35 Birdie
BIRDIE
Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but I think Jasper Prescott is haunting me. Ever since I got to this island, I can’t get him out of my head. He sits in the back of my waking, restless mind, ticking like the hands of a clock, an ever-present reminder that he’s there.
Tick, tick, look at me, Birdie.
Tick, feel my hands.
Tick.
I try to shove all thoughts of him away, but the ticking doesn’t stop.
I dream about him too. I have for the last three nights.
Weird, vivid things, but totally mundane, like that montage of us wandering a hay bale maze at Dent Farms. Why is my mind conjuring the taste of apple cider, the smell of the hay, the feel of Jasper’s hand in mine?
I was thinking about him as I browsed the books. Not Howe and his dig. Not Mercy and her missing journal. I was thinking about Jasper Prescott. I was standing there, flipping the pages of a first-edition copy of Little Women, wondering if he likes to read too.
Then I blinked and he was actually there, tall and brooding, twisting me up like a kite caught in a tree. Now he’s right behind me. His stupid giant shadow swallows mine as he follows me down the street.
Stepping off the curb, I round the front of the Jeep, watching for traffic as I open the door. Jasper just stands there, looking up and down the street like he’s watching for something. I climb inside the Jeep and wait. What the hell is he doing?
“Hey,” I call. “You coming or not?”
Muttering something, he cranks the door open and slips in, shutting it with a quick snap.
I lean away, already feeling suffocated by his presence.
Pickles always looks cute, sitting prim and tall in his little wicker basket.
Jasper sprawls, taking up the whole seat.
His elbow brushes mine and his knees touch the dash.
He adjusts the books in his lap, still looking all around.
“You good?”
“Just drive.”
Jeez, bossy. I slowly pull forward, weaving us into the flow of traffic. The radio plays on low, something folksy and instrumental. “So, how was the funeral today?”
“Fine.”
I make a show of checking my mirrors as I change lanes. “Remind me . . . it was for your aunt? Lydia, right?”
“My great-aunt.”
I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses. Bossy, more temperamental than a feral cat, and a total freaking liar. I swing a left on Pine, heading in the same direction as the dig site. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know.”
“What?”
“About your fake dead aunt.”
“My what?”
“I’m just saying you don’t have to lie. Don’t tell if it’s some weird island secret but definitely don’t lie about it. I hate liars.”
His shoulders tense. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?” I say over him.
“Really? Do you even have a great-aunt Lydia? Because I talked to a guy at the historical society today. He’s a fourth-generation Burr Islander and he said he’s never heard of her.
And he knows everything about this island.
So, I’m just wondering—is he lying, or are you? ”
His sits there with all the mirth of a rumbling storm cloud. “Did you talk to Howe today?”
“Don’t change the subject—”
“Did you talk to Howe?” His deep voice fills the jeep like a sharp crack of thunder.
“Yes! Obviously, I talked to him,” I shout, my own frustration rising. “I work for him too now, remember?”
“What did you say?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He presses in closer, crowding me in my seat. “Did you talk to Howe about me?”
God, this guy runs so hot and freaking cold. Back in the shop, I thought we were flirting. Now he’s just back to being a domineering jerk. “I—what does that matter—”
“Did you tell him you saw me today? That you spoke to me?”
“Jasper—”
“I need to know!” Something in my face must give me away because he groans, leaning away.
“Birdie . . . look, I know this sounds crazy, okay? I know that. And I know we’re not in the shop, so the rules don’t technically apply, but I need you to do this for me.
Just this once, heed me. Tell me what you spoke of with Howe this morning. ”
The racing of my heart slows a little. “What’s to tell? I just met him down in the archives. He showed me around and told me more about the project up at Homewood.”
“And what did he say—”
“No way,” I say over him, holding up a hand. “You have questions but so do I. So, we’re gonna make a little game of this while I drive. Call it truth for a truth.”
“Truth for a truth?”
“Yeah, you ask a question, then I ask a question. You already asked your first question. Now it’s my turn.”
Sighing, he nods. “Fine. Ask.”
I glance his way, grateful I have sunglasses on to shield my eyes. “And you’ll promise to tell me the truth?”
That muscle ticks in his jaw. God, he’s so intense when he glares. He’s got the panty-dropping smolder down to a science. Seriously, it should be studied. But these panties are staying on nice and snug. I want answers. I quickly look away, back to the road.
“I can give you more truth than you can possibly handle,” he all but growls. “Ask your question, Birdie.”
“Do you really have a great-aunt Lydia?”
“No.” The way he says it, so blunt, so decisive; it’s the truth we both already knew.
My breath leaves me on a puff of air. “Well—then what the heck—”
“My turn.”
I roll my eyes but swallow down my next question, holding tight to the wheel with both hands as I drive. “Fine. Go.”
“What is Howe looking for up at Homewood?”
Part of me wants to lie. Not for Howe’s sake but for Be-Good’s. For all the women who deserve to have their stories told. And I feel like, no matter what I say now, Jasper will find a reason to take issue with it.
