Darkest Journey Read Free

than she’d meant to.
    He stopped and looked down at her, that shock of hair still covering one of his eyes. “Of course. I’m so sorry. It’s just that I don’t know—”
    â€œCharlie. Charlene, actually. Charlene Moreau.”
    Something flickered in his eyes. “Moreau. You used to hang at my house when you were little. Our parents are friends. Your dad is Jonathan Moreau, right?”
    â€œYes.” She waited, afraid that somewhere along the line her father might have done something to bug him.
    â€œWow,” he said with admiration. “He’s brilliant. He knows more about local history and politics than anyone I’ve ever met.”
    â€œYep, that’s him.”
    â€œCome on, then. My mom can make you some tea or something, and then I’ll take you home.”
    He started to walk, not holding on to her this time, and she followed. “How did you know I was here?” she asked him. “I mean, you don’t seem the kind to be spending his Friday night hanging out at the graveyard.”
    He paused, his back to her.
    â€œWas it the Confederate cavalryman?” she asked softly, not even worrying that if he hadn’t seen the ghost he might think she was nuts. “Did he lead you here? If so, I wish I could thank him.”
    He turned then and stared at her. “You saw...a cavalry soldier?”
    â€œI did,” she said.
    He studied her intently. Then he nodded slowly. She felt the intensity of his gold-green eyes. He’d heard exactly what she’d said, and he seemed to accept her words at face value.
    â€œBest not to mention such things,” he said simply, and started walking again.
    And, once more, she followed. Except that the sobbing she’d heard earlier suddenly echoed in her mind again.
    â€œCome on,” he called back.
    â€œWait!” she said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThere was—there was someone there before. By the tree. Give me just a second.”
    She hurried over the tree roots, fallen branches and broken headstones that stood between her and the tree in question, hoping he noticed that she didn’t need any help, even in rough terrain.
    â€œThere!” She saw something shiny in the grass and sank to her knees—her jeans were already filthy anyway—then parted the weeds and grass to reveal a bracelet. It was gold, with a single gold charm studded with what might have been a diamond or might have been glass.
    Suddenly Ethan was there, too, down on his knees beside her, reaching curiously for the bracelet.
    She picked it up and handed it to him. “A bracelet,” she murmured, completely unnecessarily.
    He looked up at her suddenly, those strange eyes of his intent on her. He flinched, staring at her.
    â€œWhat? What is it?” she whispered.
    He opened his hand. The bracelet lay on his palm, but she saw something else there, as well. Something gleaming and darker than the night.
    â€œWhat is it?” she repeated.
    â€œBlood,” he said quietly.
    Charlie didn’t realize then that, for her, the night, along with the rest of her life, was just beginning.

1
    West Feliciana Parish, Louisiana Ten Years Later
    T hey rose from the earth one by one, spectral shapes that slowly crept to the top of the high bluff where the church had long held dominion over the landscape. If a watcher blinked, they might have seemed like a part of the mist, they were so ethereal. And yet, seen with eyes open and focused, they were clearly real, soldiers rising from their graves, worn, war-weary, dirty, sweaty and exhausted, yet ready to stand and fight for what they believed to be right. Here in this narrow strip of Louisiana between Baton Rouge and Port Hudson, the Civil War had one day come to a halt, and thus the men who rose from the earth wore both tattered butternut and gray or Union blue. They had been good men all, fighting for what they believed to be just when death stopped their