by Debra Kristi
“The dude is walking away,” the man calls. “What do I do?”
“Keep it down, you idiot,” a voice calls back.
“Get him,” another says.
Due to the layout in the particular area of the cemetery where Luna and I are situated, the row in which we stand doesn’t connect directly with the adjacent row Mr. Flores now staggers. A quick L curve around a clustered square of family tombs connects the two pathways.
Luna’s dad staggers into the opening of the L curve. Swings right around the first tomb, and shuffles directly at us.
Luna lurches forward and grabs her dad’s arm. “Papa?” Her voice is a mere whimper.
Mr. Flores’ head swivels to her, his gaze falling upon her for all of five seconds. That’s all it takes for my thoughts to burst into complete darkness.
Luna’s father is wrong. So, so wrong.
My feet are rooted and... I. Can’t. Move. I want to move. I’m trying to move. But my legs refuse to answer my demand.
Luna’s dad leans forward, bringing his face up to hers. His mouth opens, and a sound somewhere between a groan and a wail, expels from his lungs.
Luna lets go of her dad and stumbles back, presses into me, and I press into the wall of cement at my back. Her body is attempting to melt through me and into the tomb behind us.
No spark of recognition registers in Mr. Flores’ eyes. His reaction is inhuman. Monster-esque.
My lungs and heart crush into nothingness. My everything is breaking to pieces for Luna.
Mind and body forever owned by the bokor.
“Rudy, where’d you go?” The call is a mere tomb away. The bokor’s men are coming for Luna’s dad. We need to hide. Get out of the cemetery.
I grab Luna’s arm and yank her sideways, down and around the next tomb. We slip and fall in the mud. Scramble to our feet and press our bodies to the shadows.
“Rudy. There you are,” a man’s voice says.
We shimmy, then crouch in a tight sliver of a space between two closely set tombs.
“Come on, Rudy. We’re going to go for a ride.” Slushy steps move away from us. “You’ll find it fun.”
Two men usher Luna’s dad to the car. We watch from a safe distance, keeping to the shadows and small spaces. The other two men return from the back vault, store their tools in the trunk, and slip into the backseat with Luna’s dad set between them. All four men, plus Luna’s dad, drive out of the cemetery in a green, four-door Mercury.
I only manage to retain half the license plate, but it’s a place to start.
Luna and I drop to our butts on the side of one of the tombs. My heart is skittering like an erratic woodpecker. My mind refuses to unstick the image of Luna’s dad lurching at her. At my side, Luna has yet to say a word. I suspect she is as mortified as I am. Both of us stunned into silence and inaction.
Luna’s dad is a waking, walking mess.
“He’s alive,” she whispers. My wide-eyed stare snaps to her.
As a zombie!
At our backs, the cemetery gate locks with a bang and a clang.
Chapter Eighteen
“He’s alive,” she repeats. “You were right all along.” She pushes to a stand. “I need to tell my mom.” She turns, takes a step away.
I grab her arm, spinning her back to face me. “I think you need to slow down. Think this through before you go running to your mom with this news.”
“But she needs to know,” Luna says. “And she wouldn’t like me waiting to tell her.” She tugs on my hold, clearly intending to follow through on her mission. I don’t allow her to slip through my grasp.
“Please, Luna. Your dad wasn’t right.” I encase her hand with both of mine.
“Of course not,” she counters. “We buried him alive. That would do a number on anyone. He’s just confused and needs time to sort it out. He’s going to be fine.”
I hardly think so. “You should wait. Take a breath.”
“Sorry.” She yanks her hand free from my hold. “I know you mean well, but my mom has to know.” She turns and runs toward the gate. I race after her. As expected, the gate is locked. She pulls at the lock and rattles the bars, but we clearly won’t be getting them open without a key.
Or magick.
My fingers twist through the air, signaling my spices of my intentions, and kicking them into action. In a swirl of fury, they zip from my apron into the night air and converge on the gate and binding lock.
