Wilmington Quotes

Liam cleared his throat again and turned to fully face me. “So, it’s the summer and you’re in Salem, suffering through another boring, hot July, and working part-time at an ice cream parlor. Naturally, you’re completely oblivious to the fact that all of the boys from your high school who visit daily are more interested in you than the thirty-one flavors. You’re focused on school and all your dozens of clubs, because you want to go to a good college and save the world. And just when you think you’re going to die if you have to take another practice SAT, your dad asks if you want to go visit your grandmother in Virginia Beach.” “Yeah?” I leaned my forehead against his chest. “What about you?” “Me?” Liam said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m in Wilmington, suffering through another boring, hot summer, working one last time in Harry’s repair shop before going off to some fancy university—where, I might add, my roommate will be a stuck-up-know-it-all-with-a-heart-of-gold named Charles Carrington Meriwether IV—but he’s not part of this story, not yet.” His fingers curled around my hip, and I could feel him trembling, even as his voice was steady. “To celebrate, Mom decides to take us up to Virginia Beach for a week. We’re only there for a day when I start catching glimpses of this girl with dark hair walking around town, her nose stuck in a book, earbuds in and blasting music. But no matter how hard I try, I never get to talk to her. “Then, as our friend Fate would have it, on our very last day at the beach I spot her. You. I’m in the middle of playing a volleyball game with Harry, but it feels like everyone else disappears. You’re walking toward me, big sunglasses on, wearing this light green dress, and I somehow know that it matches your eyes. And then, because, let’s face it, I’m basically an Olympic god when it comes to sports, I manage to volley the ball right into your face.” “Ouch,” I said with a light laugh. “Sounds painful.” “Well, you can probably guess how I’d react to that situation. I offer to carry you to the lifeguard station, but you look like you want to murder me at just the suggestion. Eventually, thanks to my sparkling charm and wit—and because I’m so pathetic you take pity on me—you let me buy you ice cream. And then you start telling me how you work in an ice cream shop in Salem, and how frustrated you feel that you still have two years before college. And somehow, somehow, I get your e-mail or screen name or maybe, if I’m really lucky, your phone number. Then we talk. I go to college and you go back to Salem, but we talk all the time, about everything, and sometimes we do that stupid thing where we run out of things to say and just stop talking and listen to one another breathing until one of us falls asleep—” “—and Chubs makes fun of you for it,” I added. “Oh, ruthlessly,” he agreed. “And your dad hates me because he thinks I’m corrupting his beautiful, sweet daughter, but still lets me visit from time to time. That’s when you tell me about tutoring a girl named Suzume, who lives a few cities away—” “—but who’s the coolest little girl on the planet,” I manage to squeeze out.

This guy had balls. Well, I mean, obviously he had balls. I hope he had balls. Bailey, stop thinking about his balls.

I love you,” he said. “This couldn’t be a dumber place and time to tell you, I know. But, God, Bailey. I love you.” He paused. “I love you.

Did you blow up a kraken?" "Maybe." He laughed into the phone.

Red Horn kills people,” Thomas said behind my back. “Your wife…” “Will enjoy the exercise,” my husband said. “You know what they say. Happy wife, happy life.

The Consort is merciful and kind to a fault,” Keelan said. The two of them stared at each other for half a second. “I’m sure he is,” Jushur said.

It’s important to him that his resorting to violence is viewed as a deliberate choice rather than a loss of control on his part.

If the Palace doesn’t like my art, then I lose my work visa, and believe me, I do not want to go back to doing teen soaps in Wilmington.

I just wanna belong, Bailey,” he said softly. “I wanna belong in your world with your friends and your hobbies and your gardens. That’s all. I wanna know everything about you, even if I have to bully it out of you. Put you on the spot. Make you uncomfortable. ‘Cause I can’t get enough of you.

Cuddles gave him her “kicking” eye. If she wasn’t tied at the nose of the boat, she would’ve wandered over toward the cabin and stomped on his injured foot a few times for funsies.

In this life each of us must decide three things for ourselves: who to worship, who to marry, and who to serve.

I’ll stand next to you and look menacing.” “No need to stand. You can sit and look menacing.” “Thank you, my queen.

The Consort is merciful and kind to a fault,” Keelan said. The two of them stared at each other for half a second. “I’m sure he is,” Jushur said. Ha!

She will find the hornet’s nest and set it on fire. When the angry hornets fly out, she’ll poke them with her sword.

I trust you with my life, not with yours,” my husband said.

Just a few days before the attack on Burke, Parenting magazine named Wilmington the most “dangerous city in America.

I'd won our school science fair in the fourth grade, my "Phases of an Egg" presentation eclipsing the dozen or so baking-soda-and-vinegar volcanoes presented by the rest of our class. I'd taken gold in our town's Junior Olympics when I was ten, and got to stand up on the top of a three-tiered pedestal after placing first in the Fifty Yard Dash. One time when I was fourteen, I'd received a Presidential Physical Fitness certificate from Ronald Reagan, when I logged a record-breaking eighty-two situps in the span of a minute. But nothing compared to the sense of accomplishment I felt - no award, no ribbon, no trophy - no achievement lived up to the unfathomable triumph of having won the heart of Terrence C. Wilmington III.

I knew life moments happened that way. They made no sense, and I didn’t think we were supposed to make them. I think we were just supposed to experience them, grow from them, and hopefully come out the other side as better people. Life is nothing but juxtaposing the good with the bad. We have to learn how to handle both—how to cope with the frightening events and embrace the joyous ones.

Curran grinned at me, his gray eyes happy. “Hey, baby. You come here often?” I laughed. “Your hand looks heavy. Let me hold it for you.” He squeezed my hand with his warm fingers. “Smooth,” Jynx murmured. Andre winked at her. “Hey, Jynx, your hand—” “Touch me and I’ll break you,” she told him. “Aww.

Wilmington, Del. (AP) June 14, 1966—A fire that destroyed the city’s oldest Negro church has led to the discovery of a wild slave narrative that highlights a little-known era of American history. The First United

You didn't tell me you were the Consort," I growled. "I haven't been the Consort for 9 years." "I didn't think you were a shapeshifter, but now I see it, " Thomas said. "You sound like one." Behind me Andre made a strangled noise that sounded a lot like an aborted snicker.

We smiled at each other. Ms. Vigue was doing her best to appear approachable, while I did my best to appear harmless. We were both lying as hard as we could.

My wife needs a medmage,” Curran said. “She will tell you that she is fine, and she doesn’t need help. She isn’t and she does.” “You made your point,” I told him. His eyes flashed gold. “I did. And I’m going to stand over you and watch you get treatment.” As a married woman, I had learned that some fights weren’t worth fighting. “Your lack of trust is very disappointing.” “I trust you with my life, not with yours,” my husband said.

I enjoyed it.” And there it was. I said it and waited. “I know,” he said. “After you killed the skull mage, you turned to me and you were smiling. A big, bright smile. Old Kate smile.” “Old Kate?” “Dangerous Kate. Stabby Kate. My Kate.” I raised my head and leaned it on my bent elbow. “Stabby?” “Yes. Exciting.” He grinned.

I smiled. Curran and I had agreed to maintain a low profile after moving. Think normal suburban thoughts. How hard could this be, right?

People are ruled by their emotions, Conlan, and anger is one of the most powerful emotions we can experience. It can fester if you don’t vent it. Always take that into account.

Everyone’s pain is different,” Reece went on. “I don’t like when people compare. I don’t like when people marginalize their feelings because they think they’re not allowed to have them. Someone will always have a tougher go than you. Does that mean you’re not allowed to feel hurt? To be sad?

Of all the human filth, I hate human traffickers the most. Wilmington is too small for both of us. It’s either Red Horn or me, and I just finished painting my second living room. I’m not leaving.

Curran stood up. He raised the heart up, showing it to everyone, walked over to me, and dropped it at my feet. Umm. What was I supposed to do with it? His eyes were pure gold, still mad with bloodlust. I stabbed the heart with Sarrat. It seemed like the thing to do. Curran turned away from me and roared.

When we arrived in Wilmington, looking forward to a steak with all the trimmings, one snooty puffball says to us, "We don't accept women in trousers," to which Willy says, "Would you accept a boot in your behind?

Look at that evil lair, Cuddles. No ziggurats, no ritualistic poles with skulls on them, no giant faces carved anywhere or big metal fire braziers. These modern evil god followers just don’t care to put in the work.

We did visit, eight months ago. Which was why Paul had had to work extra hard to convince Curran that there was absolutely no way to put a moat around our new residence. He still wanted it and swore he’d find a way somehow.

In 1896, in Plessy v. Ferguson, the United States Supreme Court declared de jure (by law) racial segregation legal, which caused it to spread in at least twelve northern states. In 1898, Democrats rioted in Wilmington, North Carolina, driving out the mayor and all the other Republican officeholders and killing at least twelve African Americans. The McKinley administration did nothing, allowing this coup d'etat to stand. Congress became desegregated in 1901 when Congressman George H. White of North Carolina failed to win reelection owing to the disfranchisement of black voters in his state. No African American served in Congress again until 1929, and none from the South until 1973.

Were you going to poke them with a stick?” Keelan growled. Hakeem looked uncertain. “Yes?” “When you find freaky shit in the scary woods, you don’t poke it with a stick. It can explode in your face. What do you do instead?” Hakeem clearly didn’t know the answer to that question. I almost felt sorry for him. He had just turned eighteen this year, and this was likely his first real outing. “You ask the Consort. The Consort knows everything.” “Oh,” Hakeem said. Keelan pivoted to me. “Consort, please tell us what this is.” “I have no idea.” Keelan blinked, his teaching moment temporarily derailed. He took a second to recover. “How do we proceed?” I held my hand out, and Hakeem surrendered his branch. “I’m going to poke it with a stick.

