Staring at the cab’s fading taillights, I didn’t share Joshua’s cavalier attitude. In fact, a small part of me just wanted to heed the driver’s advice and get out of here.

But instead, I folded my hand back into Joshua’s and followed him toward the entrance of the St. Louis Number One.

In just a few shorts steps, we’d made it to the halfway point of the white wall surrounding the graveyard. There, the entrance was decorated with some historical plaques and a large iron cross atop the gates. Which happened to be locked.

Although I’d expected to find them open as per Gabrielle’s instructions, both sides of the gate were held together by a chain threading through their bars—shut tight against any nighttime visitors and their intended Voodoo ceremonies.

I peeked over my shoulder: not another cab in sight, and the bright lights of the Quarter seemed awfully far-off. I wasn’t worried for myself necessarily; my ghouls appeared to me even in crowded places. But I certainly didn’t want Joshua loitering around outside a New Orleans cemetery all but begging to be mugged.

My fears were short-lived, however, when he gave one of the gates a light shake. The chain holding the gates closed slithered off, falling to the concrete path with a thunk.

“Huh,” Joshua said, staring down at the chain and then at the small opening between the gates. “Looks like the Voodoo girl made good on her word.”

“Oh. Yay.”

Those two unenthusiastic syllables just slipped right out of my mouth.

Honestly, I didn’t know which was worse: being locked outside, scared that Joshua might get stabbed, or going in and finding out exactly what Gabrielle could—or couldn’t—do.

Hearing my lukewarm response, Joshua grinned back at me.

“Come on, Amelia Ashley,” he teased. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

I’ve had more “adventures” in the last three days than I care to ever have again.

That’s what I should have said out loud. Instead, I conceded.

“Okay, okay. Lead the way, Captain Adventure.”

Joshua laughed quietly and then opened the gates farther. After we both stepped through the opening, he bent down to pick up the chain. As he threaded it back through the bars, he explained, “This will keep anyone from getting suspicious that people are in here.”

I snorted softly. “Captain Adventure also happens to be the captain of covert operations?”

“Yup,” he whispered back. “I’m an expert in both fields.”

Then he took my hand again and began leading me down the concrete path, deeper into the cemetery.

As we walked, I couldn’t help but gawk at the scenery. Here, all the graves appeared to be housed in aboveground mausoleums. Many were tall—a good three or four feet above my head—but a lot of them rose only to my knees. These crypts, which crowded together around the pathway, stood in various states of repair. Some had walls of gleaming white stone, firm and strong against the elements, topped with weeping sculptures and carved urns. Others were nothing but piles of crumbling brick held together by a network of scraggly weeds. Various bits of these crypts lay fallen on the pathway, and I had to skirt them as I walked.

Joshua, who led our way through the weaving, labyrinthine paths, whispered back to me.

“They look like creepy little houses, don’t they?”

“Cities of the Dead,” I murmured, repeating the cabdriver’s phrase. When you put it in those terms, this really was a fitting place for a Voodoo ceremony.

I peered closer at the tombs, trying to read their weathered epitaphs. But all I could really make out were a few of the clearer surnames: Deforges, Morphy, Charbonnet. Beneath those I could barely discern long lists of more names, and dates. Illegible, weathered reminders of the people who lay buried inside … and who had perhaps walked these paths after their deaths just as I’d done in my own cemetery.

Maybe I’d even met a few of them last night in Jackson Square. Maybe they would soon become my only companions.

The thought chilled me. I followed Joshua more closely, keeping silent until, suddenly, he stopped short and I nearly bumped into him.

He whispered back to me, in a voice so low and reverent I could hardly hear him:

“We’re here.”

Chapter

EIGHTEEN

The instant Joshua announced our arrival, a thousand goose bumps—real ones—erupted across my skin. I clung tightly to his back, not sure I wanted to move forward. Ever.

But eventually, Joshua’s stillness and my curiosity got the best of me. I leaned to one side to peek around him. Then I reeled backward.

As promised, a tall, bloodred crypt loomed to our left. The pathway it faced intersected another row, which bore the dining-table headstone that Gabrielle had mentioned, along with more standard, shoulder-level tombs.

And there, waiting in the intersection of these pathways—looking every bit the Voodoo priestess—stood Gabrielle.

A small fire burned in a metal pot at her feet and illuminated her from below, casting mysterious shadows across the planes of her face. This lighting somehow made her look older. More powerful. Her loose, floor-length dress shifted in the wind, as did her wild hair. She caught my eye and raised an arm in welcome; her other arm was occupied, holding a large, vine-wrapped black book.

A family Bible, the same kind of item I’d seen Ruth use in her exorcism rituals. Not necessarily a sign of good things to come.

Gabrielle beckoned again with one hand, signaling us to join her.

“It’s almost midnight,” she called. “Let’s get started. Amelia, I’m going to need you at the center of this ring.”

I looked down to where she had gestured. There on the ground, drawn in a broad circle that encompassed both Gabrielle and her small fire, was a ring of dust.

Voodoo dust.

I shook my head vigorously. “You do realize there’s no way I’m stepping into that thing, don’t you? I mean, even if I could.”

Gabrielle laughed low.

“This isn’t banishing powder. This is the protective stuff. It keeps out whatever means us harm.” As if to demonstrate, she lifted her arms and spun around, letting the gauzy hem of her dress twirl with her. “We’re safe in here, to do whatever we like.”

Still unconvinced, I frowned. “What about Joshua?”

Gabrielle shook her head. “He needs to stay out of the circle since he isn’t a part of the ceremony.”

Joshua wrapped his arm around my waist and gave me a slight hug. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m right here, watching. If anything goes wrong … I’ll be here.”

I hugged him back, not wanting to tell him that I wasn’t worried that I would need his help; I was worried that he would need mine. But he looked so intent, so certain, that I nodded.

“All right. I’ll give it a try.”

“Good,” Gabrielle said, sounding relieved. “Now hurry. We don’t have a lot of time left.”

I stepped forward reluctantly while Gabrielle knelt to arrange a collection of items at her feet. She placed the first—a small, portable stereo—just outside the circle. When she noticed me watching her, she gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“Drums,” she explained. “Since it’s just me, we’ve got to make do with recorded drumming.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling incredibly out of my element. “Drums. Of course.”

As Gabrielle arranged the other items—a small bowl, a plastic bag full of dried herbs, some kind of gourd, one bottle containing clear liquid and one containing dark—I took another tentative step toward the circle. I inched one foot and then the other closer to the outer line of chalky white powder. With a deep breath for courage, I muttered, “Here goes,” and took my first step inside the circle.