Spell For Sophia (18 page)

I held out my hand, startled anew to find it silver and transparent. The college boys bore down on the table.
Had Sophia been here?
I passed my hand over the table, reading its energy the way I had seen Thor read a client's energy on Psychic Sampler Day.
Cool. Cool. Cool. Warm!
My hand stopped an inch above the napkin dispenser.

"Any luck?" Yemaya's voice sounded inside my head.

I flinched and glanced up. Her silver astral body hovered on the other side of the table. I brightened with relief. "You found me!"

"I almost lost you when you blasted into the tunnel." She glanced down at the table. "What's with the napkin dispenser?"

"The metal retained some of Sophia's energy."

"Seriously?" Yemaya glided to my side, eluding the lead Tulane guy. The boy grabbed the chair she'd been hovering over and pulled it back.

"I'm pretty sure it was her. It felt like something was off, though." I didn't tell her the energy had made my palm ache. Thor said it happens when a client's mental or physical illness is beyond his help, beyond Reiki.

Yemaya's hand passed through mine, sending an icy draft up my spectral arm. She placed her palm a whisper above the canister and angled her head. The other two guys dressed in jeans and green Tulane hoodies joined the first. One reached through me to grab the chair.

"Hey!" I said. Oblivious, the boy rotated the chair and straddled it, reminding me of Aidan.

"We have to go." Yemaya flew over the low decorative fence and out of the Café Du Monde. Together we glided up the outdoor ramp, keeping as much space as possible between ourselves and the mule-drawn carriages across the street. Yemaya flew up to a monument topped with a replica Civil War cannon and hovered.

My gaze leapt past the row of carriages to Jackson Square and the distant spires of Saint Louis Cathedral. "Something weird is going on. A few minutes ago, all this—" I gestured to the line of pedicabs and carriages, "—disappeared and I saw Jackson Square as it had been back in Lincoln's time, maybe earlier. Do you think it means Sophia and Shiloh somehow time traveled?"

Yemaya shook her head. "I don't know. I hope not. If we find Bayou, then maybe she can tell us." She hugged her arms to her luminous body and veered away from the French Quarter.

Guilt weighed upon me. My zeal to find Sophia had forced Yemaya back to the city where her best friend had died. Twice. Even worse, the Walk-in — Amélie's murderer — could be anyone in the crowd.

"You okay?" I asked.

Yemaya shrugged one shoulder. "We're a few blocks from where it happened." She swung toward the river and lifted her chin. "The drums have shifted. Can you hear them?"

I closed my eyes and blocked out the tourist chatter and the
clip-clop
of horseshoes against the pavement. As those sounds receded, others came forth. A distant streetcar rumbled up to a station between two busy streets. A breeze stirred off the Mississippi River. In a distant parish, rain pattered against the window of a boat rental company. The raindrops became drumbeats. Not summoning beats. Not a leap into the Void volley. The rhythm signaled Get-It-Done. My anxiety sparked. How much time did we have before the drums sped up, warning us to flee home?

"We need to do something," Yemaya said. "I don't know if the past is overlaying the present or what, but I can't shake the feeling something awful is about to happen."

"When I chased dark entities at Spiral Journeys, I followed their vapor trail. Do you think Sophia might have left some kind of trail?"

"It's worth checking."

"One problem," I confessed. "The dragon helped me see the vapors, and I haven't felt its presence since it pitched me through the white light."

"Maybe you don't need it when you're tracking a friend. Let's concentrate on the subtle energy you found on the napkin holder. Maybe it left a trail we can follow." Yemaya faced Café Du Monde, raised her arm to shoulder level, and unfurled her pendulum. I swiveled toward the café and echoed her movement. My rose quartz point bobbed at the end of its chain.
Show me Sophia's trail.

The high-pitched drums resumed their persistent, driving beat. A tree blocked my view of Café Du Monde, so I pulled up a mental image of the table where Sophia had sat. The quartz tip drew a tiny circle in the air.
Show me Sophia's trail,
I insisted. The quartz point came to a standstill.

"Nothing," Yemaya reported. "The drums will shift soon and we'll have to leave. I should try and connect with Bayou."

"I want to stay here and try some more. But go. Just try to find me before we have to enter the Void."

"If
we enter the Void. I hope we get the underground passage for the return trip. No heights. No Void madness." She flew off.

