Hell's Belles Read online

  She paraded confidently through the foyer, past the quizzical look of the maids, and through the library, the gourmet kitchen, the dining room that had seating for thirty— to the very back of the house, and to the place where no staff were allowed under any circumstance.

  They all knew to stay out of Zillah’s way. There was no point in ever trying to keep her from doing anything she set out to do.

  “I’m here, your liege,” she muttered sarcastically as she entered his office. “And like I told you yesterday, I have no news. No one has seen her. I have eyes all over the place.”

  The man at the desk was Ezekiel Walker. He had owned this mansion since the mid-1800s, around the time the Civil War had ended. Zillah held him in low regard being that he wasn’t a true Walker, not by blood anyway. But she put up with him because there was little choice in the matter. Ezekiel Walker was the richest man in Charleston and one of the wealthiest men on the planet. But beyond his fortune, he also held his own set of powers, powers that surpassed anything Zillah could conjure on her best days.

  She needed him more than he needed her, a truth she hated to admit, but found no point in denying.

  As long as she got what she wanted.

  “Even Frogmore?” he asked, his voice gravelly and heavy. It was one that bellowed and hid emotion incredibly well. There was no reading Ezekiel.

  “Well, Frogmore— as you know— is tougher for me to have a handle on. I do have informants and none of them have seen her. They claim.” Zillah stretched out on the chaise lounge that sat in the corner of the room in front of a wall of bookcases. “I think she’s dead. There’s no way she survived that fall and even if she did, she certainly drowned. I can’t even imagine the kind of injuries she had.”

  “You can’t imagine it because you have no idea if she’s even capable of being injured,” Ezekiel growled. “If she can heal others, she can heal herself. Zillah, I don’t feel good about this. Her body should have washed up by now.”

  Zillah stared up at the beams that crisscrossed the ceiling above her.

  “I thought of that,” she admitted. “Do we have anyone that can check? The Martins perhaps? Or one of the other mermaid clans?”

  Ezekiel shook his head. “They want no part of it. They have some brass balls, I’ll tell you. Being neutral at a time like this is as good as being an enemy to me.”

  Zillah sat up. “Why accept that? I’ve never liked the Martins. They want all the benefits and none of the inconvenience. Pisses me off. They wouldn’t have anything without you. I don’t know why you tolerate them.”

  Ezekiel said nothing. He turned his chair toward the large bay window that overlooked the garden. It was one of the few things he found joy in these days. It was possibly the most beautiful one in all of Charleston with its closely trimmed holly bushes, large sago palms, and bronze fountains. At night he walked along its crushed oyster shell path, contemplating and plotting what he hoped would be the future. He didn’t like to have a muddled idea of what would happen. This not knowing the fate of Emma Ayers would not do. Something needed to be done.

  “What about Virginia?” he asked. Virginia Embers. Even thinking her name set his heart ablaze.

  “She’s locked up in her house. Hasn’t come out since word got out. Media has been parked outside, but she hasn’t made a statement,” Zillah was standing in front of the shelves now, running her long pale fingers across the spines of the leather bound books. “It’s strange. Either she’s completely grief-stricken or— “

  “She’s waiting,” Ezekiel finished her sentence. “Something is up. If Emma was dead, Calista would be on my doorstep. She’d tear this house apart.”

  “I’ve been handling Calista,” Zillah spoke. “You know I have that covered.”

  “You only think you do,” Ezekiel sneered. “No one has Calista covered.”

  Zillah rolled her eyes. “You’ve always had a thing for her.”

  Ezekiel glared at Zillah. The last couple of decades he’d barely suffered her, but she was valuable for the moment. As soon as she wasn’t, she was done for. He hoped that time came sooner rather than later.

  “And you’ve always been jealous of her,” he retorted, feeling catty arguing with a mere girl. And no matter how many years Zillah had been alive she was still just a girl.

  “Anyway,” she ignored his comment. “They also might have no idea where she is either. How could they? Her body could have washed out into the Atlantic and she could be shark food by now.”

