My aunt cracks up laughing at me and then climbs up onto the mattress. The allegedly mature adult that’s supposed to be my responsible chaperone begins to jump up and down on the bed like a kid away at camp for the first time.
Bounce.
Bounce.
Bounce.
“Get up, Kendall!”
My sensibilities are being jostled around like chicken in a Shake and Bake bag. I grip the headboard for stability while my aunt continues her attempt to woman-handle me out of bed.
“Andi! Stop it!” She lands flat on her bum next to me and rolls over, dog-piling me with her weight. “How old are you?”
She laughs at me. “Come on, sweetie. Oliver’s giving you guys the day off. You’ve been working too hard and not getting the chance to enjoy this amazing city. And for that matter, neither have I. I’ve been scoping out art galleries and talking to artists and photographers. I need some girl time with my favorite niece.”
I turn into her outstretched arms and accept the warm, inviting hug. She’s the closest thing I have to my living biological family and I find that I love her deeply. She pets my unruly mess of sleep-mussed hair and I feel a deep ache in my throat, constricting an emotional lump that threatens to bring on tears. Okay, so it does bring on tears. I sniff into the pillow as the hot, salty sobs begin again.
“Aww… sweetie,” my aunt says softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Patrick and I had fight,” I whimper.
Andi continues to rub my head much like my mom—my adopted mom—did when I was little and would fall down or crash my bike or any of the other myriad accidents I had. “People who love each other have arguments. That’s life,” Andi says. “I remember Andy telling me that he and Emily fussed over everything. It was how they were. But they loved fiercely and apparently, the making up was the fun part.”
It’s weird to hear stories about my real parents as actual people and not spirits. Not that I’ve met my dad on the other side. Still, to imagine them as living, breathing people who argued and loved… well, if makes me sad that I never got to know them or experience their love, even though I’m a product of it.
I twist and look up at her through the sheen of fresh waterworks. “That’s just it. I totally love him, but he’s never said it to me. So, I don’t know if he loves me or not.”
“Of course he does. It’s apparent to anyone who watches the two of you.”
“Really?”
She nods her dark head. “Look, let him wallow in his boy world today. I’m taking you out on the town. Gather your girlfriends and let’s go. The full London experience, on me.”
I swipe my hand under my nose. “Fish and chips?”
“Of course. Although, London’s more famous these days for its curry.”
I screw up my nose a bit. “I think I’d rather have fish and chips.”
Aunt Andi smacks me on the hip. “Up and at ‘em. Both feet on the floor. This city was founded in 43 A.D. We’ve got a lot of history to check out.”
*~*~*
I’ve never had so much fun just… being.
Tears are long behind me and I’m enjoying hanging out with my gals. We set out on foot to see this amazing city via the Tube, the underground subway. Celia, Taylor, Maddie, Jessica, and Jayne are with us and it’s a laugh a minute. We pop all over town to see the Tate Modern gallery—Gaugin’s work in person is breathtaking—and take a ride on the London Eye. We also take in a walking tour of the House of Parliament, and then make our way through Westminster Abbey, marveling at the memorials of so many famous people like William Blake, all three Bronte sisters, Robert Burns, Lord Byron, Lewis Carroll, Chaucer, Churchill, holy crap… that’s just the beginning of the alphabet. And even The Bard, himself, William Shakespeare. It’s a life-sized white marble statue of him leaning on one elbow against a stack of books and manuscripts.
Celia is in awe. Total, complete wonder and admiration.
“Breath, Cel,” I remind her.
She mimics his pose and I click away several pics of her. She does the same for me and then we join hands and giggle wildly. We may not make it to Stratford upon Avon to visit his actual grave, but this is the next best thing for Shakespearean geeks like the two of us.
While in the Abbey, I ignore the many spirits that are reaching out to me. I know they’re there, calling to me and waving their celestial arms in my direction. I’m unsure as to whether they just want attention, acknowledgment, or help getting into the light. It’s not that I’m unsympathetic to their plight; rather, I just want to be Kendall Moorehead. Teenager. Tourist.
