by Ariella Moon
Mam'zelle's spirit brightened. Her essence leaned toward one end of the street and then vanished.
"Yes." Breaux steered me toward the wheeled contraption.
"Great," the driver said. "Do y'all want a city tour, or to go somewhere in particular?"
Breaux glanced at me. "We're not sure."
"We're on a scavenger hunt of sorts," I said. "Okay if we direct you as we go?"
The driver shrugged. "Sure, as long as y'all agree to pay the fare. We charge by the block." He pointed to the rate chart painted on the back of the cab.
Breaux angled away from the driver and pulled out his money clip. He thumbed through the thin collection of bills. Guilt swamped me. Each time Breaux paid for something, I felt like another stone was stacked on my wall of indebtedness. I should be paying my own way. He needs his money for college.
It better be a short ride.
"Deal. Ten block maximum." Breaux climbed in beside me. "Head toward Canal Street," he told the driver.
The pedicabber, a college-aged Caucasian dressed in black board shorts and a yellow tee shirt bearing the taxi company's logo, glanced over his shoulder. "You got it."
My gaze darted to each side street we passed. I didn't care how far we'd been flung into the future; I still worried the drug lord had followed us. I felt too exposed in the open-air cab, unable to scrunch down because of the scarf binding my ribs. Ainslie had once told me President John F. Kennedy had died because the back brace he wore prevented him from ducking when his motorcade was fired upon. After what had happened back at the bayou… I shuddered.
Breaux tapped my knee, then angled his thumb toward the luminous apparition hovering at the corner beside a green metal traffic light. He kept the gesture low and small, avoiding the driver's attention.
Mam'zelle.
Breaux leaned forward and told the driver, "Turn right on Canal Street please."
"You got it." The driver gave me a quick once over. Realizing I must resemble a windblown drug addict, I smoothed my hair and tried to dial back my paranoia.
"You two party it up in the French Quarter last night?" the driver asked.
"Not exactly." Breaux's glance caught mine before he dropped his gaze. Powdered sugar from my beignets had fallen unnoticed onto my jeans. Breaux brushed it off. Tiny thrills zinged up my thigh. He rested the back of his hand near my knee, his palm facing upward. "But we had quite a night."
"There's an understatement." Drug lords. Alligators. Zombies. A time travel tornado. I laced my fingers through Breaux's. Our palms touched and for a few seconds everything else slipped away. Breaux shifted against me and squeezed my hand. I returned the gesture, then checked to see if Mam'zelle's spirit was watching. Luckily she had vanished. Although I doubted she had gone far, I breathed more easily.
I know what you are up to, Mam'zelle, but please just give me this last ride with Breaux. Allow me these moments before you show him how bright his future will be without me.
The pedicabber made the turn onto Canal Street. It proved to be a wide boulevard with four traffic lanes bisected by streetcar tracks. The driver pedaled past high-rise hotels. Bacon and egg smells drifted from fast food restaurants and cafes with outdoor seating. Queasiness churned my stomach. Perhaps the deep-fried beignets had been a mistake.
Despite the early hour, or perhaps because of it, lots of people were out. The noise overwhelmed me — a warning honk, a radio with the bass cranked up, and men hawking swamp and plantation tours to sleepy-eyed tourists. After three years cocooned on the bayou, the city seemed too loud, too bright, and too crowded. We passed the eighth block. Beside me, Breaux leaned forward and scanned the street ahead.
I clutched his knee. "Over there."
Breaux followed my gaze to the luminous form hovering beside the streetcar tracks at Canal and Carondelet. Air whistled from his lungs as he released the breath he'd been holding. "This is far enough," he told the driver. "We're going to take the streetcar."
The driver pulled over to the side and told us the fare. I bit my lip as Breaux peeled off more cash, adding a generous tip because the guy had taken us so many blocks. Discomfort rattled through me. My debt to Breaux kept growing and I couldn't imagine how I'd ever repay him.
I twisted to exit the pedicab. Pain — a seven on the one-to-ten scale — exploded around my ribs. Kick it. I reminded myself I had survived much worse, and dismounted before Breaux could hurry to my side and help me. His brow furrowed when I winced. I wondered how someone so empathetic would survive politics.
The driver glanced from Breaux's bloody bandana to my arm pressed against my ribs. "Were you two mugged or something?"
"Boating accident," I said through gritted teeth.
"Harsh. Good luck on your scavenger hunt."
"Thanks." My ribs realigned while we walked. When we were a safe distance from the pedicab I asked, "Where to, Congressman?"
Breaux raked his fingers through his curls. "This is the St. Charles line. Grand-mère must want us to go to the Garden District."
