Arise

  But before Joshua had moved to shut the door behind me, a beam of light from the dining room fell across her face. At that moment I’d gasped. Even when the door closed, my mouth stayed open in shock.

  I had no idea how someone could age so much in only three months, but tonight Ruth Mayhew didn’t even look like the same person. Her glossy white hair had dulled, and her skin had sagged even further. Instead of carrying herself ramrod straight, she now hunched like an old woman. Worst of all, her normally hawk-sharp eyes looked bloodshot and vague.

  Granted, she was emerging from the stupor of a two-day migraine; anyone would look terrible after something like that. And she’d obviously had the energy, at some point between the time we’d arrived in New Orleans and the time I returned from Jackson Square, to decorate the back stoop with Voodoo dust.

  But as I watched her through the dining-room window, I couldn’t help but notice that her relatives treated her like a helpless invalid. They very nearly carried her to the dining-room table and, once they had her there, flocked around her as if she couldn’t even lift a spoon. Which, judging by her shaking hands, she couldn’t.

  Despite all the horrible things she’d said and done to me, I felt the strangest twinge of sympathy for her. People aged, people died—I knew that better than anyone. That didn’t mean I wished it upon Ruth, though. Nor did I want Joshua to have to watch it firsthand. Of course, there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening. And even if I could, I’m pretty sure Ruth would still use her last ounce of strength to banish me to the Antarctic or somewhere equally unpleasant.

  So, however weak and hollow she might look, however much sympathy her appearance might elicit, that woman was still Ruth Mayhew. And because I had no intention of angering her, I stayed put, alone outside with my own dark thoughts.

  Anyway, I told myself, tonight’s going to be hard enough without adding her to the mix.

  As if responding to my mood, the gas lamps above me sputtered violently, sending an army of shadows dancing across the street. The movement startled me, and I pulled my legs more tightly to my chest. Call me crazy, but aging enemies, flickering shadows, and midnight rituals in cemeteries all made me jumpier than usual.

  The image of another, more familiar graveyard in rural Oklahoma popped into my head, and I couldn’t seem to get rid of it. As the evening dragged on, I mulled over the shape of the lettering on my own headstone, the way its concrete looked at sunset, the curve of the ground over my grave....

  Finally, after nearly a full hour of this torture, I groaned loudly. I ran my hands through my hair, covered my face with them for a moment, and then leaned my head against the brick wall behind me. I had to think about something else while I waited for Joshua to sneak out for the night. Otherwise, I really would go crazy.

  So instead, I pictured the prairie I’d dreamed about during the car ride to New Orleans. I envisioned the lush grass and the endless blue sky. Then I imagined my mother and father, sitting with me on a blanket spread over the carpet of wildflowers. I pretended that I could taste the food from our picnic, smell the flowers as the breeze hit them, feel the sun on my skin.

  And since I was fulfilling all my wishes in this little fantasy, I added Joshua to the scene. In my imagination, he was sitting next to my father, laughing with him about something my mother had just said. The dream-Joshua, still talking to my dad, absentmindedly reached across the blanket and took my hand—a real touch, without sparks or electricity, but somehow better. So much better.

  I sighed happily and reached my hands out in a big, satisfied stretch. But the second my fingers touched something icy and wet, I jerked them back, fast. I opened my eyes, and then let out a small, choked sound.

  It wasn’t possible. What I had just touched shouldn’t be there. Yet here it was, as real as the gas lamps that had suddenly disappeared. A garishly colored metal girder, with my fingerprints still visible on its shimmering, frosty coating. The kind of girder you’d find on a bridge.

  The kind I’d seen before.

  I took an automatic step backward, away from the icy girders. Then I looked wildly around me. Instead of old buildings and narrow streets, I was now surrounded by twisted metal bars, all colored in bizarre, wounded shades of black and red and purple. Like some insane, life-size version of a birdcage.

  This was definitely not the French Quarter; this was a bruised and ugly place, encrusted in ice and plunged into darkness. I hated it, almost as quickly as I recognized it.