“Oh, my,” Taylor exclaims. “It’s Sir Laurence Olivier!”
I suppose we all have our hero worshiping.
My hunger is satiated with a healthy serving of fish and chips near Piccadilly Circus, then we hop the Tube over to the Baker Street stop for a visit to Madam Tussauds. It’s the cheesiest thing in the world: a room full of famous wax people. I have a blast, though, posing with the likenesses of Nicole Kidman, Leonardo DiCaprio, Lady Gaga, President Obama, and even the Queen herself. Okay, not really herself, but her wax self. Incredible! It’s almost as good as meeting the real people… well, almost. I’m totally blowing up my Facebook with pictures of every single thing we’re doing.
We round out our full day of touristy stuff by visiting the Tower of London. This place is amazing, with its steeped history as a city landmark, a refuge for royalty, a fortress, the home of the crown jewels, and the famed prison of so many of Henry VIII’s political and religious rivals.
The seven of us pay our ticket price and make our way into the courtyard, past the beefeaters standing guard. The yard is full of enormous black crows milling about.
“You could put a saddle on that thing,” Celia says, pointing at one near us.
Taylor squeals and backs away. “I hate birds.”
Jayne reaches down and strokes the crow on its head. It’s as though she and the bird are connected. “Poor bloke has had his wings clipped,” she tells us. “They’ve done it for centuries so they won’t fly off.” I watch as she bonds with the creature. “He’s happy here, though. He gets a lot to eat and the tourists take a lot of pictures of him.”
I smile at her, and then she sort of snaps out of her trance.
“Sorry,” she says.
“Don’t be.”
“That’s how this whole thing started with me. I could hear the thoughts of the dogs and cats at home. Then I picked up on dead animal spirits.”
My temple aches as Jayne talks. A pounding out and an echoed scream from a time long ago. A female pleading for her life. Retching emotional pain ripped from her heart. I hear her pleas, her begging, and her cries. I want to reach out to her, even though I don’t know who she is. A spirit from a time long gone. Someone stuck in an eternal prison, or perhaps just residual memories from all the death this location has witnessed.
Jayne continues, “It’s all so disturbing to hear these voices, spirits… the dead.”
I know.
“Not at all,” Jessica chimes in. “We all have our special gifts. You just have to learn what you’re meant to do with yours.”
Maybe so, but it doesn’t make the psychic headache I’m experiencing any less knotty.
“Are you okay?” Aunt Andi asks.
I wince slightly. “We’re not alone here. And I’m not talking about the other tourists.”
“Oh, sweetie….”
Celia waves us over to an opening leading up to one of the towers. “Y’all check this out. I’m getting wicked spikes on my KII meter.”
I laugh in spite of my discomfort. Only Celia Nichols would bring an EMT detector along to a tourist location. She’s right, though. The lights are buried deep into the red zone. Spirits are around us.
Taylor reads from the brochure and map of the Tower. “It says that ghosts abound here. Follow me.”
She leads us to an area known as the Haunted Gallery. Then she reads again from the tour brochure. “Catherine Howa
rd, the fifth wife of King Henry VIII was accused in 1541 of adultery and put under house arrest here. She escaped, though, from her guards and ran down the gallery looking for the king to plead for her life. She was caught and dragged back screaming to her room and eventually executed at the Tower of London.”
Well, that explains it. Poor Catherine. Poor Anne Boleyn for that matter and all of the other victims who died at the hands of Henry VIII. Their spiritual imprints are definitely still here. Locked in these walls. Recorded in the hallways and rooms.
Jayne says quietly, “There’s so much going on here.”
That’s an understatement, I think, as I rub at the pain in my temple. Suddenly, my neck aches, burning hot and searing like I’ve gotten a nasty cut. I pull my hands up to my throat and realize I’m empathizing with the beheading victims. I try to breathe through the feelings, knowing it’s not happening to me, but it’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.
The other girls have wandered off deeper into the gallery in search of the crown jewels room. Only Jayne remains with me. Perfectly still at my side.
