Ghost Huntress Book 6: The Journey

by Marley Gibson

  “This is wicked cool,” Celia says and then climbs up onto the first level of the bus.

  Taylor has pulled out her Nikon and is snapping pictures in burst mode. Patrick steps up into the bus and then reaches behind him and extends his hand to me. So sweet. I accept it and follow him onto our transport. The guy in the blue uniform is taking care of all of our bags, so I head to the back of the bus and slide up the tiny spiral staircase that leads to the top.

  The sun has broken through the clouds since our early morning arrival and it’s starting to heat up. I glance over to the seats that are occupied and see a young girl with straw-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail. My abilities tell me she’s fifteen years old, but right now, she’s putting out the vibe that she doesn’t want to be bothered at all. The guy next to her has spikey, highlighted—come on, that’s from a bottle!—blond hair and he’s deep in conversation on his phone.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Patrick quips.

  “About what?”

  “Him.”

  “Him who?”

  Patrick rolls his eyes and then covers them with his sunglasses. “I saw you checking him out.”

  “I so wasn’t.” I stick my tongue out at him and then slide into one of the bench seats, patting next to me. Patrick laughs and plops down next to me, wrapping his arm around me. I feel so warm and comforted and secure. It’s great that we don’t have to speak so much because we each know what the other is thinking and feeling.

  Well, most of the time.

  Like I’m butt-crazy in love with this guy and he hasn’t said that three-word phrase yet.

  And I know damn well that he knows I want him to. That he…

  I wince. The psychic headache is back. This time with a vengeance. Patrick notes my discomfort and holds me tighter.

  “It will pass, Kendall. It’s all the residual energy from all the centuries of war, battles, struggles, you name it,” he tells me quietly.

  I want to believe that’s what it is, but there’s something off. Something’s not right. It’s radiating all around us like a force field.

  It’s something…bad.

  I try not to make a big deal out of these sensations as everyone else piles onto the bus. Taylor and Celia take the seat opposite us, while Maddie and Jessica each take a seat. Jason, with ear buds in, sits alone, three seats in front of me. It’s like he’s annoyed that he’s here. Honestly, can’t he just relax, get over himself, and have a good time?

  Patrick slices his eyes over to me, obviously picking up on my thoughts. “Do you really care?”

  I flatten my mouth. “Stop eavesdropping.”

  He rubs his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Sorry. Hard to do sometimes.”

  Aunt Andi’s the last one on, and she snaps her phone shut. Then, she pats my hand as she takes the bench in front of Patrick and me.

  “I’ve never been to London. This is going to be very exciting,” she says. “While you guys are doing your thing with Oliver, I’m going to scope out some of the art galleries.”

  I lift a brow. “Looking for stuff to take back to your gallery in St. Louis?”

  “Possibly. It’ll also keep me out of your hair while you’re busy,” she says.

  “She doesn’t mind you in her hair, Aunt Andi,” Patrick says.

  “You’re so adorable,” she says, making Patrick blush. She turns to glance about and sort acts like she wants to takes charge since Oliver isn’t here with us. “So, does everyone know each other?”

  “We’re good,” I say.

  All the intros were done in the airport, except for the couple in the back. Although, I know deep down that they’re not a couple couple.

  I turn my attention to the blond ponytailed girl. She’s really cute, but I can see that she’s extremely shy, hiding behind her stylish wire-framed glasses and squinting up into the sun. The guy with her finally clicks off his phone and stares forward. The blond girl gazes up adoringly at him like she’s some presidential candidate’s wife out on the campaign trail. She’s totally into him. Crush as big as the British Isles. And I can’t blame her. The guy is… gorgeous.