Oh my God, he thought suddenly. I’ve got a hard-on. “You want some or what?” Bailey asked softly. Reece took the water and drank down a sizeable amount. He grew paranoid that she could see his hard-on, but that would be impossible. The lights were dim. There was an armrest between them. Relax, bro. You’re cool. She can’t see your . . . oh, wait a minute. There it goes. It’s going down. Phew! Thank God. How embarrassing would that have been, right? For her to see how much she turns me on? How much I can’t stop thinking about the kind of panties she wears under those cigarette pants. The way her tits look in her button-up tops. Man, I love how she buttons them all the way up . . . wait a minute. Hold up. I mean down! Go down! Stupid dick!

Can you guarantee that your child will not snap and attack his classmates?” “Absolutely. He is very much like his father. It’s important to him that his resorting to violence is viewed as a deliberate choice rather than a loss of control on his part.

In one such church in Wilmington, Delaware, the police broke up the meeting by throwing tear-gas bombs through the windows and when the marchers broke out from the church in disorderly fashion, clubbed and arrested those whom they suspected of being the leaders.

It is near time to speak of Peter – not the saint, but the Bishop of Lewes.  Gethsemane was significant to Peter. He made it significant to others.  There is a house in the South Downs of England, between Berwick and Wilmington, a bishop’s house – a former bishop – where the Garden of Gethsemane was made manifest.

It early became manifest that great reliance must be placed on the introduction of articles of prime necessity through the blockaded ports. A vessel, capable of stowing six hundred and fifty bales of cotton, was purchased by the agent in England, and kept running between Bermuda and Wilmington. Some fifteen to eighteen successive trips were made before she was captured. Another was added, which was equally successful. These vessels were long, low, rather narrow, and built for speed. They were mostly of pale sky-color, and, with their lights out and with fuel that made little smoke, they ran to and from Wilmington with considerable regularity.

I have a condition!” I blurted. Silence. “Like an STD?” he asked. “God no! No! Oh my God.” I blushed profusely and turned my face, burying it in my pillow. “Okay. So, no STD,” Reece said. “By the way, it would have been okay if you had. We’d figure out how to work with it.” “Oh. My. God. Stop talking about STDs,” I demanded. “You got it.

I sprinted, the spears hammering at my shield. Erra would’ve loved this so much. I could almost hear her in my head. You run like a toddler. Slow and clumsy.

I want Little Noah looking like a beat-up mess by the time he's eighteen." "Why?" "Cause no woman wants a delicate man. He needs to be sporting at least five scars.

Life is nothing but juxtaposing the good with the bad. We have to learn how to handle both—how to cope with the frightening events and embrace the joyous ones.

Every time I believed Rya owned all of me, she would teach me differently. She would find a part of me I didn’t know I had, and own that, too.

There was no better leash than saving the life of someone you loved. It made people do terrible things.

Are you playing a tiny violin?” he asked. “Yep. The name of the song is ‘My Heart Bleeds for You.’” He grimaced. “You’re an annoying little fly, aren’t you?

He went to the lake again. He found some sort of magic freshwater clams in it. He’s very excited about it.” Conlan shrugged.

that’s why we don’t poke random shit we find in the woods with a stick,

I like everybody,” I told her. I thought I’d get her to laugh, but she just looked at me.

We’ll have to force a confrontation. How terrible.” She rolled her eyes.

Curran focused on the blue square of the woods as if it were a bloody steak and he’d been starving for a month.

More words, bigger hole, Your Furriness.

I’m going to find whoever put this creature through that torture, and I’m going to kill them slowly. Piece by piece.

Your hand looks heavy. Let me hold it for you.” He squeezed my hand with his warm fingers. “Smooth,” Jynx murmured.

You ask the Consort. The Consort knows everything.” “Oh,” Hakeem said. Keelan pivoted to me. “Consort, please tell us what this is.” “I have no idea.

Hakeem, Troy, and Owen stared at the crossroads of destruction with wild eyes. “And that’s why we don’t poke random shit we find in the woods with a stick,” Keelan said.

Mostly, this was the fault of white, Rust Belt, out-of-work Democrats. They had voted twice for Barack Obama, but now they were being told that they were racists or white supremacists for voting for Trump and giving him an Electoral College edge. The contrarian liberal genius Michael Moore had been a lonely prophet who had seen it coming, but the Clinton team had ignored him, just as they had ignored their own patriarch, Bill Clinton, who sounded the same warning. In a live performance, Moore had teased voters in Wilmington, Ohio, months before the election, telling them that he knew what they were planning to do. And they laughed with him, like guilty children caught in the act by a bemused cousin. He knew they were going to vote for Trump. He didn’t like it, but at least he was one person who could not be fooled. People who had been overlooked, despised, stomped on, used, taken for granted. This was their moment to speak. They had been shamed into telling the pollsters what they wanted to hear, but in the privacy of their polling booths, they had struck a blow. This

He never stopped being the Beast Lord. He was the man who could dominate thousands of shapeshifters with a single look, and he was also the man who stayed up all night with a child who’d eaten some poisonous herbs in the forest and spent twenty-four hours throwing them up. One couldn’t be separated from another. They were all aspects of Curran, and I loved all of him.

It was majestic and beautiful, as if the forest had sent a herald to greet us. “An Irish elk,” Keelan whispered. More like the stag-moose, Cervalces scotti, which was native to North America according to Conlan’s book, but I didn’t want to ruin Keelan’s moment. “Damn, that’s a lot of meat,” Jynx breathed behind us. And the bouda had done it for me. Keelan glared at her. “Shut it.

Hey,” I told him. “What’s going on?” “Paul’s nephew has been kidnapped by a local gang. About 50 people. I’m going to get him back.” Curran grinned at me. “Will you be home in time for dinner?

Keelan blinked, his teaching moment temporarily derailed. He took a second to recover. “How do we proceed?” I held my hand out, and Hakeem surrendered his branch. “I’m going to poke it with a stick.

I never got my Pompeii,” I said, low and even. “And you know I deserved every bit of it. But I’m not going to erupt all over you like I’m owed. Because I’ve already won. She’s not fucking you tonight.

You probably think I'm a floosy,” she went on. “A floosy?” he whispered back, and chuckled. “First off, I love that you said ‘floosy.’ Second, you’re crazy. I hope you kiss me like that again.” He leaned in close. “And again and again.

An interesting captain on there, McNamara. Th e United States Lines had three captains. Every company had their captains that were notorious, and U.S. Lines had McNamara. Later on, McNamara, he dies, and the Wilmington Union Hall for Masters, Mates and Pilots—cuz he was captain, he would come out of that hall—they had a party when he died. Baked a cake. It wasn’t every day you got to lose one like him. Some people took this more seriously than others is the only way I can phrase this.

Meet you on I-40 outside of town?” I asked, and leaned in to kiss her. “Wait for me,” she said and kissed me back. “Always,” I told her. I watched her leave and wrestled that little anxiety I always felt when she left back down where it belonged.

It didn’t look like any architectural style I knew. I had never seen anything like it. Curran closed his mouth with a click. “Where did they get the granite? The nearest quarry is hundreds of miles inland.” “I don’t care. I want it,” Curran growled.

Will you be okay?” he asked. “It will be very difficult,” I told him solemnly. “But I’m sure the magic will hit within the next twenty-four hours or so, and it only takes me fifteen minutes to set up a soundproof ward. We must be strong.” He laughed. “Think pure thoughts,” I told him.

She was a hunchback with a sweet smile. She smiled sweetly at anything; she couldn't help it; the trees, me, the grass, anything. The basket pulled her down, dragging her toward the ground. She was such a tiny woman, with a hurt face, as if slapped forever. She wore a funny old hat, an absurd hat, a maddening hat, a hat to make me cry, a hat with faded red berries on the brim. And there she was, smiling at everything, struggling across the carpet with a heavy basket containing Lord knew what, wearing a plumed hat with red berries. I got up. It was so mysterious. There I was, like magic, standing up, my two feet on the ground, my eyes drenched. I said, "Let me help." She smiled again and gave me the basket. We began to walk. She led the way. Beyond the trees it was stifling. And she smiled. It was so sweet it nearly tore my head off. She talked, she told me things I never remembered. It didn't matter. In a« dream she held me, in a dream I followed under the blinding sun. For blocks we went forward. I hoped it would never end. Always she talked in a low voice made of human music. What words! What she said! I remembered nothing. I was only happy. But in my heart I was dying. It should have been so. We stepped from so many curbs, I wondered why she did not sit upon one and hold my head while I drifted away. It was the chance that never came again. That old woman with the bent back! Old woman, I feel so joyfully your pain. Ask me a favor, you old woman you! Anything. To die is easy. Make it that. To cry is easy, lift your skirt and let me cry and let my tears wash your feet to let you know I know what life has been for you, because my back is bent too, but my heart is whole, my tears are delicious, my love is yours, to give you joy where God has failed. To die is so easy and you may have my life if you wish it, you old woman, you hurt me so, you did, I will do anything for you, to die for you, the blood of my eighteen years flowing in the gutters of Wilmington and down to the sea for you, for you that you might find such joy as is now mine and stand erect without the horror of that twist. I left the old woman at her door. The trees shimmered. The clouds laughed. The blue sky took me up. Where am I? Is this Wilmington, California? Haven't I been here before? A melody moved my feet. The air soared with Arturo in it, puffing him in and out and making him something and nothing. My heart laughed and laughed. Goodbye to Nietzsche and Schopenhauer and all of you, you fools, I am much greater than all of you! Through my veins ran music of blood. Would it last? It could not last. I must hurry. But where? And I ran toward home. Now I am home. I left the book in the park. To hell with it. No more books for me. I kissed my mother. I clung to her passionately. On my knees I fell at her feet to kiss her feet and cling to her ankles until it must have hurt her and amazed her that it was I.