  High Bridge.

  The words whispered in my mind, like a curse. This place looked exactly like the netherworld version of High Bridge.

  But a second look told me I wasn’t on High Bridge—just a different structure that closely resembled it.

  I had to be in the netherworld. But where in it, I couldn’t say.

  As far as I could tell, I was standing in some sort of metal pavilion. Its girders extended up, over my head, to support a steeply pitched roof. In the back, behind me, the pavilion opened onto what looked like a metal boardwalk. Beyond that I couldn’t see very much since this part of the netherworld was as shadowy as the part I knew. In the front, where I’d just been, a few rows of twisted girders were the only things between me and a sudden plunge.

  Whatever that plunge led to, it did not look welcoming. Even in the impenetrable darkness I could tell I wouldn’t want to lean over the edge of the pavilion. And yet I felt an irresistible tug toward it—an urge to creep just a bit closer and find out what waited below. The longer I resisted it, the stronger the impulse became, until I could hardly keep still. It gnawed at me, making me squirm and wriggle in an effort to stay in place.

  Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I took one lurching step toward the edge.

  But before I could take another, a faraway shrieking sound made me freeze. When I looked up, in the direction of the noise, my mouth dropped open.

  Above me, the ceiling of the pavilion seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a sky of purples and grays that teemed and seethed around each other like storm clouds. Their movements were too rapid, though. Too unpredictable and chaotic to be part of any earthly storm.

  And there in the cloud forms, so high I nearly missed them, were swooping black shapes. Hundreds of them.

  If I squinted, they looked like enormous, high-flying crows or ravens. But I knew those shapes weren’t birds.

  They were demons. Real ones. And suddenly, they were moving in a flock formation to take a downward dive.

  Toward me.

  Chapter

  SEVENTEEN

  A scream began to build in my throat. I tried to choke it back. Tried to keep silent. Despite that feeble effort, it ripped its way out when someone gave my shoulder a rough shake.

  Then, all at once, a fiery glow burst across my skin.

  I hadn’t seen the fire, hadn’t been able to re-create it since that night on High Bridge. Now, without any warning or effort on my part, I burned like a torch—hot, vivid reds and oranges, shining against the darkness.

  Immediately, I felt stronger. Bolder. Finally armed with my glow again, I spun around to face my attacker.

  For a split second the reflection of the fiery glow glinted back at me from his eyes. But as soon as I realized who he was, the glow vanished. Extinguished by some invisible force.

  “How did you get here?” I whispered, snatching Joshua’s hand from the air and using it to pull him against me. I wanted him closer to my flame, in case the glow reappeared. Maybe it could protect us both from the things that were about to swoop down upon us.

  Judging by his expression, Joshua was also afraid. But he wasn’t looking up at the sky, where an army of demons prepared to descend. He was looking at me.

  “Amelia?” he said tentatively. His eyes were wide with alarm, and he’d actually pulled a few inches away from me. “What’s going on?”

  “Joshua, you’ve got to get out of here,” I warned, frantic. “We’re about to be—”

  Yet something
made me stop short. Maybe it was Joshua’s pained expression, or maybe it was the fact that the scenery had finally registered in my peripheral vision.

  Still holding Joshua’s hand, I slowly turned my head to take in my surroundings: centuries-old buildings, cramped together; long, iron-railed balconies; sputtering gas lamps.

  Somehow, between the moment I saw the demons and the moment I looked into Joshua’s eyes, the netherworld pavilion had disappeared. And now I stood shivering in the French Quarter, clinging for dear life to a very confused boy.

  Finger by finger, I unclenched my hand from his. I forced myself to stop shivering, but I couldn’t get my lips to relax out of their terrified grimace.

  There were two explanations for what had just happened to me, neither of them good.

  “Joshua,” I whispered, “if I asked you to be really honest with me, would you?”

  His mouth lifted into a faint, worried smile. “Come on, Amelia. You know you don’t have to ask me that.”