  “With Aleta Indigo they could find her,” Ezekiel said. “Nothing can hide from her.”

  “I’ve never had a problem with that,” Zillah said. “Aleta is— “

  “Be careful what you say,” Ezekiel bellowed. “Remember who she is.”

  “I know; I know…” Zillah trailed off. “So what do you want me to do now?”

  Ezekiel sighed looking back out towards his garden.

  “Just keep your eyes open. Stay in contact with anyone you can. I’ll talk to the Martins. Even if they don’t want to get involved, they can at least give me some information and leads. I will press them to, either way. We have to know.”

  Zillah sighed and without a goodbye was out of his office, her steps echoing throughout the house as she walked back toward the front entrance. Ezekiel watched the door slowly close behind her and continued to stare at it even after it was clear she was no longer there.

  Chapter 27

  Dr. Ibis had the windows down in his XTerra as we crossed the bridge from Frogmore to Johns Island. The hot wind whipped the hair around my face and I desperately wished I had a hair tie. In my pocket was the stork rock and I found myself squeezing it every thirty seconds for reassurance. Despite the safety that Aleta and Dr. Ibis had guaranteed me, I was still incredibly nervous to leave Frogmore.

  “What about the Sirens?” I asked. “They could charm me again.”

  “You’ll never be alone, from here on out,” Aleta said. “The Sirens have no power over me. Besides, I think that was their one chance and they blew it. But it’s important we don’t gamble with the luck we’ve been thrown. So until we know exactly what’s going on, we’ll keep you safe.”

  Dr. Ibis looked at me in his rearview. “Emma, I’ve put a root on you that should keep them out of your head, even if they do decide to come back. If it works, you shouldn’t even hear them.”

  “If?” I asked. He smiled.

  “It’s a new root,” he explained. “Never put a hex on Siren haints before.”

  As we crossed the bridge the trees became thick again. We were in a rural area, with mobile homes dotting the two lane road every half mile or so.

  “So we’re going to Angel Oak now?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Virginia and Calista are meeting us there,” Aleta replied. No further explanation given.

  As soon as we pulled up to the Angel Oak I gasped.

  “This is like something out of Lord of the Rings,” I said, staring up at the magnificent live oak. Its branches stretched up to the heavens, and also out toward the dirt road we had just driven down to get to it. The limbs themselves had the girth of most tree trunks. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Angel Oak made the live oaks back on Frogmore look like saplings.

  “I knew you’d love it,” Aleta said.

  “How could anyone not love it?” I asked.

  “Quite true,” Aleta replied. “And something which may give you a new perspective on Calista – she’s saved Angel Oak. Twice.”

  “Saved? How?”

  “Hurricane Hugo wanted to take her. And before that, long ago, men came to cut her down to use her to build ships. Your sister Belle intervened both times. But those are stories for another time.”

  “She’s a beautiful girl, huh?” Dr. Ibis said, as we approached to where we could touch the magnificent tree. “She’s seen some things, haven’t you?” He patted her wide trunk as he said it.

  As if she was a person.

  The tree looked down on us
, a light breeze rustling its leaves.

  Angel Oak was more than just a tree. Her energy took me in, like a warm embrace, and I immediately had my arms around her trunk, my cheek pressed up against her ancient bark.

  “Wow. You’re a tree hugger. The real deal,” Aleta commented, laughing at my affection.

  “It just seemed right,” I said. “I’ve just never seen anything like her.”

  “And why couldn’t Angel Oak be a man?”

  We turned to see Calista and Virginia moving toward us. It had been Calista’s voice questioning the sex of what was undoubtedly a female tree.

  “A male tree wouldn’t be this beautiful,” I said. I found myself tearing up at the sight of them, so happy to be in their presence again. A breath I didn’t know I had been holding was finally exhaled, especially when I saw Virginia.

  She clearly felt the same. As soon as she saw me, she dropped her Birkin purse on the dirt next to her and sprinted toward me, grabbing me and pulling me into her fragrant hug.