  He’s not gorgeous in a ruggedly handsome way like Patrick or a classic high school jock way like Jason. This guy is… pretty. And he knows it. I’m easily picking up that he’s been praised and placated his whole life about his good looks. Narcissism exudes from him, mixed with an over-confidence that keeps him going. His skin is tanned—a bit too much—and it looks as though he’s had a slight tattoo of eyeliner. I’m not getting the vibe that he’s gay or anything. Just on his own plane of existence. His golden hair is sculpted and styled and I dare any wind gust to mess it up. His eyes shift directly toward me and there’s a jolt through my body. Not like I’m attracted to him or anything. (I have enough men on this trip, thankyouverymuch.) I am intrigued by him, though. Gray, clear, emotionless eyes cut through me, issuing a warning of sorts and pulling up a dark, black curtain of mystery around him. I try to read him, but he’s mentally shut me down, blocking me from knowing any details of the who, what, where, when, why of who he is and what he’s doing here.

  The only polite thing to do—what my mother has taught me all of my life—is to introduce myself and be civil, since we’re apparently going to be living and working together this summer.

  Just as I’m about to nudge Patrick to let me up, Maddie Puckett gasps like she’s just seen David and Victoria Beckham. She slides over into Andi’s seat and hunkers down low to whisper to me.

  “Oh, my God! Do you know who that is back there?” She’s obviously star struck.

  I’m figuring it’s some Simon Cowell discovery I don’t know about, so I shrug.

  “That’s the famous teen psychic, Christian Campbell. He’s, like, all the rage on YouTube for his psychic gallery sessions over here in Europe. He uses Ouija boards to connect with spirits of the people in his audiences. I heard the BBC was looking to give him his own television show.”

  I ignore the pop culture aspect of his bio and instead focus on his metaphysical object of choice. A Ouija board.

  A skitter of shock runs up and down the length of my spinal cord and I’m not happy about this at all. The mere thought of a Ouija board skeeves me out. Somehow, it just seems to be opening a portal that we don’t need to be messing with. (And hello…didn’t anyone watch Paranormal Activity when that mofo burst into flames? No, thank you!)

  Maddie bounces in her seat in full fan-girl mode. “How amazing is this going to be, getting to work with the Christian Campbell.”

  “Thrilling.” More than a bit of sarcasm laces my voice.

  I turn to look at the celebrity in our midst.

  Christian lasers his gray eyes at me and then places dark sunglasses on his face, hiding him from the rest of our group.

  Ouija board use aside, there’s something about this kid that screams out, “Beware of Wolf.”

  I wonder what we’ve got in store for ourselves.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The double-decker bus begins to move through the early morning Heathrow traffic. I fascinated by my surroundings knowing there are rocks here in this country older than the entire United States. It’s a bit overwhelming to do a quick mental flashcard review of the hundreds of battles, royal struggles, and religious melees this land has seen. The awe-inspiring location doesn’t seem to affect Maddie, at all. She’s more focused on gossiping about the “celebrity” in our midst.

  She leans in and whispers, “I read online that Christian charges three hundred dollars for a private psychic reading, and that he’s booked solid through the end of the year.”

  Patrick harrumphs. “Guess he doesn’t have to worry about college tuition like the rest of us, huh?”

  I elbow him in the ribs even though I totally agree with him.

  Maddie types something into the browser on her phone. “Check this out,” she says in a second. “There’s a picture on his website showing him with angel wings, saying that he’s ‘a messenger of Go
d.’”

  I take the phone and peer at the webpage, screwing up my nose. “Hmmm, last I checked, messengers of God didn’t charge three Benjamins per hour for their services.” Father Mass, my Episcopal priest and friend, would be disgusted at someone using a psychic talent that God gave them for their own profit and fame.

  Patrick takes the phone and scrolls around on the site. I rest my chin on his shoulder and follow along with my eyes. There are all sorts of scheduled appearances, interviews, videos, and testimonials on Christian’s page. Patrick starts laughing. “Get this. He’s got a disclaimer on the site. Right next to the PayPal button where you pay to schedule your three-hundred dollar session.”

  I snag Maddie’s phone from Patrick to see this for myself:

  LEGAL DISCLAIMER

  Please be advised that no psychic reading can predict, forecast, diagnose, or provide information with absolute certainty. No guarantees or assurances of any kind are given and neither Christian Campbell, nor his affiliates, will not be held accountable for any interpretations, misinterpretations or decisions made by recipients based on information provided during readings.