  “I know,” I said, nodding stiffly. I took a deep breath and then released it, along with the most essential question of the evening.

  “Tell me the truth, Joshua: did I disappear just now, or have I been standing on this sidewalk the whole time?”

  He frowned, tilting his head to one side to scrutinize me.

  “Well,” he said, “there were a few seconds when I didn’t see you, when I left the dining room to sneak out the front door. But as far as I know, you’ve been sitting here the whole time. I guess you stood up at some point, though....”

  Joshua trailed off as I sagged against him. I turned my face into his sweater, not even looking up when, after a moment’s hesitation, he wrapped his arms around me.

  We stayed like that for a while: him holding me, me desperately wanting to hold him, too. But I was more afraid than ever to do that now. Especially when I heard his answer to my next question.

  “Just one last thing,” I murmured into his shirt. “Can you tell me if you saw the fire again?”

  Joshua stirred a little, but didn’t loosen his grip on me. “What fire?” he answered, as casually as if I’d asked him what time it was.

  I bit my lip, holding back a sob. Those two little words—“what fire”—told me so much about my mental state. About my future, and Joshua’s place in it. Even if I could keep the demons away from me, and therefore away from Joshua, there was still an obvious problem brewing.

  Me.

  It seemed as though I was becoming like those ghosts I’d met last night: terrified; half crazy; running scared at the slightest sound. And if I was bouncing between real threats and hallucinated ones, how could I justify being anywhere near Joshua for any longer than tonight? Unless someone, somehow, could end the dreams and hallucinations. Maybe even empower me against the demons for good measure.

  It seemed as if I really did have one last hope: a girl I barely knew, and trusted even less.

  With a deep sigh, I leaned away from Joshua’s sweater and then looked up into his beautiful, worried eyes. I gave him a light smile—one that I knew he could see through but hoped he appreciated all the same.

  “Okay, Mr. Voodoo Conjurer,” I said, forcing a positive note into my voice. “Is it time to go yet?”

  “Yeah, it’s already eleven thirty. The party’s still going strong inside; I don’t think anyone realized I even left the table.”

  “Well, that’s good. At least we won’t have … anyone … you know, following us.”

  He grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. “You mean Ruth? I don’t think she’s going to be doing any following any time soon.”

  “Don’t say that.” I placed a few fingertips on his chest. “She’s just getting over a really bad headache.”

  Joshua shook his head uncomfortably, looking away from me. We both knew that when I was the one expressing optimism, things might not be so great. I’d lifted my hand, ready to guide Joshua’s face back to mine, ready to say something reassuring, when his expression changed.

  “Taxi’s here,” he murmured.

  I turned in the direction he was staring. Two headlights bounced unevenly toward us as a battered white vehicle pulled forward and stopped in front of the house. The driver’s window lowered.

  “You call for a cab?” a rough voice barked out to Joshua.

  “Yeah,” Joshua said, stepping closer to the car.

  At that moment it hit me that we were really about to go perform a Voodoo ceremony, and my stomach did a sudden flip. But I followed Joshua anyway, coming close enough to see the cabdriver: a grizzled old man with one arm slung carelessly out the window. He jerked his head toward the back, indicating that Joshua could let himself inside. Clearly, this driver wasn’t interested in getting up to open the door for a teenage fare.

  The only effort he expended was to raise one eyebrow when Joshua held the door open for me—or for thin air, from the driver’s perspective. Before I ducked into the cab, however, I saw him shrug dismissively. He’d seen weirder things in his career; he’d probably seen weirder things tonight.

  When Joshua finally climbed in and closed the car door, the driver cleared his throat. “Where to?”

  Joshua leaned toward the opening in the clear plastic that separated the front and back seats. “St. Louis Number One Cemetery, please.”

  The cabdriver chuckled, but he abruptly stopped when he realized Joshua wasn’t joking.

  “You’re serious,” he stated flatly. In the rearview mirror, I could see his bushy white eyebrows rise again.

  Joshua nodded. “Yes, sir. St. Louis Number One.”