… How can we say that we deeply revere the principles of our Declaration and our Constitution and yet refuse to recognize those principles when they are to be applied to the American Negro in a down-to-earth fashion? During election campaigns and in Fourth of July speeches, many speakers emphasize that these great principles apply to all Americans. But when you ask many of these same speakers to act or vote so that those great principles apply in fact to Negro-Americans, you may be accused of being unfair, idealistic or even pro-Communist. … A person has real moral courage when, being in a position to make decisions or determine policies, he decides that the qualified Negro will be admitted to a school of nursing [as had recently been done at St. Francis Hospital in Wilmington]; that the Negro, like the white, will receive a fair trial no matter what the public feeling may be; that every Catholic school, church and institution shall be open to all Catholics—not at some distant future time when public opinion happens to coincide with Catholic moral teaching—but now. Are these requests of our business, governmental and religious leaders too much to ask? I think not.

Things just didn’t go your way today,” Owen rumbled from his blanket, his eyes still closed. “First, you got your arm broken. Then the Consort had to bring you food. Now you are getting a lecture. It’s hard to be Troy today.” “Don’t make me come over there,” Troy growled. Owen opened his eyes. “And do what?

Your son pledged himself to me.” “So he told me,” the spymaster said. “I fear his loyalty is misplaced. I’m not the queen he’s looking for.” Jushur met my eyes. “In this life each of us must decide three things for ourselves: who to worship, who to marry, and who to serve. Only Rimush can determine if you are suitable to lead him.

The idealized image of American citizenship pleased people like Roosevelt, but there was a negative side to the image of a pure American government of individualistic citizens. Those who seemed to support special interests were often purged from government, even if they had won elections fair and square. Their success in winning office simply proved to mainstream Americans that they were corrupting society and strengthened the resolve to get rid of them. In November 1898, for example, the “best citizens” of Wilmington, North Carolina, launched a race riot to purify the city government of the Populist/African American coalition that had won election in 1896.

At some point in our lives together, keeping her lovely family from trying to murder her became a full-time job for me. They were powerful, homicidal psychopaths, and they didn’t half-ass it. When they came to kill her, they gave it their all. Her eyes sparked. “You wanted to kill me at some point.” “No. The most I promised to do was to throw you out of a window.

I’ve dedicated many years to the survival of your family. There are others like me, brought here by your father, adrift and alone, strangers in an alien land. Your people are crying out in the wilderness, for they need a home. Will you turn a deaf ear to our desperate pleas? Will you reject us? Will you cast us out after all those generations of service?” “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Keelan muttered.

Yes, these are the thoughts that occupy my brain on a daily basis: How many steps to take. How many hairbrush strokes. Making sure I line up my proofreading pens just so. Making sure my make-up is just so. Sitting in my fucking desk chair just so. It’s exhausting living a “just so” life. And I don’t want to do it, but the idea of not counting, not arranging, not tic-ing sends my heart reeling with anxiety.

After Wilmington, the daily drinking stopped. He’d go a week, sometimes two, without anything stronger than diet soda. He’d wake up without a hangover, which was good. He’d wake up thirsty and miserable—wanting—which wasn’t. Then there would come a night. Or a weekend. Sometimes it was a Budweiser ad on TV that set him off—fresh-faced young people with nary a beergut among them, having cold ones after a vigorous volleyball game. Sometimes it was seeing a couple of nice-looking women having after-work drinks outside some pleasant little café, the kind of place with a French name and lots of hanging plants. The drinks were almost always the kind that came with little umbrellas. Sometimes it was a song on the radio. Once it was Styx, singing “Mr. Roboto.” When he was dry, he was completely dry. When he drank, he got drunk. If he

One time Desandra lost her patience and straight out asked him if he would ever make a bid for her spot, and he told her that only an idiot would want that job, because life was far too short for that kind of bullshit. Both Jim and Desandra tried to pull him to their respective sides, but Keelan proceeded to half-ass every task they had given him and was insufferably apathetic about werewolfing in general and following their orders in particular.

You’ve dated a shoplifter. A drug addict. A girl who claimed that her roommate kept her locked in a dumpster. She was admitted to Mulberry not too long ago, if I recall, right? They diagnosed her with schizophrenia.” Reece nodded reluctantly. “For the record, I only dated her for two months. And also for the record, she’s doing a lot better.” “Hmm,” Camden replied. “There’s the one who put salt on all her food then complained incessantly of bloating problems. Oh yeah! And the one who wanted you to tie her up and beat the shit out of her every night.” “All right already!” Reece snapped. “I get it. I haven’t had the best of luck with normal women.

the Wilmington coup of 1898 was even mentioned— If the Wilmington massacre of 1898 was even mentioned— (how would the massacred name it?) If the Campaign for White Supremacy leading up to the 1898 elections was even mentioned in the junior-year class on the history of North Carolina, the events were described as another eruption of Negro dissatisfaction which, once expressed, quieted. But in the story of the campaign (for white supremacy), the Negro had become unruly, needed instead to be ruled once more out, “Negro rule” ousted into the swampy fantastic as fear, as specter, as a promise. The phantasm of Negro rule was what the high school textbook never acknowledged had rallied the Wilmington race (war) of 1898, the riot planned and instigated, orderly disorder, the wrong the Redeemers sought to riot up, right justifying anything, even murder, the declaration to “choke the Cape Fear River with the carcasses” of whatever the Negro populating their fantasies was—threatening and promising domination, threatening revenge, promising a North Carolina governed by the many not the few. A thousand Black rapists (each vote a thousand more) haunted the campaign the Redeemers rallied to wage. They claimed the fight to protect their honor. For, if this time they didn’t prevail, who could imagine what they would be subject to?

From this distance, they looked like rocks. Unnaturally smooth and round rocks. “Were you going to poke them with a stick?” Keelan growled. Hakeem looked uncertain. “Yes?” “When you find freaky shit in the scary woods, you don’t poke it with a stick. It can explode in your face. What do you do instead?” Hakeem clearly didn’t know the answer to that question. I almost felt sorry for him. He had just turned eighteen this year, and this was likely his first real outing. “You ask the Consort. The Consort knows everything.” “Oh,” Hakeem said. Keelan pivoted to me. “Consort, please tell us what this is.” “I have no idea.” Keelan blinked, his teaching moment temporarily derailed. He took a second to recover. “How do we proceed?” I held my hand out, and Hakeem surrendered his branch. “I’m going to poke it with a stick.

Tell me what happened.” “He was here,” I said, hoarse. “He lit the can on fire and took the extinguisher nearby. I ran to the back to get the other and he pushed one of the shelves over on me.” The muscles in Holt’s jaw clenched and flexed beneath the stubble that lined his face. “Do you ever shave?” I wondered out loud. He smiled and rubbed at the gruffness. “I just trim it.” I nodded. “Do you like it?” he asked. Once again, I touched him, brazenly running my hand along his jaw. It was soft and rough at the same time—the perfect balance. “Yeah, I do.” “Good to know,” he said, taking my hand, linking our fingers together, and then his face grew serious again. “Obviously, I avoided the shelf.” “Did you get a look at his face?” I cringed at the hopefulness in his voice. “No,” I admitted. “I tried, but he kicked me.” His eyes went murderous. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. “He. Kicked. You,” he ground out, making each word into a pointed sentence. This time I kept my mouth shut. “Where?” he demanded. I wasn’t going to reply, but his eyes narrowed and I knew he would eventually make me tell him. I was going to have to tell the cops anyway. Weariness floated over me at the thought of enduring yet another one of their hours-long interrogations. I lifted my wrist, the bandage just dangling from the area now, not covering or protecting a thing. The waves of hatred that rolled off him made me sincerely glad that all that emotion wasn’t directed at me. He stared at my delicately injured skin (some of it had gotten torn in the struggle and was slick with some sort of puss… Eww, gross), and I kind of thought the top of his head might explode. I was going to reassure him that I was okay, but the police rushed inside, followed closely behind by a medic with a first aid kit. “She needs medical attention,” Holt barked, authority ringing through his tone. The medic hurried to comply, slamming down his kit and springing it open. Holt dropped his hand onto the man’s shoulder and squeezed. “Bryant, I don’t even want to see a flick of pain cross her face when you touch her.” Bryant looked at me and swallowed thickly. “Yes, Chief.” “Chief?” I said, looking up at Holt. “I’ll be right back,” he said to me in a much gentler tone and then moved away. Bryant was fumbling with his supplies, Holt’s words clearly making him nervous. “Relax.” I tried to soothe him. “He’s just on edge about what happened. I’m fine. I promise to smile the whole time you fix me up.” “But it’s going to hurt,” he blurted apologetically. “Yeah, I know. Just do it. I’ll be fine.” That seemed to calm him a little, and he got to work. It did hurt. Incredibly. I felt Holt’s stare and I glanced up, giving him a fake smile. He rolled his eyes and turned back to one of the officers. “Hey,” I said to the medic. “Why did you call him chief?” He gave me a quizzical look. “Arkain’s the Wilmington Fire Chief.” My eyes jerked back to Holt where he stood talking to the police force and the firefighters that responded to the call. His firefighters. “I didn’t realize,” I murmured. Bryant nodded. “I guess I can understand that. He’s a humble guy. Doesn’t like to throw his position around.” I made a sound of agreement as he applied something to my wrist that made my entire body jerk. I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out. “I’m sorry!” he said a little too loudly. Holt stiffened and he turned, looking at me over his shoulder. I blinked back the tears that flooded my eyes and waved at him with my free hand. He said a few more words to the men standing around him and then he left them, coming to stand over poor Bryant. I never realized how intimidating he was when he wanted to be.