I rubbed my spectral cheeks and eyes. Maybe I needed to come at the problem in a different way. I raised the pendulum again and focused on the rose quartz.
Please help me find Sophia.

The gemstone tip resumed drawing a tiny circle in the air. I blocked out everything except the stone and my plea for help. The pendulum began swinging to one side, faintly at first, then more and more emphatically.

Come on. You can do it.

The pendulum swung outward and pulled me down the ramp toward the Café Du Monde. For a wild moment I thought Sophia had returned. I kept my gaze locked on the rose quartz. Like a hound after a scent, the pendulum tugged me over the low wrought-iron fence and back to the table where the three guys still sat.

My hopes crashed.
She's not here,
I told the pendulum.
Where is Sophia?

The pendulum heaved forward with such force it almost flew out of my hand. I managed to catch the end of it — a small rose quartz heart — before it could slip from my grasp. The chain wobbled. I gaped at the tip, which was trained like an arrow at one of the college guys' heart.

No, I realized. It's pointing at the lettering on his hoodie.

Tulane University.

Chapter Nineteen

Sophia

"People are searching for you," the ghost said.

I stiffened. "What people?"

"Did you say something?" Breaux broke his surveillance of Nervous Guy and glanced at me.

"Are you still clairvoyant?" I tilted my head toward the window. "What do you see?"

His brow crinkled, but he leaned forward, his hands planted on his thighs while he stared out the window. "Nothing unusual. Antebellum mansions. The trees are a lot taller. Many of the cars are unfamiliar models. Otherwise, not much has changed in the future. Why?"

The ghost puffed her lips into a pout. "He can't see me."

I lowered my voice and told Breaux, "We have company."

"Grand-mère?"

"No. She's—"

"Family. They call me Bayou. What happened to his head?"

"Boating accident," I explained.

"The ancestors warned me he needed help." The ghost backed away from the window, leaving water droplets on the glass. She raised her hand as though it were a stop sign. "Don't go anywhere. I need to tell them I found you."

"Tell who?" I pressed my palm against the pane.

The ghost vanished.

"Whom are you talking to?" Breaux asked.

I shifted so my mouth was close to his ear and whispered, "A ghost relative of yours, about your age. Said she's called Bayou. Probably died in the seventies. Her body must be in a swamp somewhere. She said the ancestors—"

"Hey, man."

My skin prickled. Breaux touched my arm, then twisted in the seat toward Nervous Guy. I shadowed Breaux's back and peered over his shoulder. Across the narrow aisle, Nervous Guy swiped his forefinger beneath his eye, leaving a wet stain.

"Yo," Breaux answered.

Nervous Guy's hand dropped to his man-purse. His fingers picked at the smooth black leather flap, unsnapping it and then snapping it. "Did it hurt much?" He pointed to the gash above Breaux's eye.

Breaux touched the bloody bandana. "Like crazy."

"Knife fight?" Both of Nervous Guy's hands worked the flap now. Snap. Unsnap. Snap. Unsnap.

"Boating accident," Breaux corrected.

"Oh." Snap-unsnap-snap-unsnap-snap. Nervous Guy grew more agitated. The brass padlock at his throat oozed major bad vibes. "A knife wound would have been worse. Now, silver knives…" His eyebrows arched. "Ya know." He raised the black clutch to his face, flipped back the flap, and peered at the contents.

Silver knives?
I glanced down at the empty sheath at my hip. Worry stabbed anew. Mam'zelle had insisted I always carry a sterling silver knife so I could cut the psychic cords connecting me to my bio-parents.
How could I have left it on the floor of the magic room?
Surely Nervous Guy hadn't meant
that
kind of silver knife.

Snap-unsnap-snap-unsnap-snap.

Or maybe he did.

I checked the window, half-hoping the ghost had returned with a spectral cavalry. Not seeing her, I ignored the soreness in my ribs and eased my hand toward the backpack at Breaux's feet. The thought of casting a binding hex sent bile rising in my throat. The magic was powerful, ugly, and unforgiving. And if I failed to word the hex correctly, then serious karmic consequences would befall Nervous Guy
and
me. The last thing I wanted was some nut case popping up in my future incarnations. But if he became more unhinged, I would cast the hex. I'd protect Breaux no matter the cost. I just hoped I could reach the cords and one of the spirit dolls in time.

"Aren't all knives silver?" Breaux asked.