Mam'zelle hovered, luminous and nearly transparent, as though her time in this realm was running out. She floated above a light-skinned biracial guy, what Mam'zelle would have called a quadroon. Black skinny jeans and a tight gray tee with a bloody dagger graphic encased his wiry frame. His eyes and nose were red as though he'd been crying. He slipped into the black leather jacket he'd been carrying and zipped it halfway. I backed away from the horrible energy emanating from the heavy-looking brass padlock he wore on a choker chain around his neck.
A green streetcar rumbled into view. My chest tightened as I flashed on another streetcar, years ago, when Ainslie's mother had taken us to San Francisco to see the department store windows at Christmas. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
I glanced about. Mam'zelle had vanished. I wondered when or if she'd materialize again.
We waited while some touristy types and older teens sporting Loyola Wolfpack sweatshirts exited. I shifted from one foot to the other. You'd think I'd be used to the slow pace of the south by now. The dude with the padlock crossed and uncrossed his arms, bit his thumbnail, then crossed and uncrossed his arms again. I grew edgy watching him. He reminded me of my parents when they had been using drugs full-time instead of manufacturing them. But he appeared too healthy to be a junkie, so I figured something else was going on. Whatever it was, he seemed like a dude on the edge. Desperate. I hoped we weren't on the same streetcar when he imploded.
Two elderly tourists lumbered off the streetcar. A couple entwined like honeymooners scooted around them and hailed our pedicabber for a ride to the French Quarter. I eyed Nervous Guy while two young women outfitted in Tulane University running apparel disembarked. His hair, a short, modified Mohawk brushed forward toward his bangs, appeared expertly cut and highlighted, more like a fashion model's than a rebel's. The jagged slope of his nose suggested it had been broken at some point and not properly reset. The defect added character to his otherwise pretty boy face. With relief I realized his clothes, even his leather bomber jacket, were too tight to conceal a weapon. He carried a black leather man-purse. I didn't detect a bulge, so if he were packing a gun, it would have to be a small one.
Breaux followed me onto the streetcar and bought day passes with exact change. I scanned the streetcar's vintage interior for two seats together. I ignored the pinched brows and alarmed stares from our fellow passengers. Most of them fixated on a point behind me. With dismay I realized Breaux's blood-soaked bandana was drawing too much attention. Someone was bound to notice his uncanny resemblance to the congressman. The last thing we needed was to derail the time-space continuum or spark rumors.
The migraine over my eye throbbed.
I discovered an empty row toward the back and claimed the window seat. Breaux shoved our passes into his jeans pocket, then roosted beside me. He placed the backpack at his feet and kept his chin down. His hands trembled and twitched against his thighs. Caffeine, sugar, and shock, I thought. The cloth over his gash sp
orted blood in varying shades of red. It appeared wet and sticky. The sight of it made me queasy and I had to swallow hard. Breaux's ashen pallor hadn't improved. Worry worsened my stomach. Breaux needed to go to the hospital and get stitched up. Someone should x-ray him and see if he had a fracture or concussion. Or both.
Merciful Mary, please help us complete whatever must be done here so we can return to our own time.
A flicker of color flashed outside the window. I swiveled toward it, thinking maybe it was a flag. Wrong! The hints of gold and red sprung from a wispy paisley top worn by an African-American teen hovering several feet off the ground. My brain registered, ghost! My hand flew to my mouth to muffle a shriek.
The movement must have caught the ghost's eye. She zoomed to the window and pressed her nose against the glass. I shrank against Breaux. The wraith's peace sign necklace swung through the pane, almost touching my chin before it dropped. The temperature plummeted several degrees.
I shot Breaux a furtive sideways glance. His attention was fixed on Nervous Guy, who was making his way toward us. The ghost bracketed her face with her hands and peered through the window. Brackish swamp smells assaulted my nose. Water dripped from her long curly Afro and slid down the sides of her hands and onto the windowpane. I wondered if she could hear my heart thundering.
"Are you the Mexican?" the wraith asked.
My eyes widened. Is the drug cartel employing ghosts? Speechless, my gaze darted across her face. She's no older than Breaux. Unlike Mam'zelle, whose spirit had transitioned into a being of light, the ghost still retained her human form and the clothes she must have been wearing when she died. Her skin, though blue-gray in death, still showed patches of its former nutmeg color. She had Breaux's nose.
The ghost pointed a wet finger. "Is he Shiloh Breaux Martine?"
"Umm. Breaux…" My fingers dug into his thigh.
"What?" Breaux's gaze lowered. He eyed Nervous Guy through his peripheral vision. My too-fast pulse skipped when I realized Nervous Guy had taken the seat across from us and was reaching for his man-purse.
"Can you hear me? Is he Shiloh Breaux Martine or not?" The ghost sounded annoyed. No, desperate.
