Southern Charmed (Hell's Belles Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  “They jumped me and locked me in the shed!” I pleaded. “I didn’t do anything at all. I was trapped inside.”

  “Hmph,” Mrs. Purifoy replied. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. Things will go better for you if you just fess up now. That sweet girl will be a week in the hospital if she’s a day.”

  Sweet girl? Give me a break.

  That had to be the first time in her life that anybody had referred to Marla Muchow as a “sweet girl,” although I did feel uncharacteristically terrible for her. I’d never heard screams like hers before. As badly as I wanted to hurt her for what she and her friends had done to me, I wouldn’t have wished that on her.

  Whatever that was.

  The next few days were a whirlwind of activity at the group home. Police and state investigators came and interviewed everyone even peripherally involved in “The Marla Incident.” Doctors who worked on Marla at the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston, said that the injuries she suffered were unlike anything they’d ever seen before; bones throughout her body were broken at odd angles, compound fractures, despite no obvious cause of trauma. Some of the breaks could have come from a high-impact collision such as with a train, or falling from a great height. But Marla had, by all accounts, simply been walking across the backyard.

  Mrs. Purifoy’s prediction that Marla would spend a week in the hospital was overly optimistic. She was in intensive care that long, and she convalesced another two weeks past that before returning to the home.

  The local news caught wind of the case and ran a series of stories on abuse and neglect in the group home and foster parent system, but as minors none of us were named or interviewed.

  Until Marla returned, her minions didn’t know what to do or how to approach me, so they gave Gabriel, Gina, and I a wide berth. My friends and I discussed the subject at length, but nobody had any sort of plausible theory as to what could have caused the injuries, short of some sort of very brief, extremely localized, category six hurricane.

  It wasn’t until a few days after Marla’s return that things began to become clear.

  Gina and I were talking about a boy she liked at school, and how much it sucked that eventually she’d have to make a choice between telling him that she was a resident of Mrs. Purifoy’s Little House of Horrors, or just giving up the notion of pursuing him altogether. We weren’t the type of kids who were ever going to do “normal” things like go to prom or homecoming or have the sort of fairytale romance we watched on television or read about in YA novels.

  Gabriel snuck up on us from behind the ratty sofa and jumped up with a “Boo!” that surprised us, causing Gina to fall off the front of the couch. A harmless prank, but when Gina hit the floor, her pinky finger bent back and we all heard a snap like the breaking of a tree branch. She clutched her hand and winced.

  “I’m sorry, G!” Gabriel pleaded. “I’m so sorry!”

  I knelt next to Gina and wrapped my arms around her. “Let me see. Is it…”

  “I can’t bend it. It hurts!” Gina yelped. Her large eyes filled with tears.

  It hurt my heart to see my friend dealing with that kind of suffering.

  For reasons I couldn’t explain, I gently pulled her injured hand into my own and tried to soothe her with a “Shhhh.”

  Her right pinky was bent out from the rest of her hand at a painful, extreme angle, and tears rolled down her face as I wrapped my own hands around her trembling palm. Something drew me to touch Gina’s broken pinky, despite her whispered, “No, no, no, Briar, no.”

  With the tip of my index finger, I caressed her injured digit, from the tip back to the damaged knuckle, and something wondrous occurred.

  Gina shrieked and then gasped as her finger, under no pressure at all save my feather-light touch, seemed to correct itself. It wiggled and slipped back into place, and Gina tentatively balled her fist to find that the injury, and the pain, were gone. The finger was mended as if it had never been broken.

  Gabriel and I made shocked eye contact, and then we both looked at Gina, who had a look of genuine bemusement on her face.

  The room suddenly filled with people, drawn by the noise Gina had made when she fell, but we assured them that everything was fine. Gina continued to clench and relax her hand.

  “How did you do that?” Gina whispered to me once the three of us were alone again in the den.

  “Do what?”