While Joe Biden has throughout his career referred to himself as Middle Class Joe, a recent report in Politico titled “Biden Inc.” tells a different story. Biden has raked in millions in recent years, enabling him to live in a 12,000-square-foot home in McLean, Virginia, with 5 bedrooms, 10 bathrooms, marble fireplaces, a gym and sauna and parking for 20 cars. The Bidens also own a beach house in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, to complement their 7,000-square-foot lakeside home in Wilmington, Delaware.

The wholesale slaughter of African Americans in Colfax, Louisiana (1873), Wilmington, North Carolina (1898), and Ocoee, Florida (1920), resulted in the loss of hundreds of lives simply because whites were enraged that black people had voted.

In five tries he had not had one permanent success. Every one of his escapes (from Sweet Home, from Brandywine, from Alfred, Georgia, from Wilmington, from Northpoint) had been frustrated. Alone, undisguised, with visible skin, memorable hair and no whiteman to protect him, he never stayed uncaught. The longest had been when he ran with the convicts, stayed with the Cherokee, followed their advice and lived in hiding with the weaver woman in Wilmington, Delaware: three years. And in all those escapes he could not help being astonished by the beauty of this land that was not his. He hid in its breast, fingered its earth for food, clung to its banks to lap water and tried not to love it. On nights when the sky was personal, weak with the weight of its own stars, he made himself not love it. Its graveyards and lowlying rivers. Or just a house---solitary under a chinaberry tree; maybe a mule tethered and the light hitting its hide just so. Anything could stir him and he tried hard not to love it.

For King well understood that while war made progress possible, it also threatened progress, activating the backlashers, revanchists, and racists who run through U.S. history. The War of 1898 opened the military to more African Americans, giving them a mechanism to claim a place in the nation. The same year also witnessed, in Wilmington, North Carolina, white soldiers returning home and slaughtering African Americans, driving them from public office. For all that war turns reform into a transactional arrangement (some suffragists, for instance, traded their support for Woodrow Wilson's war in exchange for his support for their right to vote), and for all that war worked as a safety valve (helping to vent extremism outward), it also created the aggressive, security- and order-obsessed political culture King criticized.

Hamilton elite, most of whom deplored incendiary speech. They’d seen the damage it could do not only in the Atlanta riot (where the judge’s son-in-law commandeered state militia troops) but in Wilmington, North Carolina, in 1898, where distant Williams cousin Colonel Alfred Waddell had riled crowds of white men to a frenzy, resulting in wide-scale death and destruction aimed at ridding the city of black leaders and officeholders. Even though the ends in that case were to their liking, they preferred more legalistic means.

They showed him in a thousand ways they wanted to make him part of their club, but ... what was their club for? That was half the problem: they were trying to be so nice. Teddy Kennedy sent a shrink up to Wilmington, for the boys ... Kennedys knew about loss.

The Wilmington coup occurred toward the end of an ambitious, but ultimately failed, experiment with democratization across the U.S. South.

I need this woman like I need air. I’m not going to scare her off by rushing things. A good quarterback knows when to rush, and when to take their time. I’ve learned enough to know the best things in life are worth waiting for, and I’m pretty sure Kelsey Cole is one of those things.

A regular Ferris wheel from a Wilmington carnival was like a dwarf planet compared to this gigantic wheel.

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The first of these CDC-funded studies came out in November 2015.9 Using data for Wilmington, Delaware, the study discovered that the majority of young men who were involved in firearm crime were also involved in crime as juveniles. Many got expelled from school, were abused as children, dropped out of high school prior to graduation, or were unemployed. Then, the study simply asserts that government programs would help solve the problem. It suggests providing “life skills training,” “individual placement and support” for jobs, “multi-dimensional treatment foster care,” and something listed as “coping power.” It isn’t surprising that research funded by a Democratic administration would reach these policy conclusions.

Oh, it would be more than an inconvenience and we both knew it. “Agreed. That was a dick move.” She stared at the forest tunnel around the road, watching the SUVs disappear into it. “Ned is a manipulative bastard.” “Yes. He’s also desperate. We are who we are, baby. And I really do want those woods.” She groaned.

Ninja forest,” Conlan breathed. “We have the prettiest woods,” Ned said. “There are many suitable places to build a keep.” A keep. Like the Pack Keep. Damn it.

Jushur was right. My father was the king atop his mountain. He never forgot who he was or where he came from… Oh. “Sometimes I think we’ve reached an understanding,” I said. “And then you manipulate me like this.” He didn’t say anything.

He pulled me closer, and his mouth closed on mine. It was the kind of kiss that seared itself in your memory. It was possessive and hungry, infused with love and lust, a pledge and a declaration in one. It would chase you through the years, and decades later it would remind you, Do you remember how he kissed you? Do you remember what it felt like?

I belong with you, Kelsey. (...) Wherever you go, I want to be with you.

Rimush bowed deeply. “You are very generous, Sharratum.” “The Consort is merciful and kind to a fault,” Keelan said. The two of them stared at each other for half a second. “I’m sure he is,” Jushur said. Ha! A corner of Curran’s mouth curled slightly. He forced his face back into a neutral expression.

Ahoskie, Mary Margret still lives in North Carolina and visits places like Wilmington, Elizabeth City, Scotland Neck, and Topsail Island as often as she can.

White politicians claimed there had been massive voter fraud. They demanded that the election results be invalidated.

The shotgun and the Bible have never been separated by the Caucasian … It is not the Christianity that makes the Negro forgiving, it is two hundred and fifty years of forced coercion, cowardice and damaging instructions to play into the favor of the white man. Better get a gun for Christmas. Insure your lives Negroes, and then you are in line of equality.

In 1920, Mary McLeod Bethune, an American educator, stateswoman, philanthropist, humanitarian, womanist, and civil-rights activist traveled through her home state of Florida to encourage women to vote, facing tremendous obstacles at every step along the route. The night before Election Day in November 1920, white-robed Klansmen marched into Bethune’s girls’ school to intimidate the women who had gathered there to get ready to vote, aiming to prevent them from voting even though they had managed to get their names on the voter rolls. Newspapers in Wilmington, Delaware, reported that the numbers of Black women who wanted to register to vote were “unusually large,” but they were turned away for their alleged failure to “comply with Constitutional tests” without any specification of what these tests were. The Birmingham Black newspaper Voice of the People noted that only half a dozen Black women had been registered to vote because the state had applied the same restrictive rules for voting to colored women that they applied to colored men.

He watched them return from the war unbowed, full of rage, and more committed than ever to white supremacy.

Thanks for the pep talk.” “Whatever you do, don’t feed it to Curran.” “Ha-ha.” “Call me if you need help. Gods know you could use it.” “If I did call you, what would you do? You’ve gone soft in your country lord life, in your keep, with your wife baking delicious desserts for you and your gang of children.

I'm all fucking in with Kelsey Cole, and she has no fucking clue.

Lincoln arrived in Washington in secrecy. Rumors of a plan to assassinate the president-elect in Baltimore compelled Samuel M. Felton, the president of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railway, to engage Allan Pinkerton, the Chicago detective, to investigate. “It was made as certain as strong circumstantial and positive evidence could make it,” Felton recalled, “that there was a plot to burn the bridges and destroy the road, and murder Mr. Lincoln on his way to Washington.” From Rochester, Frederick Douglass observed, “Mr. Lincoln entered the Capital as the poor, hunted fugitive slave reaches the North, in disguise, seeking concealment, evading pursuers, by the underground railroad…not during the sunlight, but crawling and dodging under the sable wing of night.

I’m happy to come to Wilmington

The whole thing was with the object of striking terror to the man’s heart, so that he would never vote again,” she wrote. “For this was the object of the whole persecution; to make Nov. 10th a day to be remembered by the whole race for all time.

There has not been a single illegal act committed in the change of government. Simply, the old board went out, and the new board came in—strictly according to law.

the Charleston News and Courier, whose correspondent had shared drinks and meals with Wilmington’s white supremacists in the days leading up to the killings.

Under the subhead: IT WAS ALL PLANNED IN ADVANCE, the Charleston reporter detailed the secret white strategy in Wilmington:

Waddell arranged to have his version of events published in Collier’s Weekly,

Collier’s Weekly was a useful tool for disseminating the white narrative that the killings were necessary to remove a corrupt government dominated by blacks plotting an armed insurrection.

Northern newspapermen seemed torn between their scorn for Southerners and their widely held contempt for black capabilities. Most deplored the violence in Wilmington but not the outcome.

They welcomed the return of what they regarded as the natural order in America—whites ruling blacks. They seemed aggrieved only by the way Wilmington’s whites went about it.

The New York Journal correspondent on the scene equated the killings of November 10 to mass murder: The 10th was a bloody day in this one-horse town. They talk of culture and refinement. But could you have seen them on Thursday you would have thought them the bloodhounds of hell turned loose. There was no riot; simply the strong slaying the weak and helpless. The negroes had no firearms of any kind but every white man from 12 to seventy was handling guns … From every town around the whites poured in to exterminate the Negroes.