He surprises me by reaching out, brushing his knuckles gently along the line of my jaw while I drive. “Truth, remember? Just tell me. I’m listening.”
Taking a deep breath, I let the truth out on my exhale.
“Ezra thinks he found proof that the remains of the five women burned in All Souls Church in 1637 were buried by their families up at Homewood. He thinks that, by finding the bodies, he’ll be able to accurately date them and corroborate cause of death. ”
Jasper’s eyes go wide. “He wants to dig up Be-Good?”
I nod, taking the last turn for Prescott House. “Yeah. He wants all the bodies found.”
He curses low. I wish I could climb inside his head and watch the cogs turn, see what it is that he’s seeing. It’s all I can do not to reach out and brush the sweep of dark hair from his forehead. “But what does he think—”
“It’s my turn,” I say over him.
He groans. “Fuck. Fine. Go.”
“Why do you hate Ezra so much? Why do you hate this project?”
The tension in his shoulders eases a little as he sighs.
“I don’t hate him, Birdie. I don’t particularly like him,” he adds.
“He’s a pompous little shit who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.
But I don’t hate him. And I’m not some backwoods asshole who’s afraid of city folk either.
I’m not trying to stop Howe just to be a dick. ”
“Well, then why? Is this just about protecting your past? Protecting the legacy of Be-Good and the others? Because if so, I gotta say that I think you might be looking at this all wrong,” I add before he can argue.
His dark brows arch in surprise. “How so?”
I weave the Jeep up the gravel drive, circling around the back of his family’s old farmhouse. “What happened to your ancestor was terrible. Wholly unjust. But by trying to keep Be-Good’s secrets . . . by not letting her body be found? I wonder if you’re not doing her a different kind of injustice.”
It’s clear I have his full attention now. “What do you mean?”
I consider my next words carefully. “We don’t know the whole truth of what happened that night. Finding the remains of Be-Good and the others could be a revelation. What if their bodies could tell us more about how they died? And what if their graves could tell us more about how they really lived?”
“How would their graves do that?”
I pull the Jeep in at the back of the house, just like we did the night before, and park. “Ezra has a few theories . . .”
“Such as?”
Dropping both hands to my lap, I finally look to him.
“All burials are a kind of ritual. The world over, across every culture, there are ways and means of burying the dead. Ezra thinks your ancestors were killed by a mob of angry villagers . . . but they were buried by their families. If he’s right?
If your ancestors were laid to rest by their own loved ones?
We’ll likely find proof of how they lived buried with them. ”
“What do you mean ‘buried with them’?”
We’re circling dangerously close to the point now.
Jasper could either be a help in my search for the missing Dent journal, or an impassable impediment.
He has the power to close this island’s ranks against me.
One word from him, and Mercy will never show me so much as a glimpse of a single family heirloom.
He has to understand the value of this project, the historical significance.
“Think about it like this . . . in ancient Egypt, everyone from the highest pharaoh down to the lowliest rock cutter was buried with items they could take with them into the afterlife—food, clothing, games, even modes of transportation. Vikings were buried with their hordes. Kings and queens of Europe are buried with their favorite Bibles or books of prayer . . . symbols of their faith . . . their power.”
Jasper leans away. “What does that have to do with Homewood?” But I can see he’s already making the connection.
“You said it yourself on the day we met. Your shop has been a mainstay of the Burr Island Wiccan community for four hundred years. What items of the Craft are witches often buried with when they pass? I ask the expert . . .”
Turning away from me, he curses under his breath. Just as quickly, he’s turning back. “So, this is all about grimoires? Is that what Howe promised Ludmilla?”
“Who’s Ludmilla?”
“Fuck!” He drags both hands through his tousled dark hair. “Meddling motherfucker couldn’t leave well enough alone!”
I flinch, the flesh of my arms rising with goosebumps. Rather than shrink away from his anger, I lean in, reaching across the Jeep to place a hand on his thigh. “Jasper . . .”
He tenses but he doesn’t shift away. “What is he gonna do with the spell books?”
“It’s my turn,” I say softly.
“Did you talk to Howe about me? What does he want you to do for him?”
“Jasper, it’s my turn.”
“Did you tell him you saw me this morning?”
I hold my ground. “I’m asking my question now.”
Those stormy eyes narrow on me like a hawk. “Fine. Ask.”
“Who did you really bury this morning?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Gods, you’re still on that? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
His expression sobers as he reaches out. His thumb strokes over my freckles as he smiles faintly. “It was me.”
I lean away, brushing his hand down. “What was you?”
“I died. We buried me.”
My heart freaking stops. “What?”
His expression is open, no hint of a lie. “It was my funeral. We buried me.”
“So . . . you’re dead. You died?”
“As far as everyone else on this island is concerned, yes.”
Awesome. No, this is totally fine. Did I or did I not say I was being haunted by Jasper freaking Prescott?