  “You fixed her finger, Briar,” Gabriel interjected. “It was mangled. Broken for sure. And then you touched it, and…”

  “She was hurt, I just wanted to help her; I mean I didn’t do anything,” I insisted.

  “Oh my God,” Gabriel said, his eyes wide. In a cartoon, a light bulb would have appeared and illuminated above his head. “You did it. To Marla. And now to Gina. Briar, don’t you get it?”

  I didn’t get it. Or at least I didn’t want to get it.

  Gina looked at Gabriel as if he were a math problem she hadn’t a clue how to solve.

  “It’s totally fine. It’s so weird,” Gina muttered, her gaze returning to her hand. “It hurt so bad. But now it’s fine.”

  “It’s something about bones,” Gabriel said. “You guys don’t know comic books, but there’s a bad guy in one of the comic books I read. He can control metal, you know, like a magnet. I think you can do something like that, but with bones, Briar. With Marla’s bones and now with Gina’s finger.”

  “That’s not even possible,” I protested. “And even if it was, it would be super creepy and gross. Besides, I never touched Marla. I was locked in a shed.”

  “Bone Girl,” Gabriel whispered. “No, that’s no good. Let me think. Oh! I’ve got it. Marrow. Briar Givhans by day, Marrow, Mistress of Bone, by night. You’re some sort of super-hero!”

  “I’m no hero,” I said. “You read too many comic books.”

  Gina threw her arms around my shoulders and squeezed me. “Whatever. You’re my hero, Briar. I love you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, hugging her back. Gabriel continued to whisper “Marrow” in an awestruck way, like he was introducing a character in a movie, until Gina and I told him to knock it off.

  I stayed up late that night with my mind racing. I wasn’t special. I didn’t have “powers.” I was an orphan whose entire life could be stuffed into trash bags. But some of what Gabriel said rang true; there was still no logical explanation for what happened to Marla, not to mention Gina’s finger. I was the sole common denominator, present in both cases. But I hadn’t felt anything, no energy or release or anything at all.

  I couldn’t deny the overwhelming circumstantial evidence, but I knew deep down that I couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with any of it.

  I was Briar Givhans, ordinary orphan, not Marrow, super hero, no matter what Gabriel said.

  After Gina’s mysterious broken-then-not-broken finger incident, nothing inexplicable happened to me or anyone else at the house. The closest thing to a miracle was the fact that Marla came out of her ordeal with a new attitude and perspective. Covered in scars and plagued with body aches, she became withdrawn and quiet. Saying she was nice would be a reach, but her bullying days were behind her.

  Sadly, Daddy Muchow never showed up for Marla.

  A long-lost aunt showed up one day and whisked Marla’s friend, Taryn, away, but the rest of us served out our entire sentences with Mrs. Purifoy. At eighteen, with a brief transitional period, we were released out into the world.

  Gabriel earned an academic scholarship to an Ivy League school, becoming an inspiration to the rest of us with his hard work and perseverance. When his parents found out about his success, they attempted a reconciliation. He politely declined. If his academic success didn’t move some of us to spend more time studying, his class and heart motivated us all to be better people.

  Gina never found the love connection she dreamt of while she was living at the group home, but she never lost her smile, either.

  By the time it was my turn to go, the turnover
had become so complete that very few people remembered what had befallen Marla in that backyard, and nobody knew the story behind Gina’s finger. Those things would forever represent question marks in my life.

  The mysteries that figured to plague and define my life were destined to revolve around only one thing— how I came to be the ‘Little Girl Lost’ on the front stoop of the Goose Creek fire station.

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

  My name is Briar Givhans. I was about to turn eighteen years old.

  At least according to the birthdate I was assigned, based on when I was found and the information on the note.

  I’d graduated high school and was days away from eighteen and my release date when Mrs. Purifoy called all the girls in the house to come downstairs into the living room.

  We had a visitor.

  I’d been through this drill approximately twelve thousand times, and the novelty had worn off long ago. A couple, almost always a couple, although sometimes a single man or woman, would come in looking to adopt. They’d usually have a preference for boy or girl, and most often an age they were seeking; a baby or close to it.