A new voter registration law gave registrars authority to ask a potential voter any “material” question regarding identity and qualifications. To help identify blacks for disqualification, the law required registrars to write down applicants’ race.

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You know what I mean,” I said. “You want to be the mother who all the other mothers gossip about? Like about how bad your parenting skills are?” Erica placed her hand on her hip. “Yeah, I do. Fuck ‘em. Fuck all those mothers. Fuck their playdates and mommy groups and fucking Melissa and Doug puzzles. Fuck their running strollers and baby couture and breastfeeding advice. Fuck their—

He came at me, slamming me up against the door, and kissing me hard. “God, you’re so fucking hot,” he said into my mouth. Well, this was confusing. “You and your fucking pens and the tapping and . . . oh my God . . .

And then you say things like ‘floosy’ and ‘goody-goody,’ and I just wanna tie you to the bed and violate you in all kinds of inappropriate ways.

Pretty nipples,” he said. “Pretty breasts.” Her breathing turned shallow. “Pretty arms and neck and collarbone,” he went on. “Pretty little thing.” “Reece . . .” He cocked his head and looked into her eyes. “I bet you have a pretty little pussy, too.

Beboppin’ Bailey,” he whispered. She chuckled. “Better Than All the Rest Bailey.” She nuzzled his neck. “Best Decision I Ever Made Bailey.” “Oh, stop it,” she said. “Bet on That Girl Bailey.” He kissed her forehead. “I have about a trillion more. We’re gonna be here a while.

Bailey Mitchell! Get your ass down here right now! I need to change your last name!” Reece said.

She was our guardian angel. Lucy saved us from mystery. Without her, our marriage would be ruined. Her disappearance created an open wound that we can't fix but the most devasting reality is probably the fact that her body will never be found. She is a living ghost in Wilmington, North Carolina.

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Up to January, 1865, the enemy occupied Fort Fisher, at the mouth of Cape Fear River and below the City of Wilmington. This port was of immense importance to the Confederates, because it formed their principal inlet for blockade runners by means of which they brought in from abroad such supplies and munitions of war as they could not produce at home. It was equally important to us to get possession of it, not only because it was desirable to cut off their supplies so as to insure a speedy termination of the war, but also because foreign governments, particularly the British Government, were constantly threatening that unless ours could maintain the blockade of that coast they should cease to recognize any blockade.

If you ever visit Wilmington, Delaware, you will probably hear about Tommy Burke. Or at least see his art work. He makes bird houses modeled on actual homes, and they are something of a local tradition. They are very nice to look at and very lucrative for this self-styled sixty-year-old, liberal hippy. In the summer of 2012 Tommy was returning home after a libation or two at the local watering hole when he passed through a crowd of forty black people—mostly teenagers—milling around outside of a party. Before he went fifty yards, he was surrounded by five black people from the group. They demanded money and threatened to beat him up. “They said I was just a guy who drank too much and I couldn’t fight back,” Burke said. “I took off my glasses, put my false teeth in my pocket and told them that was not going to happen.” Burke surprised the mob, and himself, when he punched one of his robbers.

I expect the world from you, as I should, because you’re amazing and talented and funny and sweet. You’re sexy as hell and clever and smart and capable of so many things. So yeah. I expect a hell of a lot from you. And I also expect that you can be successful in managing your OCD. I’m proud of you, Bailey.

Bailey. I’m gonna make you live a little.” “Hey! Now wait just a minute, buster! I do live. I recall being the surfer in this relationship. Not you.” “Oh my God ,” Reece replied, his face lighting up. “That’s perfect! Let’s fuck on your surfboard!” I stared at him. “Seriously. Let’s just—” He thrust his hips forward a few times. “— just fucking go at it on your surfboard.” “Oh my God,” I mumbled. “What? It’s totally hot.

In Delaware, violence among black teenagers was so rampant that the Black Elected Officials of New Castle County wrote a similar letter to the governor of Delaware, asking for the National Guard to patrol the streets of Wilmington.

The infamous Venus flytrap lives only in one tiny swath of natural habitat—a 60-mile radius around Wilmington, North Carolina.

THE NEXT DAY WAS RAIN-SOAKED and smelled of thick sweet caramel, warm coconut and ginger. A nearby bakery fanned its daily offerings. A lapis lazuli sky was blanketed by gunmetal gray clouds as it wept crocodile tears across the parched Los Angeles landscape. When Ivy was a child and she overheard adults talking about their break-ups, in her young feeble-formed mind, she imagined it in the most literal of essences. She once heard her mother speaking of her break up with an emotionally unavailable man. She said they broke up on 69th Street. Ivy visualized her mother and that man breaking into countless fragments, like a spilled box of jigsaw pieces. And she imagined them shattered in broken shards, being blown down the pavement of 69th Street. For some reason, on the drive home from Marcel’s apartment that next morning, all Ivy could think about was her mother and that faceless man in broken pieces, perhaps some aspects of them still stuck in cracks and crevices of the sidewalk, mistaken as grit. She couldn’t get the image of Marcel having his seizure out of her mind. It left a burning sensation in the center of her chest. An incessant flame torched her lungs, chest, and even the back door of her tongue. Witnessing someone you cared about experiencing a seizure was one of those things that scribed itself indelibly on the canvas of your mind. It was gut-wrenching. Graphic and out-of-body, it was the stuff that post traumatic stress syndrome was made of.

Backed by Klan-type organizations dubbed “Red Shirts” and “Rough Riders,” Democrats summoned thirty-two of the city’s prominent blacks and laid out their demands: All black officeholders in Wilmington must resign and Alex Manly must leave Wilmington. Then, while the black elite were formulating a response, the Democrats launched a wave of violence that steamrolled the scattered Negro opposition. The Republican-Populist administration was ousted and replaced with Democrats. More than 1,400 blacks abandoned their property and fled the city. One commentator called it “the nation’s first full-fledged coup d’état.”45

Never had any before.

Helen Sandland, an obstetrician in Wilmington, North Carolina, resigned in June 2005 after hospital administrators told her to increase her cesarean rate, which was a modest 10%.

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Robert Taylor Sewell is the owner of Rolling Tides Automotive Group in Wilmington, NC.

Cults exploited people, and those who got sucked in, especially on the bottom layer of the hierarchy, weren’t usually bad people. They were looking for something better, a little bit of hope, or a way to deal with overwhelming things in their life. Instead, they ended up as free labor, brainwashed and used, their vulnerabilities and fears molded into a leash that held them in place.

To say that Lady Wilmington was butterfly-like is to use a simile so jaded that one rebels. And yet no other word so conveys her ineffectuality, her prettiness, her air of busy futility, her restlessness, her fragility.

And that’s why we don’t poke random shit we find in the woods with a stick,” Keelan said.

Were you going to poke them with a stick?” Keelan growled.

When you find freaky shit in the scary woods, you don’t poke it with a stick. It can explode in your face. What do you do instead?

Tonight it was just me and him, and nothing else mattered.

You’re the best husband ever,” I told him. “No more fucking roofs, Kate. I mean it.

The Massachusetts branch of the Colored National League charged that McKinley had been apologetically silent during the reign of terror in Phoenix, South Carolina, and that he failed to intervene when Black people were massacred in Wilmington, North Carolina. During his trip South, they told McKinley, … you preached patience, industry, moderation to your long-suffering black fellow citizens, and patriotism, jingoism and imperialism to your white ones.25

I was referred to her by a guardian in northern Wilmington, a guy who handles people that are moving into nursing homes. They leave all their stuff there, and we have to empty the houses out. She provides a great service

When she arrived in Castine the USS Comfort was a tired, World War II vintage Hospital Ship. Her keel had been laid as a Maritime Commission C1-B hull, which was most frequently used in the construction of troop ships. Built by the Consolidated Steel Corporation in Wilmington, California, she was launched on March 18, 1943. As the USS Comfort (AH-6), a naval hospital ship, she served in the South Pacific during World War II, having a U.S. Navy crew and an Army medical staff. In 1945, the USS Comfort took part in the battle of Okinawa, and was struck by a kamikaze pilot, killing 28 of the ship’s personnel, including six nurses, and wounding 48 additional people. When she was decommissioned and struck from the Naval Vessel Register, her title was retained by the U.S. Army. Not being needed, she was taken up to the Hudson River Reserve Fleet near Bear Mountain in New York. In 1949 her title was returned to the Maritime Commission, who on August 24, 1953, assigned her to Maine Maritime Academy for use as a training ship.

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In the years after Reconstruction, on average, 150 people—almost all Black—were lynched every year in America. By 1892, lynchings peaked at 235. From Tulsa, Oklahoma, to Wilmington, North Carolina, and everywhere in between, a constant drum of racial violence bred a state of paranoia in most Black people, a worry that any step deemed wrong by white neighbors or authorities could end with their body dangling from a tree limb.

I’ve seen her kill a dragon,” Keelan told him in a confidential tone. Thomas jerked, startled. “Oh, it was glorious.” The werewolf raised his hand, drawing a wide arc across the sky. “The world was smoke and fire. The dragon spat flames like a jet of napalm to and fro. People died where they stood, and their bodies turned to ash. And she ran up its head and thrust two swords into the dragon’s eyes while her husband tore out its throat.