  The driver turned slightly so that we could see his profile through the plastic divider. He no longer looked bored or unconcerned.

  “Listen, kid. I know people say the Cities of the Dead are safer than they used to be, but that doesn’t mean you should be traipsing around them at night. Including this one.”

  “I appreciate the advice,” Joshua said with an air of finality.

  “But it’s locked after dark,” the driver pressed. “So there’s no point in wandering outside in that part of town this late.”

  When Joshua didn’t answer, the driver hesitated, still eyeballing his young—and possibly crazy—fare. Then he shrugged again and spun back around in his seat. He pressed a few buttons on the console with one hand and turned the wheel with the other.

  “It’s your funeral, kid,” the driver muttered, guiding the cab back into the flow of traffic on Ursulines Avenue.

  “If you think about it,” Joshua pointed out, “that’s kind of ironic.”

  The driver snorted and then fell back into silence as he navigated the cab northwest. No one spoke while he drove, carefully moving the car through the thick press of milling partyers at the intersection of Ursulines and Bourbon. Only when the driver turned onto the long, less-crowded stretch of Dauphine Street did Joshua break the silence, leaning forward again.

  “It’s off of Basin, right?” he asked. “Near Iberville?”

  The driver merely grunted in reply. Joshua settled back against the seat and folded my hand into his. He gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze.

  I looked up at him in the darkness, watching the streetlights illuminate and then hide his profile in turns. He caught me staring and gave me a broad grin. I could see his optimism shining out at me from that confident smile—he was sure that tonight would go well. That I would get the help I needed.

  And God, did I want him to be right. If Gabrielle could stop the disorienting visions, if she could help me regain my glow and my poltergeist strength, then maybe—just maybe—I didn’t have to leave. I could fight off the demons, avoid the transparent ghosts, and stay by Joshua’s side, for at least a little while longer.

  These bewitching ideas were still chasing one another around in my head when the cab pulled to a stop along the curb next to a long, white stone wall. Up ahead I could see a break in the wall where a gate of bars guarded the entrance.

  The cabdriver placed the car in pa
rk, fiddled with his meter, and then flopped back into his seat with a resigned sigh.

  “The St. Louis Number One,” he announced.

  “Thanks,” Joshua said, tossing a wad of bills through the opening in the divider. He pushed open the door and climbed out, then stood aside so that I could climb out too. After slamming the cab door shut, he gave the driver a casual salute, as if to say Thanks, and don’t worry about me, pal.

  Instead of driving off—his money earned and his obligatory warning delivered—the cabdriver leaned out the front window one more time.

  “Look, kid,” the driver said, “I have a grandson who’s reckless and stupid, too. So I’m going to say it again: don’t try and go in there. It’s a bad, bad idea. How about I take you home? Free. No fare.”

  Joshua shook his head, hard. “Like I said: thanks, but I’m good.”

  To emphasize his point, Joshua patted the roof of the cab. The driver understood the “move-along” signal well enough. He took a last look at Joshua, lifted one shoulder in another dismissive shrug, and then pulled the car back onto the road.

  Staring at the cab’s fading taillights, I didn’t share Joshua’s cavalier attitude. In fact, a small part of me just wanted to heed the driver’s advice and get out of here.

  But instead, I folded my hand back into Joshua’s and followed him toward the entrance of the St. Louis Number One.

  In just a few shorts steps, we’d made it to the halfway point of the white wall surrounding the graveyard. There, the entrance was decorated with some historical plaques and a large iron cross atop the gates. Which happened to be locked.

  Although I’d expected to find them open as per Gabrielle’s instructions, both sides of the gate were held together by a chain threading through their bars—shut tight against any nighttime visitors and their intended Voodoo ceremonies.

  I peeked over my shoulder: not another cab in sight, and the bright lights of the Quarter seemed awfully far-off. I wasn’t worried for myself necessarily; my ghouls appeared to me even in crowded places. But I certainly didn’t want Joshua loitering around outside a New Orleans cemetery all but begging to be mugged.