Ghost Huntress Book 6: The Journey (15 page)

Another Metro ride finds us at the Pompidou Centre in the fourth arrondisssment.  Look at me, getting good with my Paris directions.

“What is
this
place?” Celia asks, wide-eyed.

Jason’s mouth drops open.  “I’ve never seen anything so cool.”

Taylor reads from her tour book.  “The Centre Georges Pompidou houses
Bibliothèque publique d’information
and the
Musee National d’Art Moderne
.”

Celia snorts.  “A library and museum of modern art.”

Pointing at the structure, Jason remarks.  “But check out the architecture.”

I can read Celia’s mind as her eyes dance over the original building, taking in all of the details.  The intricate weave of pipes and fixtures of the outside of the building make it appear as though the place has been turned inside out.  Plumping pipes, climate control ducts, electrical casings, air circulation elements, and safety devices have all been weaved together in a most modern artsy way.

“Let’s go check it out,” she says to Jason, and the two of them geek off together in architecture appreciation land.

Patrick decides to go inside for a bit and I choose to I walk around with Taylor as she snaps pictures of the modern building.  Close-ups of the pipes, abstracts of the wiring, and crazy angles of the sun hitting the glass panels.

“Aunt Andi’s really impressed with your photograph,” I tell her.  I touch her arm and I’m suddenly propelled into Taylor Tillson’s future.  She’s surrounded by cameras, lights, assistants, and investors wanting to support her art.  “You’re going to be famous.”

She giggles at me and tosses her hair back.  “I just love taking pictures.  It’s merely a talent… like your psychic abilities.”

I dodge three little kids running toward me and then wince a bit.  “I’m still coming to terms with this so-called talent.”

“But you’re helping others, Kendall.”

“I’m trying.”  I think of the two failed investigations in England when Christian took over.  “It’s hard to help people when they’re more impressed with the shine and pomp of a celebrity psychic.”

Taylor flattens her mouth.  “Christian.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’ll get his,” she says.  “Mark my word.”

My heartbeat triples in a cocktail of anxiety and fear.  “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt in the process.”

Taylor turns her camera behind the center to where the sun sparkles off a large fountain of water.  We walk over and check it out.

“
La Fontain Stravinsky
,” she reads from the sign.  It’s a totally whimsical public fountain sporting sixteen extremely colorful sculptures that move and quirt water at visitors.  There’s a set of red lips, a frog, an elephant, a clown’s hat, a mermaid, a…

Through the streams of water shooting out of the tallest of the structures, I see a couple with their heads bent together laughing and smile.  They’re sketching what they see and sharing their art with each other.  It’s…Celia and Jason.

“I didn’t know Jason could draw,” I note.

Taylor pulls her Nikon away from her face.  “Oh, yeah, he took an art class when we were in Alaska.  He’s been thinking about becoming an architect.  I think it’s one of the reasons he wanted to come on this trip, you know, to get a look at classic structures and stuff.”

In all of my own personal angst and assumptions that Jason was merely here for me, I’d totally missed that he might have his own motivations for coming along on this trip.  Now who’s the narcissist?  And it’s great that he and Celia can appreciate things together.  She’s always such a geek about the details and construction of things.

Patrick appears at my side.  “That was wicked,” he tells me.  “Amazing what this city offers.”

“Where to next?” I ask.

Taylor’s eyes get big.  “Oooo, I’d love to snap pics at Pere Lachaise Cemetery!”

“Awesome... maybe we’ll run into the ghost of Jim Morrison.”

 *~*~*

Okay, so no dancing Morrison apparition at the cemetery, but an incredible day all around.

That is until we get to the Rodin House and Museum.

Once I step into the perfectly manicured garden of the famed artist, I begin to get that overall sense of ickiness coating me.  Not that I think Rodin was evil or that his spirit is trapped here, rather, something is reaching out to me.  Trying to speak to me.  Get my attention.  In fact, it’s been with me all day long, I realize, only I’ve been so distracted by my friends and the fun that I haven’t let this presence pull me down.

And now it’s here.  Surrounding me.  Wrapping arms of distraction around my brain and squeezing tightly.  Screaming out for me to focus on it instead of the magnificent garden and museum I’m visiting.