  “Sweet child,” she whispered into my hair, the first strong emotion I’d ever seen from her finally out. “My poor girl, I am so sorry we let you down.”

  I shook my head. “I feel like I let everyone down. So many people have risked so much for me.”

  Virginia stepped back from me, but kept me within arm’s reach. “That’s what we do for one another. All of us, at some point, have needed the help of everyone to get through something. But in this case we were negligent. The girls should never have let you out of their sight. And I shouldn’t have pushed for Bronwyn so soon. It wasn’t time for Zillah to know you were here. I underestimated her wrath.”

  The sound of her name gave me chills. Do what the Siren is telling you, Emma.

  “Do you know where she is?” I asked, trying to cover the fear in my voice.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Calista said, stepping forward. “She wouldn’t dare come near you now. Besides, as far as she knows, you’re dead.”

  I looked over at Aleta, who nodded.

  “No one knows where you are or where you’ve been, Emma,” Aleta confirmed. “They’re still searching the river and harbor for you.”

  Interesting. And somewhat of a relief in that moment.

  “I feel pretty good for a dead girl,” I joked. No one laughed.

  “Clearly we can’t keep you a secret forever,” Virginia said. “Not in Charleston. But at least for now, we can keep them guessing.”

  “Who is they?” I asked. “Zillah, I’m assuming, doesn’t work alone. And the Sirens… Someone must have sent them for me. What are we up against here?”

  Virginia led me over to the picnic tables that sat under the shade of Angel Oak. We both took a seat on one side, Dr. Ibis and Aleta on the other. Calista remained by the tree, walking circles around the trunk, examining every inch of it with her eyes and palms, which she ran slowly over the bark.

  “Charleston,” Virginia began. “Is a city with its own secrets…”

  VIRGINIA EMBERS

  Virginia Embers moved to Charleston once in 1795 and again in 1937. The first time had been by choice, the second by force.

  Either way, once she arrived the second time, she was fully aware that she needed to use her gifts to her advantage, which in a time of economic hardship, meant she needed to sell them to the highest bidder. It was the depression after all. Unfortunately, even the Belles were not immune to financial hard times, though they had the ability to weather the storm significantly easier than most.

  The mansion that would one day become the home of all the Belles was a complete wreck the morning that Virginia first laid her eyes upon it. The family that had lived there (for six generations) had lost everything when the stock market crashed, leaving it in complete disrepair for nearly a decade. Not a soul had lived there since and there had been talk around town, among the elite society, of demolishing it. The owners of the mansion next to it wanted to extend their garden, but as soon as Virginia saw it, she knew it was perfect.

  What others saw as dilapidation, Virginia Embers saw as opportunity.

  Calista had been with her that fateful morning, a pouting Josephine stuffed into the back of their new Ford, one Virginia had gotten for a steal with the help of Aleta’s persuasive skills. Aleta had stayed on Frogmore that particular day, visiting with Marie Dixon and Dr. Ibis. It had been a long while since her last visit there and a black girl on the Battery in Charleston who wasn’t the help was a strange sight in those days, unfortunately. Aleta thought it best to lie low for the time being.

  Josephine was a whole other matter. The Belles’ move to Charleston had been abrupt and Josephine was furious to be away from the life she had built in Manhattan. There she’d been a socialite, surrounded by the best music, the best booze, and the best people. She’d fallen in love a dozen times, and every week was a party full of laughter and pleasure. It was the best time of her entire life and just like that she was forced out of it, to a place she’d never lived, only visited from time to time. Charleston was nothing like New York. There was no comparison. Her mood had soured the energy in the car. Though Virginia could have prevented the mood swing, she’d let it go, after all she knew all of this was unfair to her girls. But unfortunately, there was nothing that could be done.

  A Belle’s life was rarely her own. Not if she wanted to survive.

