by Ariella Moon
"Before Mam'zelle died, I had never seen a spirit. Now I've seen Mam'zelle, Papa Legba, his dog, and She Who Guides Me. Why do you ask?"
"People like us don't get spooked for no reason." He scanned one dark bank, then the other. "We need to lift the veil between worlds so we can see the unseen."
My flesh prickled. "I'm not sure I want to know."
"Easier to fight the enemy you can see than the one you can't." He swiveled on the built-in bench and retrieved my backpack from the rear of the small boat. The craft groaned on the sandbar.
"Can you see spirits?" I asked.
"I could when I was younger. Not now." Breaux placed the backpack between us. "Your power is on the increase, though. You banished the drug dealers."
"That's a good thing, right?"
"It's good if you want to become a mambo." He unzipped the backpack. "Do you?"
Become a voodoo priestess? The idea careened inside my brain, crashing against my view of myself as a future scientist or engineer. Ainslie had said I could become anything with my grades and my "story." Our plan had been to become co-valedictorians and then attend Columbia University together. We just hadn't planned on my education ending in the seventh grade.
I must have appeared bewildered and close to tears because Breaux changed the subject. "We need something of Grand-mère's. Something we can drape over our faces to create a symbolic veil. Did you bring any of her clothing?"
"No." I ran through the mental list of things I had stuffed in the pack. Clothes had been packed in the valise, which was now at the bottom of the bayou with the rest of the stilt house. All I had here was… I groped through the contents of the backpack until my fingers wrapped around a tightly folded bundle. "I brought this with me so I could dispose of it properly."
Breaux took the orange bandana and unfolded it beneath the lantern light. His breath caught when he saw the stains. "Is this—?"
"Yes. Her blood. No way am I putting the bandana over my face."
"Yes, way. And we have to do it before midnight." He zipped up the backpack, then bumped my left side with his hip, forcing me to scoot over and make room. The boat squeaked in protest. "We'll hold it in front of us. You'll only have to touch one corner."
"It won't cover both of our faces."
"We can each cover one eye."
He held it up. Reluctantly I took one corner. Breaux pressed his cheek against mine. His skin was warm and his curly hair tickled my ear. My hand dipped. Breaux depressed the light-up button on my watch. Eleven fifty-seven.
I raised the bandana. We held it taut so it covered my left eye and Breaux's right.
"Hold it steady and conjure up a picture of Grand-mère in your mind."
I closed my eyes and pushed aside the first image of Mam'zelle — weak and on her deathbed — that popped into my mind. Instead, I conjured my memory of her standing in Miss Wanda's doorway the first time we had met.
Grief constricted my chest. My arm trembled. The bayou sounds faded away, replaced by the bandana's quiet ripple. Beside me, Breaux softly chanted to Mam'zelle's spirit for help lifting the veil between worlds.
"Grand-mère, help us see what we need to see,
So we can be where we're supposed to be.
Happy and safe. Happy and safe."
"See what we need to see," I echoed. "Be where we're supposed to be. Happy and safe. Happy and safe."
My mental picture of Mam'zelle vanished into a flame of violet light. An otherworldly voice gonged inside my head. Sophia.
A wave of magic circled outward from my left eye as though a seeing stone had been dropped into the Lake of Knowledge. Nausea roiled my stomach.
"Soph?" Breaux clutched my forearm.
I opened my eyes and the violet light extinguished. My palms rested on my thighs. At some point we must have dropped the bandana, because it lay at our feet like a fallen surrender flag, all color and blood magically bleached from it.
"You okay?" Breaux’s words warped as if they had swum through deep water to reach me. He swept up the bandana and stuffed it into his pocket. As he shifted, his leg pressed against mine. My awareness telescoped to the thin layers of denim separating our skin. He clasped my hand between his and rubbed, flooding me with warmth, grounding me.
The eerie chirps, trills, and whistles resumed. The feeling of being watched crept into my consciousness and shuddered down my spine. Breaux must have felt it too. He released my hand, scooped up the nearest oar, and clutched it like a baseball bat.
"Um…Sophia?" Worry tinged Breaux's voice as he rose to his feet.
