Spell For Sophia (14 page)

My vision wobbled. The puddle in the bottom of the boat reflected taffy-colored clouds in a wide-open sky. I squinted, adjusting to the brilliance, confused by the light and the absence of a cypress canopy dripping with Spanish moss. A bloodstain on the inside of the boat a few inches from my head came into focus. Renewed fear surged through me. "Breaux!"

The boat swayed as he vomited over the side. "Present." His voice shook.

I willed my stomach to stop whirling, my ribs to stop hurting. Tears clumped my eyelashes.
I must get up.
My limbs dangled heavy and unmoving, as though my bones and muscles had disintegrated into wet sand.
Or become road-kill.
Waves lapped the boat, tipping it from side to side.

"Soph—"

The deafening blast of a ship's horn sliced off Breaux's words. My heart stopped, then restarted. Adrenaline pumped strength into my arms. Trembling, I pushed up into a sitting position.
Ow.
For a moment I thought I, too, might throw up over the side. My backpack slid off my arm and tumbled off the bench. I caught it before it fell onto the wet floor. Muscles burning, ribs sore, I dragged the bulging pack onto the bench.

"Uh, Soph…"

"What?" With my arm wrapped around my ribs, I lifted my gaze. The lush, narrow bayou had vanished. A black tugboat and a red, pencil-thin barge stormed past us on a vast, wide-open river. The water glowed pink, reflecting the rising sun.
Impossible. It was midnight just minutes ago.
My attention shifted to Breaux. "You're bleeding."

"You're crying."

"The wind made my eyes water." I swiped my eyes with my scarlet scarf, then rubbed my ribcage. "You scared me! I thought you were dead."

"Are you sure I'm not?" He touched his fingers to the cut over his brow. Already a bruise was forming.

"You might have a concussion." I held up one finger. "How many fingers do you see?"

His eyes crossed, then refocused. "Uh, one."

"Good guess." I clutched the seat as successive waves rolled from the tugboat and barge, rocking our small vessel almost to the tipping point. Breaux clawed at the oars, catching them before they pitched overboard.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"The Mississippi River." He balanced the oars on his lap, then pressed his hand against the deep cut above his left eye. Blood trickled between his fingers.

I leaned forward, holding my ribs, and extricated Mam'zelle's bandana from Breaux's hoodie pocket. His ashen pallor scared me. "Scoot over. I'm going to tie this around your head to stop the bleeding."

"Thanks." He bobbed forward and I caught him before he tumbled off the bench.

My worry intensified. "Are you dizzy?"

He took several breaths. I scooted beside him, shifting so my arm locked through his. Breaux rubbed his hands toward his knees. "I'm fine."

"Liar." I waited until he straightened back up before daring to release him. Then I half rose in the wet, rocking boat and knotted the bandana around his head. Blood from the wound stained the white cloth a bright red.

The wake waves subsided. Breaux angled his chin toward the far levee with its curved iron benches and elegant streetlights. "We're in New Orleans. I recognize the bridge and the Moon Walk near the Washington Artillery Park." He fumbled for my oar. "We're in the shipping lane. We've got to move."

My pulse spiked. "Hand me my oar."

"No way. You may have a broken rib." He shifted on the bench seat and his knee grazed mine. His touch grounded me. The vertigo halted. The breath I had been holding eased out of me.

"You have a concussion." I reached for the oar. It felt cold and wet and smelled like the river. When my bare fingers brushed Breaux's, magic — lightning quick and blinding — surged up and down the pale wood. Stung, we dropped the oar. It plopped into the water at the bottom of the boat where it crackled with yellow light before fading back to normal.

"Did you see that?"

Breaux flicked energy from his hand. "See it?" He pressed his palm to his forehead. "I felt it."

Magic thrummed my skin and my heart buzzed inside my chest. A second ship's horn pierced my ears. I snatched up the oar and slid it into the metal oarlock. Breaux secured his oar as well. We plunged the blades into the water and rowed as though zombies still pursued us. The bloodstain on the bandana bloomed like a red rose opening to the sun.

A white container barge plowed past our backside. Ripples from its wake propelled us forward, halving the distance to the levee. As we reached the steep embankment, two early morning joggers ran past us on the promenade.

