector was running full throttle, but I couldn't pick up any immediate threats. "Cyran said you've been maintaining the cemetery and Guardian traditions here."
Thomas nodded, gesturing toward the cemetery's interior. "My family's been groundskeeping here since the 1920s. We've always known there was something special about this place. Something that needed protecting."
"What kind of something?" Dani asked as she fell into step beside him. My gaze was on the swivel, and I was alert as we entered the cemetery proper.
"The dead don't rest easy here," Thomas said simply. "Never have. But over the years, I've learned that some of them don't want to rest. My granny always told me they're standing guard against something that should never wake up."
“She was right,” Kota told him.
He led us deeper into the cemetery. We moved past tilted headstones and crumbling angels that looked like they'd seen better centuries.
We headed toward a section that looked suspiciously well-maintained.
The grass was neatly trimmed, the tomb facades had been recently cleaned, and fresh flowers adorned several graves.
"These are Guardian graves," Thomas explained, stopping beside a massive family mausoleum that probably cost more than most people's houses. "Every morning, I come here and perform my routines. Lately, the spirits have been trying to tell me things."
"What kind of things?" Dea asked. I could feel her abilities reaching out to connect with whatever spiritual clusterfuck was concentrated in this area.
Thomas pulled a worn leather journal from his back pocket. "I’ve been getting visions or dreams, I guess. Sometimes I see things so clearly it's like watching a movie." He opened the journal, revealing page after page of detailed sketches that made my breath catch.
These weren't the rough drawings of someone trying to remember a dream. They were works of art. And the same ritual circles we'd found in the vault beneath Congo Square. "Thomas," Phi said carefully, "have you always been able to see spirits?"
"Since I was a boy," he admitted. "My father said it ran in the family. But it's gotten stronger over the years. Sometimes I feel like the cemetery is teaching me things."
"Because it is," I said. "The Castellano bloodline has empathic connections to ancestral spirits. You're not just maintaining graves, Thomas. You're channeling knowledge from your Guardian ancestors."
Right on cue, a cold wind swept through the cemetery despite the humid Louisiana heat.
Before I saw them, I knew we had visitors.
“Company’s coming,” Dea muttered as translucent figures began materializing around the graves.
Men and women in period clothing appeared.
Their faces bore the same strong features as Thomas’s.
"Well, this is new," Kota observed. She was right, and yet, after the day we'd had, ghostly ancestors were practically mundane.
"They've been waiting," Thomas said with quiet reverence. "They knew you'd come eventually."
One of the spirits, a woman in an 1850s dress with Thomas's dark eyes, stepped forward. "We are the Castellano guardians," she said in a voice that carried across dimensions like wind through dead leaves. "We have maintained our vigil for over a century, but the enemy has grown cunning."
"What enemy?" While I was certain she was talking about the Collector, I needed to clarify. Assuming you knew the answer was never wise.
“Those who serve the entity,” she replied.
"The betrayers walk among you," a man with a distinctive scar across his left cheek warned. "They wear familiar faces and speak of preservation, but they serve the Collector's hunger."
"One of the bloodlines has been corrupted," the woman continued. "For generations, they have infiltrated Guardian families and stolen knowledge. They’ve been weakening defenses and preparing for the Collector's return."
"Which family?" Dre demanded. "Which bloodline has been compromised?"