I lifted my chin. The pain over my right eye resumed stabbing. I blinked several times to clear the wobbly vision in my left eye, and a fresh wave of nausea crashed over me. An elongated white light shimmered in my peripheral vision. Seizing the other oar, I stood and faced it. The white light glittered and assembled into a shaky form. "Mam'zelle?"
"Grand-mère?"
We lowered the oars to our waists. Though Mam'zelle's features were no longer distinguishable, I recognized her essence. In my mind's eye she shook her head and wagged her finger at me. Child, didn't I teach you anyt’ing? What did you forget?
Panic seized me. "We forgot something. Something important."
Breaux's eyes rolled upward, then back to center. "We purposely skipped some steps because we didn't have time—"
Mam'zelle vanished. My arms tingled. A luminous red mist gathered along the bayou's edge. Corpses — men, women, and children — rose from the blood-colored vapors.
Breaux hefted the oar. "Do you see them?"
"The zombie army?" The boat rocked as we assumed a back-to-back stance and raised the oars to chest level. "Why are they here?"
Breaux shifted his stance. The boat groaned and creaked. "Maybe a portal opened—"
A gasp convulsed my throat. "I forgot to ask Papa Legba to close the gate!"
"Soph!"
I dropped my oar and dove for my backpack. The zipper slipped from my sweaty grasp. I found it again and pinched the tab between my thumb and forefinger. Nylon teeth unthreaded with a ripping sound. I shoved my hand into the pack and dug through its contents. "Where's the pencil?"
Breaux fingered the top of his ear and his oar clattered to the floor of the boat. Along the bayou banks, a contingent of undead rocked from side to side. Breaux reached into his front jeans pocket, withdrew the pencil stub, and thrust it into my hand. "Hurry."
The lantern illuminated the edge of the seat bench. Between the migraine and the magic, I had difficulty focusing. Working half-blind in the meager light, I sketched a crossroad onto the wood.
"Will it work?" Breaux asked. "Using a different crossroad?"
"We'll find out."
Breaux swore under his breath and cast a nervous glance at the shore. His eyes widened and he retrieved his oar — sure signs the undead had grown in number or were on the move. Something tumbled down the slight incline and plopped into the shallow water.
"Any time now." Breaux's fingers twitched against the oar.
I chanted:
"Papa Legba, fermez la porte.
Papa Legba, fermez la porte, la porte.
Papa Legba, fermez la porte.
Close the door, Papa Legba, and return these spirits to their own realm. Allow us to go where we need to go."
The stench of death and decay spider-walked up my nostrils. I pointed my oar as if it were a bayonet at a corpse dressed in a tattered Civil War uniform. The air grew musty and the temperature fell at least ten degrees. Heebie-jeebies. The zombie reached for the oar. "See it as so." I squeezed my eyes shut and envisioned the undead sinking into the ground.
My stomach spun. Something feathery and damp grazed my cheek. My eyes flew open. The red mist and its army of the undead advanced upon the boat. "Oya-Yansa!" I called out. "Queen of the Winds of Change. Please help us!"
A funnel of wind swept the bank. The zombies wailed as if they had been sprayed with acid. The sound set the fine hairs on my arms on end.
The Civil War soldier zombie stumbled back and the top button on his uniform jacket splashed into the shallows. He crashed into a zombie with a frayed noose around her neck. Papa Legba's deep-throated laugh sliced the darkness, silencing the scream coiled in my throat. His mongrel barked once.
Trickster.
Oya-Yansa's wind drove the undead and blood mist into the ground. The sharp scent of Papa Legba's pipe smoke and rum tunneled down the channel and disappeared.
The cacophony of bird songs resumed full blast, as if a switch had been thrown. The tension embedded in my eye and shoulders unraveled. The boat creaked. For a glad moment I thought the tide had returned. My lungs inflated with hope. We're going to make it.
The creaking grew louder. Papa Legba's laugh rumbled through me like a bad omen. The wind funnel reversed course, rocking the boat.
"So-phi-a…" Breaux drew out each syllable like a warning.
A whistle rose above the night sounds. Not a human whistle, rather the whistle of the wind slicing through a narrow space. The boat lurched. Breaux widened his stance and threw me a wild-eyed look.
