Birthright (Residue Series #2) (16 page)

“Jocelyn…” he breathed.

“I’m here,” I blurted. “Jameson. I’m here.”

But his eyes remained closed, his muscles
lay
limp, and his breathing returned to a shaky rhythm.

When he said my name
,
I stood up
, h
over
ing
over
him
.
From above,
I was taken aback by his striking features
, and w
ithout thinking, I leaned forward, my lips settling on his. There was no movement from him, as I felt his lips surrender t
o the gentle pressure of my kiss
.
He showed no reaction, gave no response.
Disappointed,
I sank back
in
to the chair I’d been resting in, feeling more hopeless than
ever.

Jameson had gone as white as his sheets. A glimpse in his direction might cause you to miss him. Even his scar,
usually
a sign of his virility and hardiness, disappeared against his
colorless
skin
.
His breathing
remained
shallow
and
wispy
, while
his torso
became
more concave.
Being witness to
this caused a co
nstant pressure in my own chest, one that threatened to take away my breath entirely…forever.

Just before sunset on the third day, we gathered in Jameson’s room,
solemnly
contemplating what to do next.

“We need something different,” said Dillon
,
with finality in his tone. “A unique approach.”

He
then
left the room without another word, leaving us all perplexed and watching the door
, anticipating
his return.

“Okay…” Burke said
,
slowly, uncertain as to where Dillon was headed. His reaction may have been funny under different circumstances. Right now, no one laughed.

Dillon came back shortly and announced, “They’re setting up.”

“Who is setting up
what
?” asked Burke.

Before he could explain, Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia entered
the room
carrying bowls, glasses of herbs, and a snake.

“Voodoo?” Alison asked
, trying to clarify.

“Now dontcha go usin’ that tone,” retorted Miss Mabelle. “Voodoo may just be the only thing ta save this boy’s life.”

While my cousins and I were familiar with Miss Mabelle’s disparaging attitude, the Caldwells hadn’t been introduced to it yet.
But j
udging by the expressions on their faces,
I knew that had been accomplished.

Miss Celia pointed a finger at the door
then
. “Out!”

We stared back, confused.

“All of us?” asked Burke.

“Yeyas, out.”

We left the room
, the door slamming
shut behind us, but none of us walked away. Our feet remained planted, listening to
the
chants coming from Jameson’s bedroom
. They were warbled
in a language I’d never heard before.

This was the first time
I intentionally looked
at my surroundings
,
and I noticed that the Caldwell house closely resembled the inside of Aunt Lizzy’s. Pictures of their relatives
proudly
lined the walls
,
alongside framed art
created
by
young
Caldwells
.
I wondered which ones were Jameson’s
,
as I heard him moan through the door.

I wished so desperately to be on the other side,
holding
his hand through whatever was happening to him, encouraging
him with comforting
words, even if he couldn’t hear them. Right now,
it felt like we were
miles apart.
Even
with Miss Celia and Miss Mabelle
in
there with him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was vulnerable
, and
that scared me.

Instinctively, my hand came up and flattened against the door, feeling for him inside. Then my body began to shake and my breathing staggered
,
as I
choked
back tears. I
was frozen in this position
for a very long time, struggling against
the overwhelming emotions threatening to consume me.

Sometime later, the door opened
,
and Miss Celia told us to enter. They didn’t look pleased.

“Whateva’ he got…” Miss Mabelle
sighed
,
hanging
her head in sadness. “It wasn’t meant fo’ retaliation.”

Miss Celia agreed. “It was meant ta kill.”

The
rest of us
were stunned
, driving home the
significance
of exactly what we had encountered.

“If two of the most powerful voodoo practitioners known can’t heal him…” Charlotte began to say
,
but allowed
her voice
to
dwindle away.

I understood what she was telling us without
her
having to say it…

We had now exhausted all known avenues
in trying
to help Jameson.

“What?” Alison was clearly shaken. “No one on earth is capable of curing him?”

“Yer dad…maybe,” said Miss Mabelle. She was looking at me, hinting almost. “Was the best damn healer I’d ever seen.”

“He’s dead,” Nolan pointed out in his typical, loutish fashion.

At
that point
,
something I could only describe as determination
flooded
me. “How much time does he have?” I demanded.