What happened to the dog?” I asked. “He sired many puppies and lived to a ripe old age. I kept a pillow by my bed, and I would drape a special blanket over him when the storms came. I buried both the pillow and the blanket with him when he died, so he wouldn’t be scared in the afterlife.

She lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. She had liked him from the moment she had met him Monday at school. No wonder he thought she had been acting weird on Wednesday when she couldn't even remember his name. But other memories came to her now. Ones that filled her with sadness. She saw her mother, father, and sister. Tears burned into her eyes. Having her memories suddenly restored made it feel as if they had died all over again. "You're crying." Derek pressed her against him and rubbed her back soothingly. She remembered the way she had struggled through the woodlot that first night and finally found shelter in the trashed boxes behind a liquor store. She had fallen into a deep sleep and was awakened the next morning by the woman who owned the store. That began her first foster placement. More than anything she had wanted a home. She had lived in so many different houses and towns. West Covina. Ontario. Long Beach. Wilmington. She had kept a key from each one. That's why there were so many on her key chain. She felt suddenly sorry for herself, sorry that she had lived like a stray.

Your roof is one of the most integral foundations to your Wilmington home. It serves many purposes for your house. Your roof braces the outside elements daily to protect everything you care about the inside of your home's walls. Your family and all of your possessions rest underneath of your roof, come rain or shine your roof's job is to keep your family dry.

I agree with you. I can't do this anymore either." She stiffened against him and made to turn around, but he stopped her. "I owe you an apology," he began quietly. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn't trust me. I know you have no reason to, not with my track record, but I want you to know you can. When I met you, my whole life changed. If I could, I would go back and tell you the truth about everything - my name, Erin, all of it. I had no idea you were going to be.. the one." This time when she tried to sit up, Josh didn't stop her. "What?" she asked with trembling lips. "You're the one, Nicole," he said softly, his eyes meeting hers. "When I woke up the next morning and you were gone. I went crazy trying to find you. I didn't even know where to begin to look And then, last month, when I came to your house? I couldn't believe my good fortune. I was getting a second chance. I should have been honest with you that first night when I came back and told you I loved you. I had been looking for you. Waiting for you. There is no other woman for me, Nicole. Not now. Not ever. It's you." Her eyes welled with tears. "I don't know how to believe you." The honest admission hurt for her to even say, and when she saw understanding in his eyes, she felt her first glimmer of hope. Taking her hands in his, he pulled her close. "Let me what I've been up to." he began. "First those meetings in RTP? Those were with real estate agents. I'm moving my business here." "But what about--?" "Shh," he interrupted. "After we spoke Monday night, I sort of went a little crazy. I knew I had already gotten the ball rolling with moving the business but I knew it wasn't enough. So I did a little restructuring and promoted two of my guys. They'll be handling most of the traveling from now on. I may still have to go to a job site from time to time, but if I do then I want you and Ellie with me." "Josh, that wasn't--" "Hear me out." He placed one finger on her lips. "I'd like to keep the house in Wilmington because it's right on the beach and I'd love for us to have a place to go just to get away, but if you'd like to pick one of your own, I can sell it." "What are you saying?" He smiled as he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "What I'm saying is I love you. I want a life with you. I want to be there every day for you and Ellie. I want us to have more babies, and I want to be there to see them grow. I love you Nicole." "Oh my..." "I didn't plan on doing this today," he said as he shifted and dropped to one knee on the floor in front of her. "And I don't have your ring with me; it's back at David's." He winked. "But, Nicole Taylor, I want you to be my wife. I love you, and i want to spend every day of my life with you. Will you marry me?" "I knew everything I needed to know about you three years ago. Coming here and finding you again and seeing the way you have loved and cared for our daughter? That just confirmed it all. You are everything I've ever wanted, all I ever needed." "Me?" she mouthed, unable to speak. He nodded. "Always.

This period saw the establishment of the first Swedish colony in America. On March 1, 1638, a large party of Swedes, who had crossed the ocean under the command of the celebrated Peter Minuit, took possession of land on the banks of the Delaware River. They called their settlement (on the site that later became Wilmington) Fort Christina, after their royal princess, and the colony which they were founding New Sweden. The first Lutheran congregation in America was established here by the Reverend Reorus Porkillus and five years later, the colonists from Delaware pushed into what is now Pennsylvania, where they founded the settlement of Upland, on the site where Chester now stands. Among the gifts these first Swedish colonists brought to America were the log cabin and the steam bath. The new colony, which never numbered more than 200 Swedes, did not long survive. In 1655, it was attacked and captured by the Dutch, who incorporated New Sweden into what was then New Netherland.

Cavalcade was a show with a dual purpose. On the surface its job was to sell America by dramatizing the positive aspects of the nation’s history. But its real purpose was to stem the tide of criticism directed at its longtime sponsor, the Du Pont Company, in the years after World War I. The du Ponts had been branded “merchants of death” because of the huge profits the company had made with gunpowders in the war. The company had a long tradition in America; its first plant was established near Wilmington, Del. in 1802. It was still family-controlled, and its directors were sensitive to charges of profiteering in wartime.

When Ashley walked out on the porch, Parker gave a loud, shrill whistle that echoed clear across the parking lot. “Parker Wilmington!” Ashley hissed. Trying to ignore the offended stares of onlookers, she marched over and planted her feet angrily in front of him. “What on earth has gotten into you? I am so sorry, Miranda.” Parker grinned. He lunged for Ashley, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her close. “I’m leaving. You staying or going?” “Go,” Miranda insisted. “This thing’s almost over. There’s no reason for you guys to hang around.” Ashley didn’t seem convinced. “Are you sure? The others are leaving, too, but I can stay. I can always walk home--” “No walking home,” Parker ordered. “I can always get a ride later with Etienne--” “No riding with Etienne!” Parker’s hands went up in despair. “Dammit, I’ll be competing with that guy for the rest of my life!” “And Gage, don’t forget,” Ashley teased. “And Gage.” Wrapping her in a hug, Parker steered Ashley toward the steps. “I’ll be competing with Etienne and Gage for the rest of my life!” Ashley gave Miranda a see-what-I-put-up-with sigh.

To her surprise, Ashley, Roo, and Parker dropped by together, bringing a perfectly arranged tray of gourmet hors d’oeuvres from Mrs. Wilmington’s favorite deli, a fresh pot of jambalaya from the girls’ mother--Miss Voncile--and a homemade pie from Roo. “We don’t know what kind of pie exactly,” Parker said his face perfectly composed. “But I’ve heard it’s the thought that counts.” A slight frown settled between Roo’s brows. She’d changed the streaks in her hair from dark purple to bright orange. “It’s something I haven’t tried before,” she said solemnly. “It’s made with cottage cheese.” Ashley instantly looked alarmed. “You didn’t use the cottage cheese in the fridge, did you?” “What other cottage cheese would I use?” “For God’s sake, Roo, that’s been in there for weeks. It’s nasty by now.” “Well, I’m sure the cooking part must have killed the bacteria, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Despite Parker’s vivid portrayal of death by poisoning, Miranda made a special point of exclaiming over the pie. Then she dumped it in the trash can as soon as they left.

Were all chains fancy like this one?” Ashley asked. Mrs. Wilmington was delighted to elaborate. “Oh no, they could be made of many different materials.” Etienne’s body tensed. Miranda felt the quick catch of his muscles…the slide of his hands up her back…as he slowly gripped her shoulders. And she knew the realization had struck both of them at the exact same time. “They could be gold-filled or platinum,” Mrs. Wilmington rattled on. “Or expensive leather, or studded with precious stones. But some were much plainer--a ribbon, or a common strap. Even string. Oh, and some women even wove them out of their hair.” The silence was sudden and stifling. Five bodies held together by an undercurrent of shock. Mrs. Wilmington was clueless about the response she’d just caused. She tapped again on the window glass. “Yes, indeed,” she said, “that was the truest devotion. To have a watch chain woven from your sweetheart’s hair.

Ah, yes,” Mrs. Wilmington said, apparently recognizing the picture. “All the roses. Aren’t they lovely?” With a gentle tug, Gage coaxed the paper from Miranda’s hand. She didn’t even realize she’d grabbed it away from him. “What about the roses?” gage’s tone was casual, but Miranda could hear an underlying hint of excitement. “There’s so many of them.” “And hundreds more you can’t even see here,” Parker’s mother informed him. “Red roses had a special significance at the opera house.” Miranda had begun to shiver. From some distant place, she was vaguely aware of Gage’s hand on her back. “And,” the woman added, “when red roses lined the driveway and spilled from every door and window of the opera house, it always meant that Mademoiselle DuVrey was performing that night.” “And why was that?” Roo stared pensively into Mrs. Wilmington’s enraptured face. “Did she have body odor or offensive personal habits?” Gage choked down a laugh. Ashley looked horrified. Etienne shifted from one foot to the other and mumbled under his breath. Mrs. Wilmington maintained her dignity.

Okay, Parker. Enrapture us once again with your dullness.” “You mean, my evil courthouse.” Giving a mock shudder, Parker lounged comfortably back on the bed. “Evil judge. Unfair convictions. Botched hangings. Judge swings from rafters and dies a slow, painful death. Judge gets exactly what he deserves. Nothing we don’t already know.” Ashley was clearly annoyed. “That’s it?” “What else do you want?” “Some historical facts would be nice.” “Like what?” “Well, tell us something about the prisoners. What kinds of crimes did they commit?” “I don’t know anything about the prisoners. Why would I need to know that?” “Parker!” “Come on, crime is crime. You got murder. Stealing. Murder. Treason. Murder. Oh, and did I mention murder?” “That’s incredibly historical.” Roo’s stare was bland. “And incredibly descriptive. Wow. I feel like I was there.” Parker grimaced. “Okay, fine. Let me run through the prisoners for you. Murderers. Thieves. Murderers. Spies. Murderers. Oh, and did I happen to mention killers, too?” Frowning, Ashley shook her finger at him. “I will say this one more time. If you mess up our project--” “Miranda!” Parker broke in quickly. “Update us on your dashing, see-through soldier!” “Parker Wilmington, shame on you. Don’t call him that. And Miranda has enough on her shoulders right now without you being so insensitive.

