Ghost Huntress Book 6: The Journey (11 page)

“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 might 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.

Relief flows over me that Jason didn’t have anything to do with Patrick’s injury.

Then my gaze touches upon steely gray ones.  Eyes that pierce my soul with a sinister sneer.

To be an alleged “messenger of God,” Christian Campbell certainly seems like the devil himself.

I’m not taking my eyes off this creep.

 *~*~*

The next day, Oliver’s set up a special banquet room for us at the Bag `O Nails pub—for a traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding meal—and then a tour of the public rooms at Buckingham Palace.  He’s really going all out for us with the red carpet treatment.

I also pick up from him that he’s giving this full court press as a way to assuage some of what’s gone wrong during this trip—the frustration from investigations gone badly as well as Patrick’s accident.

However, the minute we leave the hotel to board our bus, we are swarmed by reporters and photographers.  Ahh… the infamous paparazzi and London tabloid press here to photograph the American TV psychic and his….

Wait a second!  They’re all congregating around Christian?

“Christian!  Christian, over here!” one photographer shouts out.

A reporter shoves a microphone in front of him.  “You’re the talk of London, Christian, can you give us a quote?”

“Tell us about the demonic entity you’ve been in contact with,” another says.

“What is this ‘Dojo Disturbance’?”

I whisper to Patrick, “How do these reporters know about Dojo enough to call him a disturbance?”

Patrick snickers.  “Looks like good old Christian has been sending out press releases.  I saw him on the computer a few nights ago on a newswire site.  I should have put two and two together.”

Everyone seems as shocked and surprised as I am to see the press flocking around our colleague.  I look to Oliver to take control here, but he’s standing tall next to the press’s flavor of the moment, encouraging him and pushing him toward the cameras.

“Are you kidding me?”  Sarcasm laces my voice.

Celia clicks her tongue.  “You’re not honestly surprised by this, I hope.”

Christian preens for the reporters, smiling some, and looking off pensively at other moments.  What a poser.  Literally.  And there’s Oliver, the enabler.  Great.  Just great.  Not that I want the attention or press.  This isn’t what this tour was supposed to be about.  But I guess it is now.

Patrick wraps his good arm around me and pulls me close to him.  His silent message is for me to keep my mouth shut and just smile.  So I do.

“Mr. Campbell, tell us how you first connected with this Dojo entity,” a female reporter asks in a thick Cockney accent.

Christian’s face grows serious and he musters up some good acting for the cameras.  “I’ve been haunted my whole life by this creature.  Since I was a child of three and he stood at the end of my bed.  I knew then that God had a special purpose for me.  To be his messenger and to help defeat these demons roaming the earth.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes.  Again with the prophet of God shtick.

“Dojo is a serious threat,” Christian says.  “It is my mission in life to reach out to as many people as possible who’ve been affected by this demon, to help them connect with their loved ones, and to push this entity into the underworld realm where he belongs.”

The Cockney woman speaks up again.  “Mr. Campbell, there are reports all over the Internet from people throughout the EU claiming to have been contacted by an entity named Dojo.  People in London, Paris, Rome.  What is your advice to them?”

Christian nods his perfectly coifed head.  “It’s very simple.  They need to contact me.  I am the only person—sent by God—who can defeat this monster.”

I can’t take this anymore.  “Give me a break.”

I spin on my heels and bolt back into the hotel lobby.  Patrick, Celia, and Jason follow suit.

“This is complete crap,” I say to them once we’re inside.

Outside, I can see the camera flashes highlighting Christian in all his glory.  They’re eating up his every word.  Charm oozes from his every orifice.  Oliver turns and sees that we’ve fled back into the hotel, and he steps in to join us.

Before I can speak, Patrick snaps out,   “Oliver, what the hell is going on here?”

I point.  “That’s a joke out there.  This isn’t what I signed up for this summer.”

Only Jayne remains outside with Christian and his audience, as Jessica, Maddie and Taylor join us in the lobby.

Oliver gathers us around and fends off my verbal attack by holding up his arms. “I had originally formed this trip for my top students so you could help me with some important cases I’d been asked about and to help continue your psychic development.”  He pauses for effect.  Or possibly as a delay tactic.  “However, word has gotten out—mainly through my own show producers—about Christian, his abilities, and his growing popularity here in the UK.  They want to follow him around and focus on his plight with this Dojo entity and the connection Christian has with it.”

Jessica shakes her head, her red hair nearly blazing with her own intense aura.  “You’ve got to be kidding me, Oliver.  That kid is whack.”

“Now, Jessica—”

“No, seriously.  His aura is mucked up like nobody’s business,” she snaps.  “I can’t believe someone with your reputation and strong moral character would fall for whatever he’s peddling.”

Oliver frowns at my friend and roommate.  “Jealousy is a nasty thing, Jessica.”

“I’m so totally not jealous of him,” she says.  Her face falls and I can see the pain and confusion emanating off her.  Disgust steams off her skin and I’m saddened because I know what she’s going to say next.  “I think I need to go home.”

“Jess, no,” I plead.

She holds her hand up.  “No, Kendall, it’s okay.  I’m really grossed out by this.  Something’s just not right.  You know it.  We all know it.”  She glares at Oliver.  “Most of us know it, that is.”

Oliver crosses his arms over his chest.  “Jessica, I think you’re acting very childishly.  I handpicked you for this journey and you’re being quite ungrateful.”