Luna steps back. Glances from me to the gate. Stares at the struggling chain and bolt.
The bars rattle and the chain jumps and jostles. The bolt slams against the barrier, burning a red-hot glow. The glow grows, expanding to encompass the whole exit. Everything bumps and jars and shudders.
My spices fall to the ground. The glow fades. And the gate is still locked.
“It’s protected against spells.” I groan.
“It was worth a try,” Luna says and walks back toward the gate.
I don’t fancy the thought of spending the night in a cemetery. It would seem our only option for an exit would be to climb over the wall. I glance toward the location of our bikes. But that would mean leaving the bikes here. Which would drop the chances of ever seeing them again… close to nil.
Luna crouches and pulls at the two sides of the gate. The bars are bent in a fashion that suggests a small car may have rammed the locked entrance at some time in the past. The bend in the bars wouldn’t likely allow a grown man to slip through, but Luna is small enough to contort her body through the sliver of space. In no time at all, she is standing on the opposite side of the gate.
“I’m sorry, Belle,” she says. “I’d wait for you, but I know you’d try to talk me out of telling my mom, and I just can’t do that. Not about this. Please try to understand.” She turns and runs from view. No doubt, straight home to give her mom false hope.
I sigh. Glance around me. Take stock of my situation, and options. The way back to Grandma’s without my bike is long, and unfavorable at this hour. There is another option available to me, though.
With muscles heavy and heart aching, I pull at the bent gate and slip through the open space. Start my slow trek to Michael’s special off-the-radar magick school and boarding house.
I walk, and walk some more. Michael’s school is roughly a mile from the cemetery. That’s like a twenty-minute walk. Or something like that. But that’s far less than half the distance and time it would take to get to Grandma’s.
I keep my head down and walk fast, hoping to bring little to no attention to my presence out at night, much less close to the Quarter. The street his school—disguised as a house—is located on is quiet. And the hour is late to be knocking on doors, especially when my visit is unexpected. But what’s a young high school girl to do when she finds herself far from home, with her bike locked in the local cemetery?
I lightly tap my knuckles on the front door and wait. Pray.
It doesn’t take long before I’m greeted with the sounds of approaching footsteps. Large feet, from the sound of it. The door swings open and a man as tall and as wide as the opening fills the space. His eyes are the most brilliant of blue, and his skin is blotched with vitiligo. I’m reminded of the bokor.
I stare at him, stunned into silence.
“Yeah?” he prompts.
I gasp. Realize I was holding my breath. “Michael,” I blurt. “I’m his sister.”
“Is he expecting you?” The guy stands firm, filling the door, and making no move to allow me entrance.
I shake my head and drop my gaze. “He really isn’t. I wasn’t expecting to come.” I turn my gaze up to his face. “I kind of ran into a situation, and it’s an emergency. I need his help.”
“Life or death?” he asks.
“Both.” I blurt.
His brows perk, and back straightens. He glances over his shoulder, then steps aside and welcomes me into the front room. Several tables with mismatched chairs furnish the space. The walls are thick with blue paint,
and the wood floors are worn. Squeak beneath my feet. An old chandelier, set on dim, warms the room.
“Have a seat,” the guy says with a swing and point toward the closest chair. “I’ll call Michael down.”
“Thanks.’ I settle into a semi-padded seat and try to curl in on myself; folding my hands to my chest and dropping my chin to my weaved fingers. The guy climbs the stairs.
The house is quiet, aside from the occasional rumble of pipes or creak of old wood. My gaze wanders the images decorating the walls. Surrounding the room; prints or paintings of an older day New Orleans. On the back wall, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf houses a plethora of magical supplies… and, of course, books on craft.
The groaning complaint of wood on the stairs marks my brother’s approach. I shift in my seat to better see him. His T-shirt is plenty wrinkled and he’s rubbing his eyes. Appearances suggest he was awoken by my arrival.