“A day…” Miss Celia softly
replied
, breaking the worst news of my life. “Maybe two.”

Instantly,
I was on my feet
,
racing through the house. I heard footsteps behind me, my cousins following, but I didn’t slow. There wasn’t enough time.

As I breached the doorway, I realized that I’d just broken my promise to Jameson – to never go anywhere alone – but it was
a promise
I was willing to break
,
if it meant saving the one who made me
promise it
.
With that belief cemented in my thoughts, my feet didn’t stop until I reached Jackson Square
,
and
I
was standing before the girl who Oscar pointed out on the first day of school – the one
capable of speaking
to the dead.

“Are you a channeler?” I asked.

The girl’s head
snapped
up at me
and I stared
into almost perfectly round eyes bordered by a
full
head of curly, chocolate-colored hair. “Am I what?”

“A channeler,” I stated impatiently. “Can you really talk to the dead?”

Her boyfriend stood at least a foot above her and his arms were wrapped around her waist;
I felt only slightly guilty about
interrupting
them. He was
gazing into her eyes when
I
ran up
to them
, his lips dipped in a smirk as she shook her head at him.
But the
speed of my approach
caused
his head
to
jerk up well before I reached them
. He
unraveled his arms
and protectively stepped
in front of her
,
as I stopped. He had the stature of someone
who was
familiar with responding to threats
promptly.

They were both looking at me now, evaluating me closely.

“Yes,” he answered
,
in a distinctly English accent. “She delivers messages to those who have passed.”

After a glance at her Harley Davidson motorcycle, biker boots strapped to her ankles, and the sign propped behind her
…
declaring that payment is made upon proof of contact
,
I found it hard to believe she was the kind to make this stuff up.
Exuding confidence so palpable I could feel it, her boyfriend
came across as being pretty sincere
,
even
dependable
.
H
e
and Jameson would be
great
friends
,
if they ever met.

This thought aroused an image of Jameson
in my mind
, pulling it to the surface from just below my consciousness.
I
wistfully
took a seat
on
one of the folding chairs.

“I need your help. And I don’t have much time.”
Formalities
would have to wait.

She raised her eyebrows at me
,
and for a second
,
I thought she was going to deny me service.
Instead, s
he
slid into the other seat and leaned toward me, alert and focused. “Let’s get started
.
Who do you want to deliver a message to?”

“My father
.
” I wondered if she
would react to the dissociation in my voice,
but she didn’t
;
she just nodded
for me to continue
.
“I need to ask him how to cure…” I
was having trouble describing it, and no one had named it yet.
My family, whom I’d outrun somewhere back on Canal Street, hadn’t named it. At the time, I’d been glad to have long legs capable of taking greater strides. Now I wished they’d had the same.

Starting over, I said, “Can you ask him how to cure my boyfriend?” For good measure, I added, “His name is Jameson Caldwell.” I rattled off his address
,
wondering if it would help
her
at all.

She appeared to be memorizing the information
, as she asked another question, “And what’s your father’s
name?”

“Nicolas Sartorius…”

I noticed the confused look she gave me
,
and
considering
the fact she wasn’t recording any of this
, I
offered, “Do you need me to write it down for you?”

She pointed to her head. “Got it. Nicolas Sartorius
.
Not Weatherford?”

I was slightly taken aback. She knew me
, but, of
course, she didn’t know me well enough
to understand
why I had a different last name than my father
. I didn’t learn
it
,
myself
,
until the summer vacation before third grade
.
Even then, my mother
didn’t
divulge any additional details
,
other than what I
was about to confess to this girl
.

“My parents weren’t allowed to marry.”

She processed this information
,
and
didn’t question it. I couldn’t have answered her anyways. Instead
,
she chose to move back to the issue at hand. “And where did your father pass on?”

“Here…New Orleans.”

“And what proof do you want that the message has been delivered?” she asked, throwing me off
kilter.

“Umm…” I blinked a few times, clearing my mind. The
honesty
of my answer hit me hard enough to jolt all other thoughts from my consciousness. “
I
f what he tells you works
,
my boyfriend will live. That alone
will
serve as proof.”
Seeing that
she might be worried
about me demanding
my money back
,
I
adamantly
reassured her, “Nothing else matters to me.”