It’s all my fault,” Ashley sobbed. “What if she’s dead?” The four of them were squeezed tightly into Etienne’s truck. With every shift of the clutch and each turn of the wheel, Etienne’s right arm jabbed sharply into Miranda’s side, and Ashley bounced back and forth between Miranda’s lap and Parker’s. The old Chevy truck, way past its prime, rattled and clanked and groaned at every pothole and puddle, but it hugged the roads like glue. “It’s not your fault,” Parker reassured Ashley for the dozenth time. “You didn’t know what she was planning to do. How could it be your fault?” “The water always gets so deep at the Falls. The bayou always floods. If she’s dead--” “She’s not dead.” He paused, then mumbled, “I couldn’t be that lucky.” “Parker Wilmington, I can’t even believe you said--” “I was kidding, Ash. Okay, sorry, bad timing, but I was kidding, okay? Roo’s fine. And none of this is your fault.” Gulping down a hiccup, Ashley glared at him. “You’re right. It’s your fault.” “My fault?” “You know she caught you drinking in the parking lot!” “Just a little! I swear, I only had one sip--” “You’re heartless and insensitive, and you hate my sister.” “Christ, Ashley, I don’t hate your sister--” “You told her I care more about you than I do about her, and that’s not true!” “I know it’s not--and Roo knows it’s not. It was a joke! I wasn’t serious!” “I’m always defending you, and Roo’s always been smarter than me. Roo would never get involved with somebody like you.” Parker shot Etienne another helpless glance. “Is that good or bad?” “I wouldn’t be doing any more talking right now, if I were you,” Etienne advised him. “Roo looks out for me. Roo has better sense than I do,” Ashley went on miserably. “It’s always been that way, ever since we were little. She’s always had the brains. And I’ve always had…not the brains.” Etienne’s eyes and Parker’s eyes met behind Ashley’s back. “Not going there,” Etienne mumbled.

It’s not your fault,” Parker reassured Ashley for the dozenth time. “You didn’t know what she was planning to do. How could it be your fault?” “The water always gets so deep at the Falls. The bayou always floods. If she’s dead--” “She’s not dead.” He paused, then mumbled, “I couldn’t be that lucky.” “Parker Wilmington, I can’t even believe you said--” “I was kidding, Ash. Okay, sorry, bad timing, but I was kidding, okay? Roo’s fine. And none of this is your fault.” Gulping down a hiccup, Ashley glared at him. “You’re right. It’s your fault.

I think…someone needs to go.” As the three of them stared at one another, Etienne pushed away from the wall. “No.” Parker grabbed Etienne’s arm. “I’ll go.” Surprise crept slowly over Etienne’s face. Instinctively, Miranda glanced at Ashley, who seemed oddly frozen. “Parker--” Ashley began, but Etienne interrupted. “I know the way better than you do,” he said firmly. “Like I haven’t been to your house a million times?” Grinning, Parker shrugged and jerked his chin in Gage’s direction. “You got one too sick to go, two too tired to go, and her”--he winked at Miranda--“too damn cute to go. And besides, who’s the athlete around here anyway?” “No, Parker. I--” “Look.” The grin faded from Parker’s lips. He moved closer to Etienne, putting his back to Roo and Ashley so they couldn’t hear. His voice was soft now, and serious. “You and Gage, you’re each other’s family. If something happened to you--” He broke off, glanced away, then pulled his eyes back to Etienne. “What would Gage do if something happened to you? Hell, what would any of us do if something happened to you?” Their gazes held steady. Parker swallowed…gave a slight nod. “Let me do this, Etienne. I want to.” Silence fell between them. A silence louder, wider, deeper than any storm. It was Ashley who broke it. “Parker, what’s happening?” Almost guiltily, Miranda jumped. She’d been so engrossed in the boys’ conversation, she hadn’t noticed Ashley approaching. At once Parker and Etienne turned toward Ashley, their expressions somber. “Parker?” Ashley asked again. But then, as she stared long and hard at the boys, a slow dawn of awareness crept over her. “No, Parker. Please don’t be stupid.” Miranda waited for Roo’s usual insults. Roo kept silent. “Hey, I’m up for this.” Grin firmly back in place, Parker struck a heroic pose. “Parker Wilmington--explorer, adventurer, and super-swimmer!

Parker?” Ashley asked again. But then, as she stared long and hard at the boys, a slow dawn of awareness crept over her. “No, Parker. Please don’t be stupid.” Miranda waited for Roo’s usual insults. Roo kept silent. “Hey, I’m up for this.” Grin firmly back in place, Parker struck a heroic pose. “Parker Wilmington--explorer, adventurer, and super-swimmer!” “Parker, you can’t go out there--” “Battling the elements! Wrestling man-eating alligators! Laughing in the face of danger!” “Parker, I’m serious!” Ashley was close to tears. “It’s too far to Etienne’s house!” “Hey, I need the exercise. And the fresh air. And the good news is: I won’t even have to worry about dehydration.” But the tears came now, rolling down Ashley’s cheeks, while Etienne tactfully moved away and Miranda joined him. “Please.” Slipping her arms around Parker’s waist, Ashley leaned into him, peered up at him. “It’s too horrible out there. I’m scared.” Parker raised his arms, flexed his muscles. “Fear? Fear is foreign to me!

Please.” Slipping her arms around Parker’s waist, Ashley leaned into him, peered up at him. “It’s too horrible out there. I’m scared.” Parker raised his arms, flexed his muscles. “Fear? Fear is foreign to me!” “Don’t joke about this! I’m really scared something bad will happen. I just feel it.” “Ash, nothing bad is going to happen. I’ll be careful, okay? I’ll be safe.” Miranda suddenly realized she’d been eavesdropping. She hadn’t meant to intrude on their private conversation, yet she’d been watching their faces and hearing every word. An eerie chill had settled at the base of her spine. She felt anxious and restless and afraid. She glanced at Roo. Roo hadn’t said anything in such a long time, just sitting there holding gage, her head bent over his face. Miranda’s heart reached out to Roo, but her own uneasiness persisted. Something dangerous, something tragic… Something familiar… Reluctantly she turned her attention to Ashley and Parker. Though Ashley’s features were pale and drawn, she seemed composed now, even quietly resigned. Parker was squeezing her in a tight hug. “You better hurry, Parker Wilmington.” Ashley’s voice was muffled against his chest. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.” Parker rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I promise.” “Tonight.” “Tonight,” Parker echoed dutifully. “Cross your heart.” “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ashley, I said I’d be back, didn’t I? Don’t I always come back? Even when you don’t want me to?

You better hurry, Parker Wilmington.” Ashley’s voice was muffled against his chest. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.” Parker rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I promise.” “Tonight.” “Tonight,” Parker echoed dutifully. “Cross your heart.” “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ashley, I said I’d be back, didn’t I? Don’t I always come back? Even when you don’t want me to?” Miranda’s breath caught in her throat. Fear squeezed in her chest. It can’t be…it’s impossible. For she knew now why she’d listened so intently to Ashley and Parker, why their conversation had seemed so familiar… Oh, God, no… “Parker,” she whispered. Starting forward, she saw Ashley and Etienne standing at the edge of the shelter. Ashley was shivering, and Etienne’s arm was around her shoulders. Miranda tried to call out, to shout a warning, to stop Parker from going, but he’d already dashed into the rain; she could already see the beam of his flashlight growing smaller and dimmer, swallowed by the storm. Yet his words were still here. They lingered in this dark, frightening, abandoned place--the words he’d spoken to Ashley, and the words Ashley had spoken to him. Prophetic words and fatal words. Words that tore at Miranda’s heart and echoed over and over again in her mind. The words Nathan and Ellena had spoken… Right before the end.

You better hurry, Parker Wilmington.” Ashley’s voice was muffled against his chest. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.” Parker rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I promise.” “Tonight.” “Tonight,” Parker echoed dutifully. “Cross your heart.” “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ashley, I said I’d be back, didn’t I? Don’t I always come back? Even when you don’t want me to?