“You feel it, don’t you, Kendall.” It’s a statement from her, not a question.
“Yes,” I eke out.
“Me too. They’re scaring me.”
“I know. They can’t hurt you, though.” I say this as if I believe it. I don’t want to tell Jayne about the spirit back in Radisson that pushed me down the stairs, putting me in the hospital fighting for my life and having a near death experience. I want to think that was the exception and not the rule.
“I wish Christian were here. He’d know what to do,” Jayne says.
“He’s not the answer to everything,” I tell her. “His ways and means are a little unorthodox.”
Jayne seems shocked at my words. “Christian is amazing. My mother saw one of his gallery readings when he was up in Aberdeen. He picked up that I was having psychic flashes and offered to help me out. He’s got the deepest eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s gorgeous and perfect and can channel these spirits. And he’s bloody brave to take on these evil spirits.”
I continue to massage my head. “If you believe that’s what he’s doing.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe him? You’ve seen what’s happened so far.”
“I know, Jayne. Things might not be as they seem, though.” I don’t want to bust her chops, but I also don’t want her world to spin around a Christian-only axis.
However, it may be too late.
Jayne’s mouth drops open. “You don’t understand, Kendall. Christian is a messenger of God. He’s been told all his life that he has a mission to fulfill. That he has to defeat evil and fight these demons that are out to destroy him. Did you know his last three girlfriends tried to make him think he was crazy? They didn’t believe him and did all these awful things to him. He said one of them had a nasty spiritual attachment. He tried to get a priest to bless her and she got all crazy and tried to kill him.”
“That’s a bit dramatic,” I say, wondering how much of this is actually true. “Christian’s not the only one who can help you out while you’re discovering and exploring your gift, Jayne. I’m here for you, too.”
“He’s a prophet, Kendall. He says so and I believe him.”
Now, more than ever, I’m convinced that Christian Campbell either has a screw loose or an agenda of some sort. I intend to get to the bottom of it and expose him for the fraud both Patrick and I believe him to be, if it comes to that.
Taylor calls out to me. “Kendall, you’ve got to come check out the bling!”
I follow down the hallway to find Taylor standing in awe in front of the amazing crown with the purple velvet lining underneath and white fur trim that I’ve seen Queen Elizabeth wearing when she opens Parliament.
Taylor gasps and puts her hands to her mouth. “Mère de Dieu. It has two thousand eight hundred and sixty-eight diamonds, two hundred seventy three pearls, seventeen sapphires, eleven emeralds, and five rubies.”
Celia harrumphs sarcastically. “Only five rubies? Wow.”
I smack her on the arm. “Don’t be rude.”
She won’t let up though, pointing at a round gold ornament, seeded with pearls and sapphires. “Look, an orb!”
Leave it to Celia to make me laugh when I’m being mentally tortured by spirits surrounding me—and worries of Christian Campbell and exactly what his glitch is. “It’s the Sovereign’s Orb,” I say, correcting her.
“It’s an orb, nonetheless,” she quips. “See, not all orbs are made from dust particles, insects, or moisture in the air.”
“Ever the ghost hunting investigator, eh Cel?”
She laughs at me. “I calls `em as I sees `em.”
I’m about to replay my own witty comeback, when I’m suddenly struck with a lightning flash of psychic pain. Only this time, it’s not from any of the residents of the Tower of London. It’s a blazing bright warning that I can do nothing about. A silent threat to someone I love.
My hand slips up to my throat where I’m about to choke on the lump threatening to overtake me.
A soft voice whispers near me. A caution of what’s to come.
It’s not Anona. I don’t know who this is, though, this new spirit guide or person that’s watching over me. The voice is neither male nor female. It’s filled with urgency.
Another flash. Blinding my sight.
The stench of terror fills my nostrils and I want to be sick.
Right here in front of the Queen’s beautiful jewel collection.
Aunt Andi calls out to me, or maybe it’s Celia. I can’t tell.
