Chapter 5

The strangest echo of recognition whispered through me.

Shivering, I squinted against the downpour, trying to see. But even as he came into form, I was positive I’d never seen him before.

But the recognition wouldn’t go away.

Tall and thin, he had the look of a poet, with dark hair falling against a tragic face, and eyes as dark as they were decimated. I would have sworn he stepped toward me and touched me, lifted a hand to press against my chest, even though I could see that five feet separated us, and he still knelt in the shadow of a headless angel.

“Oh, my God!” I heard someone shriek, and from one heartbeat to the next, the moment shattered and Mrs. Hood came running through the torrential downpour, her husband right behind her, absolutely soaked to the bone. And when I glanced back at the man, I found him once again facing the grave with his head bowed, and from his hands, still clenched around the iron, I could see the rosary dangling in the rain.

“I’m freezing!” Mrs. Hood said as her husband gathered her against him. Mascara ran down her face—I could only imagine how the goth make-up Harmony had insisted I wear looked at the moment.

But I didn’t really care.

From behind me, Naomi splashed through deepening puddles, her umbrella destroyed by the wind. “My camera,” she said, as a vicious streak of lightning cut through the sky. “I’m afraid it may be ruined.”

Thunder shook the cemetery.

I could see their disappointment, but as the rain pelted us, I could also see the resignation on their faces.

“Tomorrow!” I said, guiding them back to the front entrance, where across the street, even the famous Commander’s Palace restaurant sat empty.

The wind kept shoving us back.

“Same time, same place,” I shouted against it. “No charge. We’ll pick up where we left off!”

We dashed outside, huddling under the dense canopy of one of the old oaks, until finally a taxi turned from St. Charles onto the rapidly flooding Washington Street.

Mr. Hood splashed to the street and hailed it.

There was only room for three.

“No, no, I’m fine,” I said as they climbed in, and the taxi driver frowned at the rain slanting into his car. “I’ll catch the next one.”

In truth though, I didn’t mind walking. It was that whole storm thing. I really did love them.

As they drove away I headed in the opposite direction, and despite how bad it had been in the cemetery, here on the sidewalk, where decades-old cracks had turned to raging mini-rivers, the enormous oaks made great umbrellas. And anyway, I was already soaked.

Fighting the wind, I made my way along Prytania, not thinking about much of anything except how much I loved New Orleans, until I felt the breath of awareness slip down my back. Slowly I turned, and slowly I saw the Spanish moss whipping in the frenzy of rain, and the old house waiting through the shroud of oaks.

I’ll never let you go…

There were a hundred reasons why I should have kept going, but I didn’t care about any of them, only how incredibly cold I was—and the low vibration moving through me, the bone-deep curiosity to experience what Harmony had, to walk through the rooms and touch the walls, smell the air—and see how much of the past really did remain.

Getting inside was ridiculously easy. The iron fence looked imposing, but the rails were frail and rusty, and as I ran my hands along them, I easily found the one Harmony had told me about, the one that wasn’t attached anymore.

Quickly I slipped through the opening, and made my way to the house.