Okay, y’all,” Ashley announced. “This is our dress rehearsal. Our last chance to get everything perfect before the big night tomorrow. Any questions? Ideas? Opinions?” “Yeah, I have an idea.” Slumped on the front steps of the Battlefield Inn, Parker choked down a mouthful of cough syrup and tried not to speak above a whisper. “Let’s call it off. That would really make it perfect. No more ghost tour.” “Walk of the Spirits,” Ashley corrected him, irritated. “Walk of the Spirits. And we’re not calling it off. After all this time? All this work?” “All this suffering?” Roo added. She was perched one step below Parker, and was digging through her pockets for a cigarette. Her face still bore some major bruises from the storm, and a wide gash zigzagged across her forehead, not quite healed. She’d taken great pains to highlight this zigzag with dark, red lipstick. “You like suffering,” Parker reminded her. “And, excuse me, but you’re not the one with pneumonia.” "You don’t have pneumonia. You’re just jealous because Gage was in worse shape than you, and he got more attention.” “Well, it’s almost pneumonia. It’s turning into pneumonia.” Tensing, Parker let out a gigantic sneeze. “Shit, I hate this. I feel like my brain’s ten times its normal size.” Roo gave him a bland stare. “You know, when people lose a leg or an arm, they think they still feel it, even though it’s not really there.” “Will you two behave?” Ashley scolded. “And, Parker, where’s that newspaper article your mom was going to give us?” “Somewhere.” Parker thought a moment, then shrugged. “In my car, I think.” “Well, will you please go get it? The sooner we start, the sooner we can all go home.” “She’s right.” Though unable to hold back a laugh, Miranda came loyally to Ashley’s rescue. “Let’s just walk it through, and read the script, and make sure we’ve covered all the basic information. Ashley, what about your costume?” “I’ve got the final fitting after I leave here.” Ashley’s eyes shone with excitement. “Can you believe Mrs. Wilmington went to all that trouble to make it for me?” “She didn’t.” Parker scowled. “She got her dressmaker, or designer, or whoever the hell she calls him, to make it for you.” “Parker, that doesn’t matter--it was still really nice of your mother to do that.” “You’re a southern belle--how could she resist that?” Ashley shot Miranda a grateful smile. “That was Miranda’s idea.” “It made sense,” Miranda explained. “A costume sets the mood. It’s all about southern history and heritage, so our tour guide should be a southern hostess--hoopskirt and all.” “And I’m the only one who gets to dress up! And I can’t wait to wear it! It’s like cotton candy!” Roo arched an eyebrow. “Sticky?” “No! All pink and fluffy and…sweet. I love the way I feel in it.” “I agree,” Parker said hoarsely. “I love the way you feel in it, too. And I love the way you feel out of it even better.” Roo stared at him. “Wow. You should write greeting cards.

Ashley, what about your costume?” “I’ve got the final fitting after I leave here.” Ashley’s eyes shone with excitement. “Can you believe Mrs. Wilmington went to all that trouble to make it for me?” “She didn’t.” Parker scowled. “She got her dressmaker, or designer, or whoever the hell she calls him, to make it for you.” “Parker, that doesn’t matter--it was still really nice of your mother to do that.” “You’re a southern belle--how could she resist that?” Ashley shot Miranda a grateful smile. “That was Miranda’s idea.” “It made sense,” Miranda explained. “A costume sets the mood. It’s all about southern history and heritage, so our tour guide should be a southern hostess--hoopskirt and all.” “And I’m the only one who gets to dress up! And I can’t wait to wear it! It’s like cotton candy!” Roo arched an eyebrow. “Sticky?” “No! All pink and fluffy and…sweet. I love the way I feel in it.” “I agree,” Parker said hoarsely. “I love the way you feel in it, too. And I love the way you feel out of it even better.” Roo stared at him. “Wow. You should write greeting cards.

I wish we could put Nathan and Ellena and Travis on our walk.” Ashley sighed. “It just doesn’t seem complete without them.” “They’re on our walk.” Taking Ashley’s notebook, Roo calmly pointed to the neatly lettered, neatly organized tour script. “See? Right here. Magnolia Gallery. Opera house fire.” “That’s not what I mean. Each of them really, really loved somebody very much. That’s what I want people to remember.” Ashley put a hand over her heart. “The loves that never die.” “The loves that made people die.” Parker downed another swig of cough medicine, capped the bottle, then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Sorry, Ash, but that’s not the way of the world. If you tell their real stories, people will only remember all the dumb mistakes they made. Like…oh, you know…torture and murder and arson and treason and--” “Ah, yes,” Roo acknowledged coolly. “Parker Wilmington, the last of the true romantics.” Retrieving her notebook, Ashley hugged it to her chest. Her sigh was more wistful this time. “I know you’re right. I mean, we can’t ever give away their real secrets. Not on the Walk of the Spirits…not to anybody…not ever. I mean, Nathan and Ellena and Travis lived and sacrificed and died, protecting those secrets about themselves. If we told their secrets, it would be like betraying them all over again.” “Or we could call the tabloids and paparazzi,” Parker deadpanned. “They pay big money for secrets and betrayals.” “Parker Wilmington, if I told even half your secrets and betrayals, I’d be a very rich woman!” Even Parker looked amused as the group broke into raucous applause. Looking entirely pleased with herself, Ashley curtsied, then motioned them all toward the Brickway.

Each of them really, really loved somebody very much. That’s what I want people to remember.” Ashley put a hand over her heart. “The loves that never die.” “The loves that made people die.” Parker downed another swig of cough medicine, capped the bottle, then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Sorry, Ash, but that’s not the way of the world. If you tell their real stories, people will only remember all the dumb mistakes they made. Like…oh, you know…torture and murder and arson and treason and--” “Ah, yes,” Roo acknowledged coolly. “Parker Wilmington, the last of the true romantics.

I mean, Nathan and Ellena and Travis lived and sacrificed and died, protecting those secrets about themselves. If we told their secrets, it would be like betraying them all over again.” “Or we could call the tabloids and paparazzi,” Parker deadpanned. “They pay big money for secrets and betrayals.” “Parker Wilmington, if I told even half your secrets and betrayals, I’d be a very rich woman!” Even Parker looked amused as the group broke into raucous applause.

What if nobody comes?” Ashley wrung her hands. “They’ll show up,” Roo assured her. “If nobody shows up, it’ll be my absolute worst nightmare.” Blowing his nose into a tissue, Parker looked up with bleary eyes. “And if you don’t stop talking about it, it’ll be my absolute worst nightmare.” “Parker Wilmington, how can you say that? For the millionth time, this counts for half our grade. And we can’t very well have a Walk of the Spirits if there’s nobody to walk with.” Miranda opted for practicality. “Well, we know Miss Dupree and our class will be here. And I know my mom and Aunt Teeta are coming.” “My folks, too,” Gage added. “And some of the other kids at school--they said they were interested.” “Yeah. In laughing at us.” Flopping into a chair, Parker slid low on his spine. His voice was even hoarser than yesterday, and he winced each time he tried to talk. “Shit, I’ll be glad when this is over.” Etienne struggled to keep a straight face. “How come? You scared you might see a real ghost?

He lies on the sofa with a book on his belly and a blanket over his head. I know he’s alive because occasionally he snores.” —Nancy, Wilmington, DE

As the British withdrew first from Yorktown and Wilmington, then Savannah and Charleston, and finally New York and St. Augustine, they carried on their ships a great many African Americans. Estimates vary as to the numbers, but historians estimate that it was in the tens of thousands.121 At first glance, it might appear that such a mass exodus signaled freedom and new beginnings, but the vast majority—in the vicinity of 80 percent—remained enslaved, the property of loyalist émigrés or British officials.122 Some of these had always belonged to loyalist masters; others had escaped to the British to find freedom, only to be commandeered by army officers or given to loyalists as compensation for lost property.

What the states could not accomplish by law, they were more than willing to achieve by violence. The wholesale slaughter of African Americans in Colfax, Louisiana (1873), Wilmington, North Carolina (1898), and Ocoee, Florida (1920), resulted in the loss of hundreds of lives simply because whites were enraged that black people had voted.

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unleashed a terrifying new menace in the eastern counties—the majority black vote.

Fusionists managed to win the statewide election in 1894 and seize control of the North Carolina legislature.

She blamed black men’s right to vote; it led them to believe they stood

on an equal footing with white men—not only politically, but socially.

now, in August 1898, Felton’s declarations on race and rape were useful to Democrats.

the women of that race are not any more particular in the matter of clandestine meetings with colored men than the white men with colored women. Meetings of this kind go on for some time until the womans infatuation or the mans boldness bring attention to them and the man is lynched for rape.

Teach your men purity. Let virtue be something more than an excuse for them to intimidate and torture a helpless people. Tell your men that it is no worse for a black man to be intimate

with a white woman, than for a white man to be intimate with a colored woman.

Manly had placed the blame for sex between black men and white women on white men—for failing to properly protect their supposedly cherished and virtuous women, reduced in Manly’s view to mere “property.” He upended the core white conviction that any sex act between a black man and a white woman could only be rape.

white night riders fanned out into the countryside. Many wore red shirts or vests, along with distinctive white caps, evocative of the hoods once worn by Klansmen. Scores of black farmers and laborers were roused from their beds and threatened with death if they

registered to vote. Many were beaten or whipped—attacks that came to be known as “white-capping.

Negro must either be frightened away from the polls or else (2) he must be forcibly resisted when he undertook to deposit his ballot.

In a matter of months, their campaign had intimidated and terrified thousands of black men into staying home from the polls; of the state’s roughly one hundred thousand eligible black voters, fewer than half had voted.

The campaign had decisively snatched control of the state legislature from Republicans and Populists, who had won a two-thirds majority in 1896. Democrats now held ninety-four seats in the state’s

Wilmington Declaration of Independence” said the United States Constitution envisioned a government of enlightened men and “did not contemplate for their descendants a subjection to an inferior race.

Visiting white reporters from New York, Chicago, Atlanta, and elsewhere filed their dispatches by telegraph, providing not only moment-to-moment updates but also a nearly unanimous portrayal of the white supremacy campaign as a welcome corrective to corrupt Negro rule.

Russell’s decision was pivotal: he gave a committed white supremacist unchecked authority to unleash state troops against black citizens—the very men whose votes had put Russell in office.

The victory sent shock waves across the South. White men willing to join blacks in voting against white supremacist interests in a leading Redeemer state like North Carolina represented an existential threat to white supremacy everywhere—from Virginia to Louisiana.