He yawns. Lumbers toward me. Scratches the side of his face. “Hey, Belle.” He pauses mid-step, his eyes widening. “Why are you here so late? Is everything okay? Is Mom…”
“Mom’s fine,” I interrupt. “Or the same, anyway.” I shake my head, and recall her reaction when I delivered the message intended for Caleb as given by the toothy girl.
The tension in his body relaxes a smidgeon and he moves forward, grabs the back of the chair beside me, and rests his weight on it. “Okay.” His brow creases, and his searching gaze takes in my muddy jeans and dirty hands. “What’s going on?”
“I need your help.” I rub at the dried dirt on my fingers.
He slips into the chair beside me and takes my hand, stops my fussing. “I’m here,” he says. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Tell me, he said. I burst, as if his words have kicked open the barrier holding back my vomit of explanation. Everything spills out. I tell him about the death of Luna’s dad and the funeral. I include the toothy girl, with her intimidating behavior, and ominous message for Caleb. Spill into the events at the cemetery with Luna’s dad being pulled from his grave and raised from the dead.
“They turned him into a zombie,” I say. “A zombie.” My voice hitches.
“Damn, Belle.” Michael jerks back and stares at me, his mouth agape. “You’re meddling in precarious affairs and with treacherous people. Do you understand that?” he asks. “You could have gotten yourself killed tonight.”
“Okay,” I say in a calm, measured manner. “I understand. But I can’t bring myself to step away from Luna in the midst of this crisis. I simply won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t at least try to help.” I lean into the table and roll my fingers together in a constant wave. Weaving them together and apart and together again.
Michael folds his arms on the table, leans forward, and peers over me. “You really like this girl, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah.” I jerk upright. “She’s my friend, and I’m the kind of girl who stands by her friends on sunny and rainy days alike.”
“Alright. If you really feel that way, then there’s something you should know.” Michael rubs the top of his head and takes a deep breath. Releases it slowly. Then casually glances behind us, further into the depths of the old house.
My limbs are tingling and my insides quivering. Triggered by my brother’s clear concern to confirm no one is within earshot, I peer down the hall and swing my gaze toward the stairs. The place appears empty, aside from us.
“Come on.” He clasps my arm and motions for me to stand. “Let’s talk while we retrieve your bike.”
“Um. Okay.” I search the room again, feeling as if I may have missed something. Someone watching from the shadows or listening from around a corner. Still, I see and hear nothing out of the ordinary.
Michael glances to his feet. “Be right back,” he says and dashes up the stairs.
I wait for his return. Stand at the edge of the front room. Crossing my arms and swaying back and forth, I try to imagine what it would be like to live here. It so doesn’t feel homey to me. At least, not in this space.
At the end of the hallway, the silhouette of a girl appears in an open door. Her black hair merges with the surrounding shadows. I blink and stare, adjust my eyes to the distance. She smirks at me, and the scar running down the side of her face distorts her features.
“Let’s go.” Michael drops to the bottom of the stairs, sporting shoes and a hoodie. Keys dangle in his clutch. He grabs my arm and leads me toward the front door. I glance back. The girl still stands propped against the distant doorframe, watching us.
“How do you think Saddler would feel about your intended actions?” she says.
Michael pauses. Spins around. “I wouldn’t expect him to hold an opinion one way or the other,” he says. “This is me, helping family. Nothing more.”
The girl makes a sound to communicate she isn’t buying the reasoning my brother is pushing her way. “I’m picking up a little something on the fringe…” she waves her hand in a wide half circle. “That leads me to believe you’re not a hundred percent sure of your own words.”
My brother grunts. “Just butt out, Tess.” With a quick tug of my hand, he pulls us out the door. Lets it slam at our back. Then leads me down the stairs and along the sidewalk, several houses.
“Want to talk about that?” I ask, speed walking to keep up to his long-legged stride.
“Nope,” he snaps. “Not today. Maybe never.”