"Not all knives are pure silver," Nervous Guy and I answered in unison.
Crap.
"Not one hundred percent pure," I corrected. "Sterling silver knives are ninety-two-point-five percent pure."

The dude's jaw dropped. Hope bloomed in his wild, widening eyes. He clutched the heavy-looking padlock and tried to yank it from its thick chain. After a few seconds he gave up and lowered his hand to his lap. His shoulders rolled forward and he closed his eyes.

I snatched up the backpack. Breaux shifted so he half-faced the guy. I nestled the pack against Breaux's back where my movements would be shielded. Keeping my elbows tucked close to my torso, I began the slow zipper slide.

I glanced across the aisle. Nervous Guy raised his chin and opened his eyes. I did a double take, glancing away and then riveting back. He appeared older. His cheekbones seemed higher, sharper. His fleshy mouth had a new, cruel cast. Coffee-colored flecks darkened his light brown eyes when he glanced down at his clothes. His features scrunched up in distaste as though he were noticing the tight, angry outfit for the first time. He slanted into the aisle like he owned it and pinned me with a predatory gaze.

"What's with the satchel?" His voice had dropped an octave.

Breaux flexed his hands so his fingers pointed to the roof of the streetcar, displaying his palms in a placating gesture. "Nothing special about the pack. We're just tourists."

"Truly?" Sarcasm dripped from his voice like summer rain off a cypress tree. "You resemble our do-gooder congressman. You a relative of his?"

I paused mid-unzip. "Never met the man," I said over Breaux's shoulder.

A woman two rows toward the front said in a loud excited voice, "Look at this house! I bet some movie star owns it."

Nervous Guy, or whoever he had become, swiveled toward the empty window seat on his left. While he glanced out, I unzipped the pack with a quick tug. He whipped back toward us and eyed me.

Breaux gestured to the guy's man-purse. "Cool. Real leather?"

"Maybe." His face morphed back into Nervous Guy, and he hid the purse with his hands.

I regretted overstuffing the backpack. I had to tilt it toward me to peer inside. Restless movements in several other seats warned me the next stop was approaching. I scooted so I could see out my window. No sign of the ghost. Breaux glanced over his shoulder and raised one eyebrow.

"Not yet, " I murmured.

Breaux widened his eyes and rolled them toward Nervous Guy. I angled my head toward our window.
Bayou better return soon.
I had the bad feeling our friend across the aisle was waiting like a coiled serpent for the right moment to strike.

I glanced over Breaux's shoulder. Nervous Guy's leg jiggled up and down. He tucked his man-purse under the hem of his tight graphic tee, partially concealing it, then crossed and uncrossed his arms before biting his thumbnail. The man-purse, I decided, could conceal a sterling silver table knife or a switchblade. And if he pulled the latter on Breaux…

Nervous Guy leaned across the aisle toward Breaux. My pulsed spiked. A ribbed shirt and pair of socks tumbled out of the pack and fell into my lap. I pushed aside the bottle of Four Thieves vinegar. My fingertips grazed the rough cotton skin of one of the spirit dolls.

"The Overseer and I had an agreement." Nervous Guy's lower lip trembled and tears escaped his pale brown eyes. "In exchange for me leaving, he promised he wouldn't do anything I wouldn't do."

Overseer?
I lifted the vinegar jar and extracted the hand-sized poppet, tucking the spirit doll between my hip and the back of the polished mahogany seat.

Breaux drew in his outstretched legs. I could tell he was wrestling with his next move — ignore Crazy Nervous Guy and hope he moved on, or play along and pray nothing set him off.

The streetcar ambled to a noisy stop. A few people stood and strolled down the aisle to disembark. A man with a daypack stepped between Breaux and Nervous Guy. I plunged my hand between a pair of socks and a bag of Evil Away incense and groped, searching for the binding cords. My fingertips scraped the bottom of the pack. More passengers continued toward the front of the streetcar and exited. Nervous Guy came back into view. He bobbed up and down as if looking for someone or checking to see if the coast was clear.

New passengers crowded onto the streetcar. Five people stood in the aisle. The one remaining empty seat was next to Nervous Guy and no one, not even a tired-looking, tight-lipped woman carrying a reusable grocery bag risked it. Breaux drummed his fingers on his thigh. I knew he itched to offer the woman his seat, but didn't because of me, and because the woman would have refused it.