Black Aggie by Evie Jayne

Author:Evie Jayne [Jayne, Evie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Erotic Romance Fiction
Publisher: Totally Entwined Group Ltd
Published: 2016-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

This very hour, come with me.

Raph took hold of her hand, the touch prickling over her skin, and led her across the clearing to a simple headstone. He knelt, pulling her after him.

“You can take the dirt from three spots—head, heart or feet,” he said gesturing over the slightly sunken grave. What did it mean that he was sharing information with her? He’d been so hell-bent on cutting her out earlier and now he was teaching her some of his trade?

“It depends a lot on the spook.”

“What?”

“Where you take the dirt from. It can be tricky to figure out, so you just make an educated guess. The head area is usually for a male, heart for a female, and feet can be either, but that’s just a rough guide. Not a rule.”

“So how do you know?” she asked, fascinated.

“You look for the pattern in their kills and try to find out as much as you can of their history. What did they do in life? What happened to them? How did they die?” He pulled out a small iron trowel from his faded canvas duffel bag and stuck it into the earth.

“In Margaret’s case, we’re going for the heart. She was a suicide, swallowed a vial of potassium.”

She grimaced and muttered, “Hell of a way to go.”

“You’re telling me, but it’s our first clue. Suicide is emotional, painful. Hence the heart.”

“And she kills men,” Bette said. “That’s emotional too.”

He threw her an admiring smile. “You cotton on quick,” he said, digging out a small circle of grass, cutting through the soil in a counterclockwise direction.

“Widdershins?” she said.

“You know what that means?” His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Bette smiled. “I’m a herbalist,” she said. “I plant and harvest my garden widdershins. It powers up the herbs.”

“And you don’t believe in magic?” He lifted the grass away and dug out a lump of soil, tipping it into a small Ziploc plastic back he’d pulled from his duffel.

“So what are the signs of head and feet?” she asked.

He didn’t have time to answer, because a shout came from behind them.

“Oy! What are you kids doing!”

Bette spun at the same time as Raph, adrenaline pumping through her veins. Then she breathed out a sigh of relief. It was only the nightwatchman. Raph pulled her up, his spare hand coming free of his pocket. Had he gone for his gun?

“Um…” she said.

“I’m sick of you lot. You think you can just come in here and mess with the graves.” The watchman’s face was red in the gloomy light. “Bloody idiot kids. It’s an urban legend. What did you think was going to happen?”

Bette flicked a glance at Raph’s stern profile.

“I got nothing,” he whispered.

“Get out of here now, and if I see you again, I’m calling the cops.” The watchman stomped toward them, seething, his chest bowing up over his beer gut and his arms waving wildly.

The breath that Bette pushed out turned to cold mist and the hairs on her arms rose in the sudden cold.

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