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