I unzipped my hoodie, then tugged my long, fuzzy scarf from my neck. Maneuvering the scarf around my ribs proved more difficult and painful than I had expected.

Breaux stopped rowing and secured the oars. "I'll do it." He crouched beside me, seemingly heedless of the cold water seeping into his cross trainers. The tornado had made a wild mess of his black curls. Blood plastered one lock to his forehead. I slipped my finger beneath the curl and freed it.

Breaux stilled. My hand dropped to his shoulder. Beneath his hoodie and shirt his muscles bunched against my fingertips. Our gazes collided. My breath caught. He leaned close.
This is it.
But he stopped himself and lowered his chin, refocusing his attention on binding my ribs. A childhood full of rejection and feeling not good enough, not pretty enough, not worthy enough, sucker-punched me.

"Darn it, Soph."

I clawed the skin graft on my neck and pressed my lips together to keep the well of rejection from overflowing.

"How do you manage to look so beautiful when I'm covered in blood and reek of vomit? You didn't even lose your cap in the tornado."

My hurt unraveled and my shoulders sagged. The sob I had been holding back escaped as a strangled laugh. "I like your windblown look."

"Trust me. It looks better on you." He placed the scarf beneath my breasts. Color returned to his cheeks. "Tell me if it's too tight."

I nodded and he crisscrossed the scarlet cloth behind me, leaning so close his breath huffed like a warm cloud against my throat. I imagined us married and living near Miss Wanda in a periwinkle house with white trim. Ainslie would visit us, and there would always be gardenias or hydrangeas in a vase on the table.

"You're not breathing."

I forced a breath. "Sure I am."

"How do you feel?"

"Like a stuffed sausage. But there's less pain. Thank you."

He returned to his seat and resumed rowing. "One of the foster kids who lived with us for a while arrived with a broken rib."

"Lots of broken kids in the system."
Me included.
I zipped my sweatshirt over the binding.

"One of the many reasons I want to go into law and politics."

Dismay cratered me.
Tell him not to squander his good luck and brains.
I cleared my throat and averted my gaze.

We rowed parallel to the levee. "See any place to dock?"

I sniffed, keeping the tears at bay. When had I become so weepy?
It must be the exhaustion and lack of food.
I shaded my eyes with my hand. Ahead, a luminous white light appeared above the water's edge. "Is that—?"

"
Grand-mère
." Breaux dug his oar into the water and pulled.

I synched my strokes with his.
Why is she here? Has she come to warn me to stay out of Breaux's life?
Mam'zelle vanished as we neared. A mooring buoy bobbed in the spot where her spirit had hovered. We drew the boat alongside it. Breaux pulled in the oars, then threw the looped rope, lassoing the mooring on the first try.

I rose. Either the soreness in my ribs was easing or the binding had helped. The craft swayed as Breaux shouldered my backpack and slipped his arm around my waist.

"I'll go first," I said. "In case you get dizzy."

He didn't protest, which added another worry to the weight pressing against my heart. Silently I cast a protection spell just in case Mam'zelle decided to hex me, blood being stronger than friendship. I placed extra warding around my heart chakra. Little good it would do me. Breaux had already breached it.

When we were both on the small landing, I eyed the shallow wooden steps set into the loose rock lining the levee. "How's the dizziness?"

"I can manage. You?"

I rubbed my hand across the scarf encasing my ribs. "I'm good as long as I don't fall into the water."
No way can I swim like this.

"I'll walk behind you, just in case."

I clutched the front of his jacket and drew him closer. "You may have a concussion. Are you sure you don't feel faint?"

"Don't worry. I promise I won't topple into the brink."

I fisted more cloth until my knuckles pressed against his washboard stomach. "You better keep your promise."

"Always." He touched his fingers to the raw gash above his eye when he thought I wasn't looking. His other hand stayed on my back, reassuring me, as I made the slow ascent. By the time we reached the Moon Walk, sweat drenched my knit top.

"I better call my mother and…" His voice trailed off as he reached into his pocket. "My cell phone is gone."

"Maybe it flew out during the tornado."

"Crap!"

As he patted his other pockets, an unseen force tugged me toward one of the benches. As I drew near it, vertigo struck. The landscape spun. I braced myself against the bench and the cool iron acted as an off switch. The spinning stopped. Expelling a long breath, I glanced down. Maybe if I found something to focus on, my eyes would stop ping-ponging inside their sockets.