Magic always has a price.
My body thrummed. A moment passed, like those seconds after an earthquake when you wonder if the next jolt will be a small aftershock or the Big One. "Get down!"
Breaux dropped to a squat, thought better of it, and knelt in the small space beside me. Creaking and groaning, the heavy wooden boat lifted into the air like a dirigible. My stomach whooshed.
"Hold on!" Breaux said.
I looped one arm through my backpack straps and then clutched the seat bench. The boat began to spin.
"No! No! No!" I wasn't sure if the cries came from Breaux or me. Centrifugal force lifted my feet into the air. Rowing had stiffened my hands and fatigued my muscles. My grip slipped.
Breaux hurled himself across my back. My ribs cracked against the plank, expelling the air from my lungs. The hard length of Breaux's body pinned me to the seat bench. The spinning increased. The wind's whistle swelled to a rattling, freight train-like roar. The boat shuddered and torqued. I clenched my jaw and waited for the vessel to rip apart and hurl us to our deaths.
Chapter Seven
Ainslie
Mom slowed the Mercedes as we approached the drop-off zone in front of the Lamorinda Library and Learning Center. "Whom did you say you're meeting?" she asked.
"Evie O'Reilly. She was a year behind me at Carter Middle School." I leaned forward, searching the people milling outside the library for a glimpse of Evie's strawberry-blond hair. "She had Yearbook with Sophia. Remember? I ran into her in Palm Springs over Christmas."
Mom kept her gaze trained on the hybrid sports utility vehicle in front of us, but I could tell her brain was churning. The brow furrow gave her away. "Did she remember you?"
"Everyone remembers me." I mentally kicked dirt on the flash of anger and embarrassment hot-tracking from my brain. I could still hear the whispers and remember the fingers pointing in the halls.
There's Ainslie Avalon-Bennett. She went crazy after her best friend disappeared.
I heard she spent time in a mental ward after Sophia moved away.
Only Sophia hadn't moved away, not of her own free will. I'm sure of it. And she hadn't been placed in another foster home. Her foster mother would have told me. Besides, Sophia would have called or emailed me. But she hadn't. Which meant her meth-head bio-parents had convinced the court to remand Sophia to their care. Or maybe they had kidnapped her. Either way, it meant her life was in danger. The private investigator my parents hired had tracked Sophia's bio-parents to southern California. Then the trail went cold. "Probably slipped across the border," the investigator had concluded.
Although it might have explained why I'd never heard from her, it didn't feel right or ease my worry. At least now, thanks to Jett's crystal ball fire fortune, I knew Sophia was still alive.
Jett's magic gave me my first clue. Maybe the magic hidden within Evie's ancient spell book will lead me to Sophia. When I had met Evie in Palm Springs, I had gotten the impression a small group of teens guarded the spell book and were trying to unlock its secrets.
Warmth flooded my cheeks. I wonder how many of them remember me as the Crazy Girl?
The Mercedes purred into the turnout. Mom brought the coupe to a stop. I felt her stare as I adjusted my scarf, then gathered up my gloves. "I think it's great you are reconnecting with people from Carter." Her eyes widened as her gaze skimmed over me
I lowered my chin so she wouldn't detect the despair rocketing through me. No, Mom, I haven't shaken off my clinical depression and debilitating obsessive-compulsive disorder. And I'm not ready to transfer from Athenian Academy, my expensive and inconveniently located private school, to Jefferson, the huge public high school three miles from our house.
I slipped my hands into my red leather gloves. They were less obvious than using my cashmere scarf as a germ shield. Even though Mom and Dad had been nicer to each other since their ill-fated Christmas cruise, I still worried my OCD would drive them back to the brink of divorce.
"Text me when you're ready to come home," Mom said.
"Will do. Are you and Dad still planning on a date night?"
"We'll see." Which meant they would if he was still sober by dinnertime and there had been no arguments. He was trying to cut back on his drinking and save the marriage. I had to give him credit. "We have reservations. But I'm hoping to talk him into a movie instead."
"I'll be sure and end early enough to make it happen." Restaurant dinners were landmines for Dad. He was on a first-name basis with every sommelier in town, and they all loved to visit his table and press their most expensive wines on him. Dad loved the attention. Mom, who doesn't drink, hated it.