  “This is it?” Calista asked. It was chilly even for autumn in Charleston. Late September was typically clinging to summer temperatures, but that particular morning the girls had coats on. Calista wore a beautiful camel overcoat with a belt that cinched her small waist. She’d wanted to wear the one with a fox fur collar but Virginia had reminded her this was South Carolina, not Central Park. As it was, by noon it would be entirely too warm for outerwear, but Calista Embers had and would always choose fashion over comfort.

  “This is indeed it,” Virginia smiled at her oldest friend. “I’m sure you don’t see what I see.”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” Calista agreed. “It’s a dump. We’re not that poor, Virginia. I’d more likely live in a shrimper’s shack on James Island than in this… house. It doesn’t even deserve to be called a house. It should be condemned.”

  “It is condemned,” Virginia laughed. “But we’re going to fix it up just how we like it.”

  “Why?” Calista asked. “There’s a hundred other houses with less work and more stable foundations. Why do you always choose the hardest route?”

  “Because that’s where I find the little satisfaction I can in life,” Virginia grinned. “Besides, I know something about this house that you don’t know.”

  “And what is that?” Calista asked.

  “This house,” Virginia replied, “is how we’ll find Emma and Briar again.”

  THE END… FOR NOW.

  Thank you for reading HELL’S BELLES! Who is Briar? Who is Ezekiel? Find out in SOUTHERN CHARMED, Book 2 of the HELL’S BELLES trilogy.

  On the following pages, read the first four chapters of SOUTHERN CHARMED and meet the last Belle…

  BRIAR GIVHANS

  My earliest memories are of trash bags.

  I was two years old when I was discovered at a local fire station in Goose Creek, South Carolina. I don’t remember, of course. Apparently I was wearing a very fancy Easter dress, with little white gloves. But it wasn’t Easter— it was June. My hair was done; someone had put it up into two tiny little curled ponytails. I was clean, I was taken care of. There wasn’t a single sign of neglect or abuse.

  But I was still abandoned.

  A note was pinned to the back of my dress:

  Her name is Briar Givhans. She just turned two years old.

  And that was it. No one came forward to claim me. There are plenty of Givhans folk in the Charleston area, but none of them knew who I was or who I belonged to. Hospital records were combed through, all around the state. The Post and Courier did a long piece on me. The headline?

  LITTLE GIRL LOST

  So creative, ri
ght? People cared for about a week and then it was on to the next human interest story.

  So when did the trash bags come into play?

  My earliest memory is of getting yanked out of daycare. I was playing with an old, broken Teddy Ruxpin, at the time. It was just me and that bear playing on a worn out rug. At naptime I used to count the loose threads on its edges.

  A social worker came in with a police officer and the underpaid and uninterested daycare worker handed me over without a second thought. She had too much on her plate anyway, and I was one more thing to get off it.

  I got in the car, confused. The social worker gave me a pained smile and placed a large black trash bag next to me, filled with my entire life.

  If everything I owned fit into a trash bag, and I’d been dumped out like garbage, then what did that make me?

  That bag and bags like it would follow me for the next ten years.

  Later people would ask me if being abandoned was the worst thing about all of this.

  You’d think so, right?

  But no. It wasn’t the worst thing.

  The pain of being abandoned could never compare to this: knowing you’re not even worth an explanation as to why it happened in the first place.

  All of my life, people got hurt around me.

  It was like my pain had a power of its own. It’s another way I got through things; I made it a game. I’d make it a hero’s journey in my own head. How many fairy tales feature orphans? Too many to name. So in my own world, I became the protagonist of my own life.

  When I was sent to the group home at age 10, I was tested by the other kids. I was bullied, I was shoved. They wanted to see how far they could push me, they wanted to see if I was one of the weak ones or one of the strong ones.

  We were all in the same boat; hoping against hope that the next time we heard the telephone ring, or the front door open, that our savior had arrived. Except it almost never happened. Sure, the adorable little twins, a boy and a girl, who arrived shortly after I did, just barely a month old— they were adopted quickly. A handsome new daddy and beautiful new mommy, driving a sensible new minivan. Everything for them would be fresh and new and wonderful.