Breaux joined me and pulled a brass fleur-de-lis money clip out of his pant pocket. "My cash is still here, and my driver's license, student ID, health insurance card, and gas card."

I grasped his arm. "How many people named Shiloh Breaux Martine do you think there are in Louisiana?"

Breaux snorted and puffed out his chest. "One."

"No, be serious."

He stuffed the money clip back into his pocket and met my wild-eyed stare. His brows arched. "Martine is a fairly common name, but not Shiloh Breaux. Why?"

Wincing, I retrieved a castoff newspaper from the bench and handed it to him. He glanced at the lead article and read aloud. "Congressman Shiloh 'Breaux' Martine introduced a bill yesterday—" His brows dove together. "What?"

I stabbed my finger at the date.

Breaux stepped back. "January! I'm a week late for class, for my job!" He pressed his hand to his forehead. "We missed Christmas! "

"We missed a lot of Christmases. Check the year."

His brows pinched together. "Is this a joke?" He glanced around as though searching for a hidden camera. "Or am I dreaming?"

I shook my head. "I don't think you're dreaming." My hand tunneled beneath my sleeve, not stopping until it found my skin graft. "I think we've been hurled ten years into the future."

Chapter Sixteen

Ainslie

My nostrils flared as I breathed in the liquid sage and Yemaya's tangerine-and-patchouli scent. Despite the cloying smells and the occasional hiss of swamp mist from the spell book, my bedroom seemed lighter after we had vanquished the shadow entities. I checked my watch. "We have about ninety minutes until my parents return."

"Almost done." Yemaya completed the second ring of protection around the spell book and white plate, then stashed my tin of chamomile tea under the glass-and-white-stone coffee table. The grimoire scowled at me. I glared back, then felt stupid because the book didn't actually have eyes.

Yemaya rose from her knees and perched sideways on the daybed, facing me at an angle. Her knees bounced up and down. "What's wrong?" I asked.

Yemaya stilled her legs and fingered her cameo necklace. "I'm sorry. I should have been upfront with you from the moment I read the spell book. I guess I was too stunned."

"You saw something there, didn't you?"

"Yes." She twisted the amethyst ring on her left forefinger. "It had to do with my life in New Orleans before I moved here. Promise you won't tell anyone."

"Okay. I promise."

She shifted and her long honey-blond dreadlocks snaked over her left shoulder. "Mama and I left New Orleans after my best friend was murdered. Amélie's killer was never caught. He will never be caught."

My skin prickled. "Why not?"

Yemaya's unsettling pale blue-gray eyes bore into me. "He's a Walk-in."

"A what?"

"A Walk-in is a soul that enters another soul's body and takes it over."

I drew back. "How?"

"It usually happens when a person is unconscious, like during surgery, or sleep, or after a traumatic event or suicide attempt."

I swallowed. "Great. I'll never fall asleep again."

"Don't worry. You're safe. The soul exchange can only happen if the body's original soul agrees to leave."

"And you think this happened to your friend?"

Yemaya bit her lip. "I think it's possible. Amélie's older brother, Christophe, had been bullied a lot. In middle school, some kids started in on Amélie because she was his sister. Then the cyberbullying began. One girl set up a hater page. You should have seen the horrible things she wrote. 'Do the world a favor and kill yourself.' I told Amélie to ignore it and delete her own account, but she wouldn't. It finally pushed her over the edge and she overdosed. I believe the Walk-in got to her before the ambulance arrived."

"So Amélie's body is still walking the earth, but her soul is gone? You said she had been murdered."

Yemaya drew in a long breath than expelled it. "In a sense, she died twice. When she woke up in the hospital after the overdose, it was clear she had vanished and someone else had taken over her body. She didn't recognize her family or me. Her personality changed—" Yemaya snapped her fingers, "—in an instant.

"Eight months later, the Walk-in tried to rob someone in an alley off Bourbon Street. The mark had a gun and killed Amélie. I arrived just as the Walk-in was leaving her body. He laughed and told me he'd find someone else mentally unstable and vulnerable." Yemaya hugged herself. "Now he's roaming New Orleans and I have no idea what he looks like."