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