She hangs her head.  “I’d like to go home, please.  You owe me that.”

“Fine,” Oliver says.  “I’ll have my assistant arrange it.”

This totally sucks.  I’m losing my roommate all because of some overly polished pretty boy who thinks he’s the next big TV psychic.  It’s bad enough that every paranormal group in America is filming a pilot, hoping to be picked up by whatever cable channel.  Now, we have to kowtow to this…this…fraud?  This isn’t fair at all, yet I know I can’t leave.  I have to stay and make sure this piece of human excrement doesn’t get away with this, or worse, hurt anyone—including himself or Jayne—in the process.

Maddie, the empath, begins to cry.  Not in a babyish way, rather in a sympathetic manner to Jessica’s pain and what the rest of us are feeling.  “I’d like to leave, too.” She wipes away the tears from underneath her eyes.

“Not you, too, Maddie,” Oliver pleads.

“I can’t handle all these emotions I’m getting,” she says.  “This one is jealous.  That one’s confused.  Another one is cocky and self-assured and none of us are here for the right reasons anymore.”

Tension sets in Oliver’s jaw as he glares at my friends.  “I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in you, as well.”

Maddie shrugs.  “I’m just a country girl from Alabama, Oliver.  I miss my sisters.  Both of them were against my coming on this trip.  I should have listened to them.  I’ll fly back to the states with Jessica, please.”

Impertinent, Oliver stands tall and stares out.  “I don’t want anyone doing anything that makes them uncomfortable.  I’m sad to see you both go, but we’ll just have to carry on with the rest of our tour.”

Jessica reaches for Maddie’s hand and together the two of them head toward the lift to go to our room and pack.

Oliver levels his eyes directly at me.  “We have more investigations to conduct.  People who need our help.  That is if no one else is bailing.”  He lifts an inquisitive brow at me, but he already knows the answer.  He is one of the world’s top psychics, after all.

I look at my team—Celia, Taylor, Patrick, and Jason—and they all nod back at me.  We know what we have to do.  There’s very obviously something dark that we’re working against and we have to see things through.  No matter how much it pains me, I know we’re in this for the duration of the summer, even if it is in the shadow of Christian Campbell’s limelight.

Speaking for the five of us, I say, “You can count on us.”

Oliver smiles.  “Very well.  Let’s get back to work.”

Talk about feeling inadequate and unnecessary.

The rest of our time in London is nothing but The Christian Campbell Show.  All day.  Every day.

It’s not that I need to be the center of attention.  Not at all.  But I would like to feel useful and that’s just not the case now that Oliver has shifted the focus of our summer tour to promoting Christian and getting him as much press as possible.

Right now, I’m sitting next to Patrick in the front row of the audience of at least a hundred and fifty people here at London’s Bridewell Theatre.  Christian is performing a gallery reading to suckers, err, I mean people who paid fifty euros each to see if one of their relatives or deceased loved ones comes through to the teen psychic who’s been all over the news, tabloids, and newspapers.  I even had a comment on my Facebook page from Courtney Langdon back home totally freaking out that I know Christian Campbell and can I get his autograph for her.

Umm, no.

According to The London Mirror, the Scottish Clairvoyant has “taken the world by storm” and now people are coming out of the woodwork—ha, get it…Ouija boards are made of wood—saying they, too, have heard from an entity named Dojo.

I just don’t buy it.

But here I sit.  Participating.  Smiling.  Supporting.  Listening.

Christian, wearing a black silk shirt opened a little bit too much at the neck and a pair of two hundred dollar jeans, paces in front of the audience with his fingers tented together.

“I should have slept in today,” Jason mutters from behind me.  “This is craptastic.”

I shush him, although I agree whole-heartedly.

Christian points to the end of the second row where an elderly woman sits with a walker propped next to her.  She’s clutching her rosaries. “I’m sensing someone right here with health issues.”

Jason and Celia chortle at the same time and I cough to cover their guffaw.

“What was his first clue?” Jason whispers.  “Couldn’t have been her crutch.”

“I’m getting an M name, attached to a B name.  Anyone?”

Six hands go up, including the elderly lady.  “My name is Mary and my husband was Bernard.”  She pronounces it like “burn-erd.”

Okay, an M name attached to a B name… Mary and Bernard.  I’ll give him that one.  Sort of.

He approaches her closely, nodding.  “Bernard is on the other side, isn’t he?”

She gasps and bobs her head.

“And he was strong in his Catholic faith.”

Again, a yes.

Christian kneels next to her.  “I’m sensing a circulatory issue in your legs, Mary.  Bernard wants you to make sure you listen to your doctors and do as they say.”

She sniffles.  “Yes, yes…”

“And he stresses to me that he’s in a good place and he’s very happy.”

Tears fill Mary’s eyes and I want to go smack Christian for manipulating this woman.  He stares down at her shirt and I notice what he’s obviously seeing.  She’s covered in cat hair all over her black blouse.

“He’s mentioning a family pet,” Christian says.  “A pussy cat.”

“Yes!  Mr. Sparkles,” Mary exclaims.

“He’s really good,” Taylor says to me.

“Get real.  He’s nothing but a fake.”

Has she not been paying attention?  One doesn’t have to be a nuclear physicist to see that Christian Campbell is a cold reader.  He observes, he processes, and he uses the information to his advantage.