"Do you have your meds?"
As if I could forget. I shook my handbag. My antidepressants and anti-anxiety pills pinged noisily inside their orange plastic containers.
"Okay. Have fun. See you later."
"Thanks. Bye." I pushed open the car door, stepped onto the sidewalk, and gave Mom a little wave before closing the door. As she eased back into traffic, I inhaled the crisp air. Hard to believe it was December twenty-eighth and no northern California storms were on the horizon — weather-wise, anyway. I had no idea what sort of storm might await me inside. Evie had said she'd bring everyone who knew about the spell book. I should have asked her how many of them had attended Carter Middle School.
I plastered a confident, look-I'm-not-mental-anymore expression on my face and headed for the automatic glass doors. They whooshed open as I approached and I passed beneath the silver letters proclaiming OPEN DOORS OPEN MINDS.
The Teen Center was hidden off to the right past freestanding bookcases where new non-fiction books were showcased. A petite goth dressed in an oversized gray sweater tunic, black leggings, and clunky black combat boots blocked my entry. Spying me, her ice-blue eyes narrowed into slits. She angled her head and a lock of purple hair fell across her silver eyebrow stud. Recognition flared in her eyes.
Spots of high color flamed to life on my cheeks. I tightened my death grip on my crossbody handbag. She remembers me from middle school. I straightened my spine. I'm a high school sophomore. I'm not the Crazy Girl anymore. Well, maybe a little crazy if you count my dragon.
"Ainslie?" she asked.
There had only been five goths at Carter, so even the ones in the lower grades had stood out. I searched my memory. "Yes. Uh…Sarah?"
She huffed air out her mouth as though I had passed some kind of test. Maybe she was relieved I no longer resembled a mental ward escapee. "Call me Salem," she said. "You look good."
"Thanks. You, too." Okay, the last part wasn't totally truthful. I vaguely remembered her from elementary school. She had stuck out then because she was so tiny and ethereal. Why she had dyed her blond hair purple and black and overwhelmed her delicate features with heavy kohl eye makeup and Bite-Me plum lipstick was beyond me. Something must have happened. No one changes drastically f
or the fun of it.
Salem stepped aside, allowing me entry. I followed her narrow-eyed squint to the other occupants in the brightly lit room. They sat at the Sneak Table, the one in the back hidden from the floor-to-ceiling glass wall separating the Teen Room from the rest of the library. Evie and a totally hot stranger rose as I approached.
"You made it!" Evie exclaimed.
"Yes!" My gaze flicked to Evie, then jumped to Dark-and-Handsome. He must be new in town. I definitely would have remembered him.
"Aidan Cooper." He extended his hand, revealing dusky skin and calluses.
"Ainslie Avalon-Bennett." My germ phobia overrode my good manners and I shook his hand without removing my glove. My Junior Cotillion instructor would have had a seizure had she seen me. An outdoor glove!
A jolt of magical energy shot through the dyed red leather and buzzed up my arm. Aidan's eyebrows arched.
"What?" Salem assumed a possessive stance beside him, signaling in no uncertain terms that Aidan was hers.
My shoulder blades tingled.
"Nothing." Aidan released my hand and averted his gaze.
Salem widened her stance and crossed her arms over her chest. Aidan hugged her to his side before returning his gaze to me. "Magic is afoot."
"Excuse me," a put-upon British-accented voice said behind them.
"Parvani!" Evie rushed around the table and bent over an open laptop. "Sorry!" She swiveled the display toward me. "Ainslie, may I present Parvani Hyde-Smith. Parvani was supposed to be here in the flesh, but her parents decided to keep the family in London a couple more days."
Parvani brushed back her long black hair and adjusted her ebony designer eyeglasses. The lapels of her expensive-looking pajamas peeked out from the neckline of her spa bathrobe. If she had gone to Carter, I didn't remember her, and she didn't act as though she recognized me. Some of the tension eased out of my hands and shoulders.
The lights had been dimmed in the elegant room behind her. I leaned in for a closer look. "Are you staying at the Chesterfield?"