  For entertainment purposes only.

  “What a piece of work,” I mutter under my breath. “Entertainment, huh? He finds it entertaining to speak with the dead? To be haunted—literally—by spirits who don’t know what they’re doing and why they’re doing it? I’d like to tell him about the ghostly bitch that pushed me down the staircase and put me in the hospital, or the possessed doll that killed my friend Farah in a car wreck, or the spirit who led us out to the woods to find her dead body after her boyfriend murdered her, or—”

  Patrick calms me by tightening his arm around my shoulder. “Shhh…”

  “Why use psychic abilities if you think it’s only for other people’s entertainment?” I ask passionately. My friends and mentors, Loreen Wood and Father Massimo Castellano told me this is a gift I’ve been given. A talent I have to use for good to help others. Yet this well-polished kid gets to profit from his abilities?

  Maddie seems taken aback. Then again, she’s one of Christian’s fan-girls. “We’re all into this for different reasons, Kendall. Don’t wig.”

  “I didn’t realize I was wigging,” I say to my friend.

  She retrieves her phone and slips back over to her seat as the bus rounds a curvy bend.

  I feel a growl wanting to escape from me. Instead, I tamp it down, trying to hold in my disgust. “I’d never charge people three hundred dollars to help them with a loved one who’s passed on,” I tell my boyfriend through gritted teeth.

  “Neither would I.”

  Kendall, I don’t trust that guy. Not one bit.

  Why?

  I can’t put my finger on it yet, but I don’t trust him.

  I don’t either. But it’s mostly because I don’t like the way Christian’s gray eyes cut through me. Even though I have my back turned to him, I sense him there. Christian Campbell is definitely trying to size me up and read me.

  “That does it.”

  Instead of playing psychic mind games, I knock Patrick on the thigh and get him to let me out of the seat. I’m going to introduce myself to Christian and find out what his deal is.

  Walking straight back to where Christian is sitting, I grip the seat back to steady myself from the bumpy ride. The young girl next to him sits up, wide-eyed as I approach. Then, she smiles sweetly at me.

  “You’re Kendall from America,” she says in a thick Scottish brogue.

  “Yeah, I am. Hi.” I extend my hand to her, and when our fingers meet, I see into her mind. The small school she attends. The herd of cats at her house that she cares for and feeds. The sick grandmother she goes to visit every Tuesday and Thursday. Mostly, I see the shy fear behind her kind eyes. And, most definitely, a star-struck awe at the guy sitting next to her.

  “I’m Jayne Mcburney,” she says. “Oliver told us about you. I think you’re one of his faves.”

  I release her hand and then take the seat in front of them, twisting to face the two of them. My cheeks heat slightly at the compliment, but I can’t think about that right now. Christian’s eyes are shielded by sunglasses and he’s sitting very still and quiet. The rapid tapping inside my skull picks up again. It’s as though I’ve nailed up boards to cover up the windows to my soul, yet someone’s pounding on the outside to be let in.

  That someone is clearly Christian Campbell.

  He slowly draws off his sunglasses and stares me down. “You’re the late bloomer, aren’t you?”

  I cock my head at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that I began having psychic intuitions when I was five years old and I first saw... the beast next to my bed.” He shudders and places a fist to his mouth, probably more for dramatic effect than anything else. Jayne moves her hand to comfort him. I guess she knows the story about “the beast.” He peers directly at me. “Yet, from what Oliver says, you’ve only had psychic abilities for a matter of months.”

  “Since August,” I snap, as though I’m defending my awakening. “It’s been almost a year.”

  Jayne looks down and presses her glasses up her nose with her forefinger. “My visions started when I was nine. Seven years ago.”

  The invasive knocking continues against my brains. I tense up and glare at Christian. Ummm… I so don’t think so, dude. First off, I just met you. Secondly, not thinking you’re the most honest person on the bus, and, thirdly, my boyfriend’s the only one allowed to see and hear my thoughts and even that’s an iffy thing.

  “I’m sure this will be an interesting summer then, Kendall,” Christian says. His crisp, clipped accent nearly unnerves me.