Taylor’s photographing the Gates of Hell display, while Jason and Celia wander off to the back of the garden to get an etching of Rodin’s signature on one of the statues.  I follow Patrick around to the side of the house where I suddenly find myself standing in front of The Thinker.  You know, the statue of the guy seated with his head in his hands, looking almost as if he’s on the toilet.  I’d always found the idea of the sculpture to be quite funny until I’m in its presence.  It’s completely awe-inspiring due to its massive size and the fact that it’s made of bronze and someone actually molded it to look like that.

The statue was created in 1880, according to the plaque, and it depicts a man totally consumed by his thoughts.  He seems so much like a lost soul, someone who’s unsure of where he’s going or where he’s been.

As I stare into the expressionless face, my familiar psychic headache begins to tap at my temples, warning me to the manifestation of a ghostly entity.  The air around me shifts, the temperature cooling off near my knees and feet.  The statue seems to be calling to me.  Unspoken words of a person I never knew, yet someone who is very much a part of me.  A voice I don’t recognize, yet it sounds so familiar.

I gaze deeper and deeper into the face of the man.  The tight jaw.  The stern mouth.  The brows set in deep concentration.

Then the façade begins to morph and change.  The statue comes alive with real skin, hair, eyes that match my own.  And I’m staring at someone who looks very much like…
me.

One minute I’m in the Rodin garden and the next…

…smoke…

…mist…

…fog…

This smoky, misty fog encompasses me and stretches out in a churning motion.  When it clears, I’m transported to another place.  Another time?

I’m in another country, at least.

Italy, perhaps.

A small picturesque town of cobbled alleys, porticos, and steeped streets leading up from the lake.  Beautiful buildings line the lakeside in shades of every pastel color imaginable, topped with red roofs.

I’m standing on a balcony of one of these houses, overlooking an amazing, scenic sunset over a pristine, glassy lake that stretches out to the horizon.  The body of water is so still, so clear, so big.  It almost seems ocean-like, but I know it’s not.

Mountaintops paint triangular peaks in the distance.  A flock of birds dip low over the water in their race toward… somewhere.

The aroma of rich, freshly brewed coffee wafts from the charming Italian villa behind me.

Silence is broken by the passing buzz of a motor boat slicing through the tranquil water and tossing it v-like aside, as it leaves foamy white caps in its wake.  An older couple riding on the boat wave out and I lift my hand in return.

Turning, I walk—or maybe I float—across the deck into a beautifully appointed bedroom with a handmade antique quilt of patchwork fabric draped around the canopy post.  I don’t know whose room this is, yet it feels homey and familiar to me.

Have I slept here?

I make my way deeper into the villa, spacious with plenty of chaises, chairs, artwork, vases, and terra cotta pots filled with greenery stretching up to the ceiling.

Glancing around, I recognize that I’ve had this vision before.  This is a vision, right?

I’m definitely in Italy.

And I know my maternal grandparents—Emily Faulkner’s parents—are near.

Was that them on the boat?

How can I be in Italy, though?  I was just in Paris.

If I’m having some sort of out of body experience or astral projection, then I don’t need to waste time.  I need clues.  Information.  A street name.  An address.

I plunder through a stack of mail sitting on a nearby cabinet.  Damn, I wish I knew Italian!

Outside the kitchen window, there’s a road marker.  Squinting hard, I try to make out the words printed on the sign.  I must remember this: 
Strada Provinciale 42. 
I can’t forget!

Then, fingers of guidance beckon me deeper into the house, back to a sun-filled room with large sunflowers blooming tall next to the open window.  Before I know it, I’m enveloped in the warm embrace and bosom of an older woman rocking me back and forth.

“It’s going to be okay, dear,” she tells me.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

Emotions threaten to strangle me until I feel myself passing out.

Blackness.

Stillness.

Quiet.

I awaken, lying on a bench back at the Rodin garden.  Patrick’s strong hands grip me by the shoulder as he shakes me slightly.

“Kendall?  Can you hear me?”

“Shouldn’t we call 911?” Celia asks.

“I don’t think they call it that here,” Taylor notes.  “I think it’s 112.”

“Whatever,” Jason snaps.  “We need to get her to a doctor.”