I fall to my knees and clutch my heart that’s ripping and burning with immense pressure.
For in my mind’s eye, I see Patrick. He’s somewhere in London.
He’s about to—
The scream rips involuntarily from my throat shaking me from head to toe.
Help him!
…and then I pass out cold.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When I finally come to, I’m back in my hotel room in bed with Aunt Andi sitting next to me. She presses a cold cloth to my head and smiles down at me.
“I think she’s coming around.”
I blink hard to focus well on my surroundings. Celia’s sitting on the other side of me with a look of grave concern on her face.
“How did I get here?” I ask weakly.
“Believe it, or not,” my aunt begins, “We got you into a cab and whisked you back. I was going to take you to the hospital, but Jayne and Maddie reached out to you and saw the panic in your head. I thought it best to get you some rest since you didn’t sleep last night.”
I twist to try and see the clock. “What time is it?”
Taylor’s sitting nearby in a chair. Her usually tan skin is pale in the early evening light. “It’s about six,” she says.
“Wh-wh-what’s wrong? Something’s wrong!” I sit up too fast, getting a nasty head rush. Then the memories cascade back on me like a waterfall. “Oh, my God! Patrick!”
Aunt Andi shushes me and holds on to my shoulders. “There’s been an accident. Patrick’s at the hospital.”
Tears burst from my eyes. “No!”
Celia takes my hand and holds on tightly. Why is this happening? What’s going on?
Andi tries to calm me. “He’s going to be okay.”
“Really?” I ask through a sniff. “Tell me everything.”
“The guys were touring Churchill’s Cabinet War rooms. They came outside and Patrick claims that something pushed him from behind and literally propelled him out into traffic in front of an oncoming taxi,” Andi says.
Something? Or someone. My worst fear threatens to overtake me, as I wonder if Jason had anything to do with it.
“You say he’s okay?”
Andi nods and Celia takes over. “Jason called. I talked to him. He said Patrick’s one ‘in shape dude.’ Seems he sort of jumped up onto the hood of the taxi and rolled off to the side. If he hadn’t done that, he migh
t have been hurt badly.”
Okay, if Jason called to tell us, then maybe he wasn’t involved. I certainly don’t want to think that he’d be capable of injuring another person out of spite.
I lay back into the pillows and release a sigh. Closing my eyes, I try to reach out and connect psychically with Patrick. There’s a blockage, though. Like a black curtain separating us and keeping us from each other. Where is this coming from? Patrick can’t still be mad at me and pushing me away, can he?
Half an hour later, the guys return. I propel myself into Patrick’s good arm—since the other is in a loose sling—for a tight hug with all my might. He doesn’t push me away at all. In fact, he grips me firmly, nuzzling his face against my neck.
“Oh, Patrick, I knew something had happened. Someone whispered to me. I was so worried.”
“Shhh… it’s okay. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” I step away, not breaking contact. “You’ve got a sprained wrist and a broken rib.”
He smiles brightly at me, his Hershey eyes sparkling. “What are you…psychic?”
I lift up on my tiptoes and kiss him smack on the lips. Nothing romantic. More like a desperate need to make sure I can still do this. He returns the kiss, sipping at my mouth in a way that tells me everything’s more than okay between us.
He’s here.
He’s okay.
It could have been much, much worse.
Oliver breathes a sigh of relief. “There, there. I think that’s enough excitement for one day. I’ll order some pizza for everyone and we’ll stay in and watch a movie. How does that sound?”
Patrick hugs me to him again, and I peer over his shoulder to find Jason watching us. At that moment, I see Jason’s concern and concern over the situation. He sees the connection that Patrick and I have. I’ve never really witnessed someone’s aura like Jessica can, but at that moment, I literally visualize the feelings Jason has for me… pop in the air and disappear. Snap, in fact. Like some weird effect from a cartoon, yet it’s real. And it’s okay. There’s no hatred or hurt in his eyes. Just an understanding that we’re over. An acceptance that Patrick and I are together.
Ghost Huntress Book 6: The Journey Page 8