  With my impending adulthood, the chances of me being picked were akin to me holding a winning lottery ticket. I certainly wouldn’t say no; having a soft place to land, a family to return to, in case adulthood turned out to be tougher than I hoped it would be, sounded good.

  But I was jaded and knew not to get my hopes up. Not even a little bit.

  There were nine girls living in the house by then, ranging from Lucy, a six-year-old who was never seen without her beat-up stuffed penguin, up to me. The majority of the girls were between ten and fourteen.

  We stood around in the living room until we heard the familiar voice of Mrs. Purifoy coming down the hallway. “Yes, right this way, Ms. Embers. We have some very pretty and talented girls with us at the moment. Extremely bright. They just need a chance.”

  Mrs. Purifoy held open the door and it was with almost a gust of wind that her guest waltzed into the room. It was June, and hot, but when this “Ms. Embers” arrived, there was something oddly refreshing about her presence. I could tell we all felt it.

  She had an air of refinement about her, an understated elegance. And a natural beauty that made it difficult to guess her age. It was tough to imagine what she was doing visiting with us rather than attending the opera, shopping for jewelry, or doing whatever else it was that wealthy, cultured people did all day.

  “Girls, this is Ms. Embers. She wanted to meet you all,” Mrs. Purifoy explained.

  “Hello, ladies,” our visitor announced. “My name is Virginia Embers. I’ve taken an interest in the foster care system in our great state, with an aim to provide more opportunities for young women such as yourselves.” She walked back and forth in front of us as she spoke, smiling warmly. There was something genuine about her. She wasn’t what I imagined the typical wealthy person to be which was stuffy and unapproachable.

  She knelt down in front of Lucy and stroked the faded wing of her penguin, which Lucy clutched to her side with both hands.

  “Who’s this, then?” Ms. Embers asked.

  “Her name is Penny,” Lucy replied.

  “Penny the penguin? How wonderful!”

  “That’s Lucy,” Mrs. Purifoy explained. “She’s six. She has the most vivid imagination. She writes her own stories already.”

  “Does she? An imagination is such a blessing. Never stop writing, Miss Lucy. And take care of Penny. I can tell she’s very special.”

  Ms. Embers stood back up and walked nearer to me, stopping in front of LaTashia, a tall Gullah girl with thick braids who I’d rarely heard speak since she arrived. LaTashia was thirteen.

  “What’s your name, dear?” our visitor asked.

  “LaTashia, ma’am,” she answered quietly.

  “You remind me so much of someone I know. I can see her strength in you. Have you ever been to Frogmore Island?”

  “No, ma’am, I lived in Summerville my whole life.” That was officially the longest sentence I’d ever heard from LaTashia in the two-and-a-half years she’d lived with us.

  “I’d just bet that you have kin on Frogmore,” Ms. Embers assured her. “I’ll look into it and be in touch with Mrs. Purifoy.” LaTashia nodded.

  Our visitor arrived, finally, at me.

  “You look ready to take on the world, young lady,” she said. “Are you?”

  She made eye contact with me and held it. Not in an intimidating manner, but her ever-present smile dimmed for just a heartbeat as she looked into my eyes. And her voice caught almost imperceptibly in her throat.

  “I…I hope so,” I answered.

  She hesitated, as if she had more to say, and her right hand moved like she wanted to touch me, maybe hug me, but then she thought better of it.

  “Excellent,” she said, nodding. She walked back over toward Mrs. Purifoy and thanked her, and us, for our time. “It was lovely meeting all of you.”

  With that, Virginia Embers was gone.

  Chapter 2

  “You are what you believe you are’,” my friend Mara said as I pushed past her to reach for a plate of sweet potato fries our cook had just set out for my table.

  “Okay, Gandhi,” I replied, and she smiled.

  “How did you know?” she asked. She was sitting on the counter across from me, her ankles crossed, a book in her hand.