Without moving his head or changing his gaze, Breaux slid his hand over mine and murmured, "You still wearing the protection amulet around your ankle?"
The silver dime pressed against my skin. I wished Breaux hadn't insisted I wear it. He was closer to Nervous Guy; he needed it. I swiveled my head back to the ghost and answered her question and Breaux's together. "Yes."
"Good," Breaux sounded relieved.
The ghost backed off and clapped her hands in obvious relief.
Great. An unhinged guy seated on one side and a ghost who's probably one of Breaux's long-departed relatives hovering on the other side. Silently I reinforced the protection spells around Breaux and me. Mam'zelle, I hope you didn't send us ten years into the future to be killed by a maniac and escorted to heaven by a ghost dripping swamp water. Because if you did, I will never forgive you.
Chapter Eighteen
Ainslie
I rocketed through the inky tunnel, unable to hear the drums or see the glow from Yemaya's crystal. Please be behind me. Please, please, please. My hand closed around my pendulum — my lantern in the Void. If I lost it…
Without warning, a blinding white light appeared before me. I tightened my grip on the pendulum. Unable to stop my forward trajectory, I blasted through the light. A disturbance wave rippled from my crown to my Ruby Red pedicure. With a blurp I popped out onto a city street. I flinched away from oblivious pedestrians grazing my shoulders and flew upward like a startled helicopter. The whirl of energy spooked a line of carriage mules. The animals jerked up their heads and pricked their ears forward. Their muscles bunched beneath their shaggy coats. The carriage drivers quickly gathered up the reins. Their torsos straightened and their tourist-friendly expressions tightened. Each glanced about, searching for the unseen threat. One driver's probing gaze sliced through me as though I didn't exist.
The equestrian lessons I had taken as a nine-year-old kicked in. Horses react to energy. The same must be true for mules. I forced myself to calm down and exude soothing chi and peaceful thoughts. One by one, each mule lowered its head and relaxed its stance. The drivers loosened the reins and relaxed as well. The lead man twisted in his seat and asked those behind him, "Did y'all see anything?"
"Nothing," one replied. The others shrugged or shook their heads.
The scene wavered as though it had been projected onto a massive screen that rippled in the wind. The colorful carriages and the formal green park behind them faded to sepia. The modern-clad tourists strolling the pathways and taking pictures with smartphones vanished. In their place milled men wearing old-fashioned military uniforms or buckskins, and a few women dressed in long, turn-of-the-century dresses.
I shrank back. Three dead men — slaves, I presumed from their ragged clothing and the dark color of their skin — hung by their necks from a scaffold. I gagged. Had I been embodied, I would have retched. The people in the square barely glanced at the bodies, as if public executions were a common sight. Sickened, I swirled and discovered an unobstructed view of a wide, robust river. The clopping of horse hooves alerted me to the quick approach of two soldiers on horseback. They rode past me, seemingly unaware of my presence.
The air around me crinkled. The soldiers faded away, along with the frontiersmen, women in their long gowns, and the scaffold. Color bled back into the scene. With relief I spotted pedicab drivers lined up in front of the mule-drawn carriages. Nearby, a street artist set up his easel. Tourists carrying fragrant to-go cups of chicory coffee brushed past me.
I whirled in slow motion to get my bearings and spotted the Café Du Monde with its distinctive green-and-white striped awning. New Orleans. I made it. Relief washed over my astral body in a detached, dreamlike way. Wispy salmon-colored clouds brushed across the sky as the line at the café grew. Morning. Odd, since it had been just past dinnertime in California. I continued my slow turn and made a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree search for Sophia or Yemaya. Spotting neither of them, I floated into the café to search among the crowd.
My intuition tugged me toward an outlying table near the decorative wrought-iron fence. As I floated above diners sipping coffee and eating beignets, a few people shivered and rubbed their arms as though overcome by a sudden chill. One mother and her college-aged daughter glanced up at me. Our gazes collided. The mother's jaw dropped. The daughter sputtered her coffee, then uttered an expletive as she reached for a napkin.
My first thought was to flee. But the empty table beckoned me like a touchstone. I glanced from it to the mother and daughter. The mom held my gaze, her pillow-shaped pastry held aloft halfway to her mouth. I placed my finger to my lips. "Shh." No sound was audible, but the mother nodded and lowered her beignet to a small white plate inundated with powdered sugar. The daughter froze, stiff-shouldered, eyes downcast as though waiting for me to leave. I swooped toward the empty table.
"There's one!" A tall twenty-something guy wearing jeans and a green Tulane University hoodie called over his shoulder to the two friends behind him. He pointed right at me and barreled toward the table.
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 g
rabbed 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?