  So, I focus on Jayne, reading her mind clearly since she has no cloak surrounding her thoughts. I see green, rolling hills, a churning, dark ocean, men in kilts—mostly warriors who could stand a long, hot shower, and, most interestingly, a long, curling mist trying to shroud a secrecy hidden deep within someone. Not Jayne, though. “You’re from Scotland,” I say, not ask, with a smile. “What part?”

  “Aberdeen,” Jayne says with a large smile. “Have you been there?”

  I shake my head. “No, this is the first time I’ve been out of the States.”

  Christian levels his eyes at me. “Of course it is.”

  Before I can snap his head off, Jayne tells me, “I won a contest on Christian’s website to come on this trip and learn from him. I’m his protégé.”

  She seems like a genuinely sweet girl, but I don’t think Christian Campbell’s the right teacher for her awakening. What was Oliver thinking, bringing this polished piece of work on our trip like this?

  A niggling in my head tells me that I need to reach out to Jayne. She seems too naïve, so innocent, and so lost. Her eyes are dilated and full of excitement and confusion. I recognize all of the emotions because I had them myself the first day I arrived from Chicago, fresh to my new home in Radisson, Georgia. And now look at me. I reach out to the girl who’s only a couple of years younger than I am, yet it seems like such a bigger gap. “I’m here to help you out however I can, Jayne.”

  A beautifully wide smile runs across her face. “Thanks, Kendall, that’s—”

  “—not necessary,” Christian finishes for her. Then he adds, “Tapadh leat” in a thick Gaelic brogue.

  “Thank you,” Jayne says, nodding her head at her mentor.

  Okay, so that’s the way it is. I understand perfectly. I leave them and move up the aisle to return to my seat.

  “Is he as big of a jerk as I thought?” Patrick asks.

  All I can do is harrumph.

  While I’ve been chatting it up, our double-decker has rolled straight from the airport into the famed capital city of England. Modern building tops peek up through medieval structures, blending together in a harmonious historic architecture of what makes London one of the coolest places on the planet. So I’ve read. And now I’m here!

  “You’re missing the view,�
� Patrick says to me.

  “Not anymore.”

  Like a kid at Disney for the first time, I hang over the edge of the bus watching Londoners rushing to work this Monday morning. Lush green trees, a perfectly manicured lawn, and a reflecting lake catch my eyes. It’s St. James Park. Not that I see a sign or anything; I just know. This is one of the most amazing things about being psychic now. I just know all of these historical things. I squint harder at the area and literally see the outline of the old York Palace that King Henry VIII got from his counselor, Cardinal Wolsey. (Okay, so I watched The Tudors on Netflix and learned some things.) But as I gaze out, the beautiful landscape turns a bit dank and dirty. There are camels, elephants, and crocodiles wandering about as though they fit naturally here.

  “What the—?”

  Patrick, always reading my thoughts, speaks up. “When King James I took the throne of England, he turned this place into an exotic pet display area.”

  “Why? I ask.

  Patrick shrugs. “Because he was the king and he could.”

  I snicker at the thought and then my breath halts.

  Did I just see the soldier from the airport watching us pass by? I shake the image out of my head, wondering who this intruder is and what he wants with me.

  Mentally, I charge back up my white bubble of light. I’m not letting this soldier or Christian Campbell or any unwanted dead tenant take up residence in my mind. That’s just the way it is.

  “Look! It’s Big Ben!” Celia calls out.

  “Wicked!” Jessica shouts.

  Taylor focuses her camera lens on the golden building to our right housing the infamous House of Parliament and the equally renowned Big Ben. As our bus speeds onto the bridge over the Thames, I glance over and take in the London Eye. It’s hugely out of place and sticks out like a sore thumb, all mechanical and modern in a city of feudal treasures. A major fish out of water. A bit like me, I suppose.

  Then the creepy chill hits my spine again, reminding me that all is not as it seems and I need to be on alert. This isn’t just some happy-go-lucky European summer jaunt. There’s work to do here.