  “Just a guess,” I lied. “You and your inspirational crap. Don’t you have tables to wait on?”

  Mara shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing with the motion. “Nope. Wendy just cut me. Says we’re dead today.”

  “Ugh,” I replied, as I scooted past her again, hot plate in hand. “I’m jealous. I’m so not in the mood to be here.”

  “You can take it if you want,” Mara replied. “I don’t mind working your shift.”

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. I need the hours. But I appreciate it.”

  I scooted back into the dining room and walked to the back, inside corner of The Dixie Garden, the restaurant where I worked in downtown Charleston. A foursome of sorority girls sat bunched together in their Lily Pulitzer dresses. I gingerly placed the fries in the middle of their table. None of them reached for any.

  “Can I get y’all anything else?” I asked. They barely glanced at me.

  One of them said, “Just some Pellegrino.”

  “For everyone?” I asked.

  The same girl. scrunched her face up as if she’d smelled something awful and said “Duh,” without even looking at me.

  “Okay,” I said under my breath as I walked away. “Gotta love that southern charm and hospitality.”

  I’d only worked at The Dixie Garden for a month, but I already had a pretty good handle on the clientele. It was one of the many breakfast and lunch places scattered up and down King Street that catered to the “ladies who lunch” crowd. We were famous for organic everything and farm-to-table dining, whatever the hell that meant.

  The cheese fries I’d just delivered to the table were referred to in our menu as “organic, heirloom potatoes cut by hand, fried in truffle oil, drizzled with our proprietary blend of four cheeses and seasoned with 100% authentic Himalayan salt, rosemary, and thyme.” For a mere fraction of the cost, pretty much every diner and bar in town had tastier basic cheese fries, in my opinion, but I just needed a job, so I pretended to care about our “foodie philosophy” as my boss Wendy called it.

  I’d gotten my GED about a year ago, knowing that college wasn’t on the horizon for me anyway, and also knowing almost any job these days at least required some sort of proof you’d completed your education. High school had been a whole bunch of hell and being that my childhood was far from idyllic, I figured it was better to close that chapter as soon as possible.

  I hadn’t regretted it yet. As soon as I’d been able to prove my income, I’d rented a tiny little studio apartment right off Elizabeth Street. It was actually a carriage house in
the backyard of a mansion and my landlord was some elderly, old money, rich creep who’d stared down my V-neck while I was filling out my application.

  But for being downtown, the rent was very cheap, and I was all about the cheap. I was also all about being away from Goose Creek. Charleston felt like a glamorous place to me after spending the bulk of my life twenty miles north of it with my trash bags and my head games.

  “Hey, Briar!” I heard Mara’s twang from the break room. “Did you see this?”

  “See what?” I asked. Mara had left the counter and was now sitting on a metal folding chair in front of the tiny tube television in what we referred to as our break room, although it was barely bigger than a closet. There was enough room for two folding chairs and a card table pushed up against the wall. The TV sat precariously on an old stool in the corner.

  “The news,” she said. “Someone jumped off the Ravenel Bridge.”

  My eyes widened. Who on earth would jump from the Ravenel in the middle of the day? Or ever?

  “We shouldn’t watch this,” I said. “It’s not right. We should show some respect.”

  “What do you mean? It’s crazy, is what it is,” Mara said, turning the volume up, as if to prove a point. “I mean, who does something like that?”

  I didn’t reply, but I had an answer.

  People jumped off bridges all the time— and it was always an attempt to escape. Ultimately, it was the only escape there was if the pain was deep enough.

  I didn’t like the jumper being entertainment. It just didn’t feel right to watch it.

  I walked over and switched off the television.

  “Hey!” Mara said. “I’m watching it. If you don’t want to, leave the room.”

  “I don’t even want to hear it,” I said. “Anyway, I changed my mind.”

  “About what?” Mara asked.

  “About taking your early out,” I said, untying the apron around my waist. “If you don’t mind, I feel like going home.”