My nose crinkles and my lips turn down as a heaviness settles in my chest. I steal several hard glances, wondering if and when my brother will explain Tess or Sandler.
We walk to his car, and only after we are safe within, with the motor running, rolling toward the cemetery, does he continue to talk.
“Your friend’s father isn’t a zombie,” he says. I shiver and shift sideways to better study him. I’m so anxious to hear what my brother knows that it feels like impatience may claw through my organs if he doesn’t share the information soon. “Most likely, your bokor slipped the man some zombie powder with the intent to enslave him.”
“Zombie powder?” My mouth drops open. “You’re telling me there’s an actual powder designed to make zombies? Only, it doesn’t result in true zombies?” I exclaim.
“Exactly,” he replies. “Your friend’s father is under the influence of some extremely powerful stuff.”
“So, he needs to detox,” I say.
“It’s not that simple.” Michael pulls the car up to a stop sign. Makes a left, and continues driving. “The powder is a mixture of several poisonous plant and animal toxins, along with the paralyzing venom of a pufferfish.”
Poisons and paralyzing venoms? How is Luna’s father walking?
The car rolls past block after block, finally making a left at the front of the cemetery.
“The good news is, if we can manage to get the guy away from the bokor’s influences, the toxins should wear off, eventually, returning him to normal.” At the next corner, Michael makes a right, pulling onto a block between divided sections of the cemetery. He stops the car.
The barrier wall surrounding this portion of the cemetery crests a few feet lower in some places than the rest of the facade. Michael has stopped the car next to one of those spots. And not too far beyond this place along the wall, the bikes.
“But first things first,” he says. “We retrieve your bikes so that no one finds them in the morning and starts suspecting things we don’t want them thinking about.”
“Right,” I agree with a quick nod.
Michael gets out of the car, and I do the same. Stand at the vehicle’s side and watch him circle around the trunk. A couple of guys are leaning against the building at the end of the adjacent street. They watch us with intense stares. But when my brother glances their way, they startle and run away.
The cemetery isn’t lit at night, and neither is the street on which Michael parked. There is only the moon and the small streetlamp at the corner by which to see. Which means… lots of shadows. And, in the play of light and shadow
, his long facial scar makes him look like one scary badass.
I bottle my instinct to giggle at the boys’ quick retreat. My brother may look scary in this light, but I’m grateful to have him here to help. He’s always got my back. Even tonight, when it’s cold and dark, and clearly going against the recommendation of his school, he’s out here helping me break into a cemetery so that I can break out my trapped bike.
“Who is Saddler?” I ask, my thoughts returning to our less-than-cordial departure and the girl standing at the end of the hallway in the old house-turned-school.
Michael steps onto the curb and stops at my side. Stares at me with a hint of frustration. Possible, irritation. “Saddler is like the school’s provost.”
“The what?” My face crinkles and my brain shakes, attempting to find a definition for the word he used.
“It’s like the head honcho,” he explains. “The decision maker and overseer.”
“Oh.” Understanding lights the far corners of my mind. “And Tess?” I continue, focusing on the girl who had confronted us. “Is she someone important in the hierarchy of your school?”
“I guess she would be comparable to a school counselor,” he says and scratches the back of his neck.
“And you talked to her that way?” His words butt out spring to the forefront of my mind.
“Yeah. I guess I did.” He shakes his head. Rubs his hand over the top of his head. “How about we stop talking about my school and the people involved and we focus on the project at hand?”
I drop my head in concession. I dragged him out of bed, and he didn’t complain. He’s here helping me. Under those circumstances, how can I continue to bug him with questions he clearly doesn’t want to discuss?
“Where did you leave the bikes?” He steps beside the lower portion of the wall and peeks over.
“One grave in and over from the gate.” I point toward the entrance half a block up. “This side of the center walk.”
“Wait here.” He jumps, lifts himself to the top of the brick wall. “I’m going to get the bikes and hand them over the wall to you.” He drops out of sight before I can question him further.