I eased back on my haunches and looked around.
"Want me to start clearing the stones so you can read them?" Ricky asked.
"And you say you're not psychic." I forced a smile, but my heart wasn't in it. The same sense of foreboding that niggled at him pressed down on me, the darkness closing in despite the bright moon.
I searched for an omen. Even a raven or an owl gliding overhead would have been a sign that everything was all right, that I was under someone's protection.
"Do you have your tusk?" Ricky asked. "As much as I can't believe I just said that."
He got a real smile for that. "Yes, I have my handy-dandy evil-repelling tusk, which has never actually been proven to work, but since I didn't have it when we were attacked by elves, I'll presume it does. You have yours?"
"Yep."
"Then let's start clearing."
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
There were eleven graves in the small cemetery.
The first six names meant nothing to me. I noted them, in case they turned up in our investigations. Then I hit number seven.
Given the date, it was actually the last stone set in the cemetery: 1970. The date of birth was 1901. And the name? Isolde Carew.
The Carew house. My great-great-grandmother's house. Her first name had been Glenys. Welsh, like her granddaughter, Daere. I didn't need to look up Isolde to be pretty sure it came from Wales, too.
"Liv?"
"I think . . ." I brushed my hands over the stone. "This one might have been a relative of--"
The gravestone dropped into the earth, and I tumbled headfirst, falling through darkness. I hit something hard and sharp that cut into my knees. Hands scooped me up.
"Ouch," a man's voice said. "That must have hurt."
"Are you all right, baby?" A woman's voice now.
I looked to see them towering above me. A dark-haired man and a woman with lighter hair, somewhere between brown and blond, her bright red lips pursed with concern as she squeezed my bare leg.
I know that face. I've seen it. Or some version of it. Older, much older . . .
"Better put her down, John. She's getting too big to carry."
The man lowered me to the ground and patted my head, telling me to watch my step. As I turned, the first thing I saw were stairs. Concrete stairs leading up to a massive door.
I know that door.
The mental hospital. I looked down the street and saw hulking sedans from the sixties. The buildings were in ill repair, some of the doors boarded over. The grounds were halfheartedly kept, with weeds already poking through the pavement. Mother Nature starting a tentative takeover, seeing if anyone cared to oppose her.
"It doesn't look very nice, does it, baby?" the woman said. "It used to have flowers and pretty lawns. I hate the thought of Aunt Isolde living here."
Isolde. The gravestone.
"It won't be much longer," the man said.
A deep sigh from the woman. "I
know."
They led me up the stairs. I looked down at myself. Long dark hair lay straight over a miniskirted dress. Tiny, gleaming shoes. From what I could see, I wasn't more than four.