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Baton Rouge. Heavy, lush falls of moss dripped off the trees crowding the front lawn, concealing the house itself behind a fragrant green curtain. White seeds like snowflakes drifted through the windless day, floating with eerie slowness through the doldrums of hot, damp air.
    Oliver could practically taste the air, thick with honeysuckle from the garden that lined the front of the house and fanned out in a haphazard sprawl toward the overgrown, swampy forest encroaching on the property. It had obviously never been a great manor house, but at one time it was probably pretty and fresh, quaintly kept with green shutters on the windows and a turquoise blue door. Now the paint peeled off it like raw strips of sunburn, curling tight in the wet climate before scattering to join the tiny white seeds peppering the grass.
    Weeds had taken over the walk up to the house, but Micah didn’t seem to notice the disrepair. He certainly didn’t apologize for it.
    “Ms. Marie was like my aunt growing up,” he explained, leading Oliver to the faded turquoise door and its brass knocker.It was shaped like a mermaid. “If anyone in this damn world knows anything about these Bone Artist freaks, it would be her.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Because she’s about eight hundred years old, that’s why.” Micah chuckled, winking. “And don’t let the old gal fool you. Back in the day she was a wild one. I’ve seen the pictures. Dance halls. Sailor boyfriends. The whole nine yards.”
    The trip felt like a waste of time to Oliver, who had already decided, firmly this time, that he was out. Briony had texted that morning, waking him out of a fog of heavy sleep to ask about the job. He had told her, in less than polite terms, to take her offer and shove it in a very specific place.
    Micah had knocked, and now, gradually, the door was opening. His friend sprang into action, holding open the screen and swiftly relieving the tiny old woman of the weight of the door. Her skin looked like water-stained paper, dark spots dotting her hands and neck in thick clusters. But her eyes were sharp, bright and searching as she looked Oliver up and down.
    “A’now who’s this handsome young swain come to my door?” she asked, giggling like a teenager, even if it did sound a little croaky on the end.
    “Ma’am, this is Oliver, Oliver Berkley. He’s a good friend of mine.”
    “You said so on the phone,” Ms. Marie said, reaching for the screen. Oliver grabbed it for her, joining them inside the house. It was stifling, a few overhead fans doing their level best to help but failing. Not even a fresh-baked pie could cover up the scent of decay and urine that drifted through the halls.
    Still, it wasn’t exactly dirty. The floors had been swept andthe shelves in reach were dusted. The old lady had gone to the trouble of doing her iron gray hair in big, retro curls, clipping one piece back with a pink barrette. That was probably her best dress, too, a white sundress with a daisy motif.
    Oliver paused in the front hall, looking over the black-and-white photos of generations of family. The newest shots had been taken recently, hanging in a modern frame. Micah was in that one, standing with Ms. Marie and two women in their thirties, both with Marie’s wide, brown eyes. The older photos were cluttered with many more people, all of them glaring out at Oliver with that strange, vacant quality folks seemed to have in the past, as if the bad technology rendered them utterly lifeless.
    A few bunches of dried herbs hung above the pictures and a shelf with porcelain figures of Jesus, Mary, and a pair of hands clasped in a prayer pose. A cracked wooden placard swung from the front door behind him.
BLESS THIS HOUSE. PROTECT THIS HOUSE.
    Trembling, shuffling, she brought them from the foyer to the sunroom on the left, motioning for them both to sit down. Cups of coffee and a cookie tray had been set out, and when Oliver went to sit down he found his cup lukewarm. She had