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billowing clouds of smoke. But this wasn’t the mill. This was organic, and like nothing he’d ever smelled anywhere else. Maybe the closest it came was to a greenhouse, but that wasn’t it. No, this seemed to be mixed with the marsh at low tide and the wood from ancient buildings, the sandy soil that reluctantly held the tombstones in Bonaventure Cemetery, and the draping Spanish moss that made even the most horrid of crime scenes appear placid and peaceful.
    He sometimes found himself sniffing a handful of live-oak leaves, searching for clues to the source of the perfume, because it could almost be considered perfume. But he knew the smell wasn’t coming from the leaves. It came from everything, reaching from the past, from the blood and tears and antebellum gowns to the organic coffee and patchouli emanating from the café across from Forsyth Park. A new world perched atop dark history.
    Savannah was considered one of the most haunted cities in the world, and David might insist he didn’t believe in ghosts, but he understood the ghost thing. The souls who’d come before could be felt in every tabby brick, every trunk of every breaking tree, every narrow street, every blooming square, every pane of glass. And when you were staring at a headstone lovingly and intricately carved by a man who’d been dead for over a hundred years, you could feel a certain . . . imprint . You could imagine the sculptor’s hands moving over the stone.
    David would always be an outsider here—he knew that—but his Yankee eyes had never seen such a dark, gritty, beautiful place.
    He hit his favorite high points: several of the squares, River Street, then back through Forsyth Park. Street sweepers were out sweeping the night’s fallen leaves, the homeless were waking up, and a few tourists were already visible, standing on corners clutching whimsical maps as David wrapped up his run.
    Back in his apartment he was heading for the shower when a knock sounded on the door. He answered it to find a woman named Strata Luna standing there in all her spooky glory. Behind him, his cat, Isobel, skidded around the corner to vanish into the bedroom.
    David hadn’t seen the woman in months, and as far as he knew she’d never visited his apartment. And why was she out at this hour? Strata Luna, Savannah’s most famous madam, belonged to the night, not the mornings. But then again, she probably wasn’t someone who paid much attention to the clock, and she could pretty much do whatever she wanted since the entire city was afraid of her. Hell, the entire police force was afraid of her, which was why they looked the other way when it came to her business. But David silently accused her of being all theater, with her black veil and darkened car windows. She didn’t scare him. She’d never scared him even though it was said she could kill a man with her gaze.
    As he understood it, she was of Gullah or Geechee heritage. Both, although different, had become interchangeable, Gullah the more widely used, and even the locals weren’t sure of the difference anymore.
    With a dramatic gesture that carried with it the scent of exotic oils, she lifted the ornate veil from her face, folding it back so it fell over her shoulders. Black gloves vanished into the sleeves of her black dress, the dress itself full, falling to the floor. He found himself staring at her luminous brown skin, almond eyes, and full, red lips.
    “I have something for you,” she said.
    He backed up, never taking his eyes off her as she floated in. Her dress rustled. Like leaves. Like paper.
    She stopped in the center of his cramped apartment, inhaled, and turned to face him. “This is a nice place.”
    Vines covering the windows. Clothes tossed over the chair and couch, both pieces of furniture well shredded by his cat. Dismal, but it suited him.
    “You’re the first person to ever tell me that.” Most people begged him to move. Most people wondered why he lived in such a depressing