Patrick’s voice, smooth and calm through the panic, reaches out to me.  “No, this isn’t medical.  She’ll be okay in a minute.”  Then he gazes down at me and my eyes sync with his dark brown ones.  “Right, babe?  You’re coming out of this, aren’t you?”

With another small shake from Patrick, I seem to snap out of it.  The mist and haze is gone; taking with it the breathtaking lake country and the kind woman who held me in her arms.  Patrick’s grip tightens to return me to this reality.  He’s not mad at me or anything, but I know he’s trying to anchor me back in my own skin.

“Where’d you go?” he asks softly.

I swallow hard at the lump in my throat.  “Italy.  A lake.  A villa.  An address.”  I sit up, holding on to Patrick as he assists.  Celia sits next to me immediately and hands me a bottle of water.  “Thanks, Cel.”

The memories of the vision—or projection, or whatever—collide in my brain like they’re being crushed in an atom smasher.  Everything rearranges and forms incorrectly.  Colors, shapes, and furniture.  The address.  What address?  My temple pounds and my heart races like the bounding waves kicked up by my fictitious motor boat.  Why can’t I remember it?

Tears stain my vision and frustration speeds through my blood stream.  My breathing hitches as I begin to weep relentlessly.

Patrick gathers me to him and shushes me.  “It’s going to be okay, Kendall.”

I sip in air.  “No… no… no… not if I can’t remember.  Wh-wh-what’s the point of all of this if I can’t
remember?
”

I was there.  I was close.  Emily’s parents.  My grandparents.

They were right there.

“Drink something, Kendall,” Celia tells me and I obey.

Jason has brought me a damp paper towel and Taylor uses it to wipe the back of my neck.

I try hard to make my breathing calm the hell down, but all I can see is a tornado cloud of confusion and frustration over trying to get that address back.

I can’t recall that stupid Italian street name to save my life.

Why?  Why!

Patrick cups my chin with his hand and smiles at me.  “
Strada Provinciale 42.”

I start to laugh, then cry more, then laugh again before I dive onto him with an all-out hug.

My connection with him binds us together even when I’m in some sort of dream trance.

He firmly says, “We’ll find them, I promise.”

And somehow, I know we will.

 *~*~*

“Ahhhhhh!  I can’t believe you’re finally here!” I hear screamed out at me after we emerge from the République Mètro station and make our way into the crowd gathered for the festivities.

Becca Asiaf dives down from the small stage where her DJ equipment is set up and nearly crowd surfs down onto me, Celia, and Taylor.  The three of us hug like long-lost sisters and it’s so good for our ghost huntress team to be back together.

“Where have y’all been?” Becca asks.  “I’ve been texting you for two days.”

Taylor looks at her iPhone.  “What?  I haven’t gotten anything.”

“It’s paranormal,” I say, jokingly.

Celia fingers her hair behind her ears.  “We’ve been doing the tourist thing.”

Becca, not as Gothed out as usual, is wearing a silver sparkly tank top, about forty bracelets, long, dangly earrings, and a pair of cutoff jeans.  Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail and she’s positively glowing.

“You wear Paris well,” I say.

“I know!  I effing love it here.  I never want to go back to Radisson.”

Taylor gasps.  “But you’re going to, right?”

Becca rolls her eyes.  “Umm…duh.”  Then she turns her attention to Celia.  “G’friend, you look awesome.  Love the eye shadow and haircut.  You must be in love `cause you radiate.”

Celia blushes ten shades of red and then waves Becca off.  “I so do not.”

“Yeah… you do.”

“Give me a break.  I just got a lot of sun these past few days.”

“Whatever.”  Becca knocks me with her elbow.  “You’re the psychic, Kendall. What do you think?”

I dance my eyes over my friend and do notice how pretty she looks in her off the shoulder draped black blouse and jean mini skirt that shows off her long legs.  When she said something to me about all the guys on the trip being after me, I hope she wasn’t hinting that she was interested in Christian.  Celia’s got better smarts than that.  I hope.  “Hey, she’s a free agent, so whatever makes her happy,” I say.

Becca gathers us around again.  “Well, all y’all make me happy.  I’m super psyched that you’re here.  This is my third night spinning for the DanceFest part of the
Paris La Fête de la Musique
.”

“
Très bien
,” Taylor says.  “I see the French is wearing off on you.