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When I returned to the house, Hex filled me in on Tory’s condition. If I were Seer, I wouldn’t be able to leave her side, but I understand why he has to do this. If Anderson’s spirit has anything to do with her coma, we have to get rid of it quickly.
Hex looks no less distraught. Not only does he deeply love Tory like a sister, but his paramour has disappeared into something called a Lazarus stone. Mama has been examining it all morning, but Hex refuses to let her keep it. He told her if there was any chance Juliana’s spirit lingers inside, he won’t let it out of his sight for one second.
We make quite the fucked-up trio. We’re miserable about the current state of our love lives, and we need someone to punish for it. I can’t prove Anderson is behind it, but I would bet the entire club on it. I don’t believe in coincidence, and everything seemed to start with his death. I don’t know how to rid the world of his spirit, but I’ll try.
I had Snake do some digging, and it turns out the funeral was planned for this afternoon. It kept getting postponed due to “unforeseen circumstances.” Like I said, I don’t believe in coincidence. That vase reappeared on our porch this morning. He’s absolutely fucking with us, and he wants us at his funeral for some reason.
We opt to take a car to the funeral, not wanting to appear out of place. The police will be there in force, and we’ll be easier targets on our bikes. The moment we get to the old church and step out of the car, I have my eyes peeled for any sign of trouble. Protesters wait outside the church, enraged by the way a monster like Anderson is being celebrated by the community. Their presence almost makes me smile.
The beast inside me rears its ugly head, reminded of what Anderson did to so many girls for so long. I wonder if any of his perverted buddies decided to show up. It would be a nice treat to “accidentally” run into them in a secluded corner of the church. But that isn’t at the top of my priority list.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Seer murmurs to me.
I don’t have an answer for him. “Just keep your eyes peeled. We’ll know it when we see it.”
“There’s not a single ghost here, Pocus,” Hex whispers. “This church is famously haunted. They’re purposely avoiding this place.”
That’s good intel. Hex told us the ghosts have been terrified of the spirit. If it is Anderson, their absence is a good indication. It isn’t concrete proof, but it convinces me of what I’ve suspected.
As we enter the church, I scan the faces of the mourners. Not a single person here looks particularly sad that Anderson is gone. In fact, I catch no less than five business deals happening in different pews of the church. This funeral has brought out the seediest men in New Orleans. This room is a hotbed for crime, and the police are worried about us. Typical.
The only difference between the Ruthless Kings and the men in this room is that we don’t have the money to make the police turn the other way. Oh, and also we aren’t rapists and human traffickers. The faces of these men make me sick. They’ve probably shown up to ensure Anderson is really dead and he’s taken their secrets to his grave.
We find a pew in the back and sit down. Pocus’s face is whiter than usual, a sure sign of his rising fury. He hated Anderson more than any of us, and for good reason. His fists clench and unclench as he surveys the men in the room. Seer yawns beside him, exhausted with worry about Tory and likely bored with the theatrics. This is not his scene.
I’m unsettled by the lack of ghosts. They love crowding in funerals, especially in old churches like this. Many of the affluent ghosts in the city had their own funerals here. They have a strange sense of nostalgia. As I scan the room, I’m sure there are none here. There are no tell-tale signs of their presence either.
If I didn’t know better, I would think my gift is waning, but this has been happening for weeks. They’re all afraid, and if Pocus is right, Anderson is the reason why. It would be just like that son of a bitch to come back as a poltergeist. He’s viler in death than in life, if that’s possible.
People shove in past us, a strange energy palpable in the room. No one here is trying to pretend they’re mourning. There’s excitement in the air, laughter ringing out from all around. This is another spectacle for the NOLA elite. A circus, and we’re the monkeys.
“Hex,” someone calls out, and I turn to see who would possibly be calling for me here.
No one stands out. People are going out of their way to not look at us. Pocus looks at me strangely, but I shake my head. I must have misheard.
But I hear my name again, more clearly this time. The person isn’t yelling, they’re screaming out in pain. No one else reacts to the sound. I feel like I’m losing my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block everything out. There are no ghosts here, and no one is trying to call me for help.
But I hear my name screamed for a third time. This time, I’m sure the voice is Juliana’s. I stand and look around. Logically she can’t be here, but I heard her as clear as day. I’m not crazy. She’s in trouble.
Pocus calls after me as I exit the pew and go after her, but I ignore him. I don’t know where to start, but I’m sure she’s nearby. Someone has lured me here, and they’re using her to trap me. I don’t care. I’ll stop at nothing to rescue her.
Hex misses the beginning of the service, but it’s such a farce. A minister at the front of the room tells the crowd what a great loss Anderson’s death is to our community. If I believed in God, I would expect him to strike down the man on the spot. Anderson’s death is the best thing that’s ever happened to this community.
His so-called loved ones get up to the pulpit and extoll his character, and I can’t take it anymore. This whole ceremony is a sham, and everyone knows it. Nobody’s come to mourn Anderson. They’ve come to cover their own asses. I excuse myself to the bathroom, unable to sit there for one more second.
When I’m safe in the confines of the small bathroom, I splash water on my face and clutch the sink. The only thing that matters right now is Tory. I pull out my phone to text Graveyard for an update. I shouldn’t have left her, but I felt useless. I needed to get out of the house to clear my head, but coming here has been a colossal mistake.
I’m typing out the message when my vision goes hazy, and I drop my phone. In front of me is a beautiful woman with sleek, raven hair. She’s begging for her life, looking at a man in desperation. The man’s face comes into view and I see it’s Hex. The woman is tied up and crying, and Hex’s expression is blank. This doesn’t make any sense. Hex would never hurt a woman.
My vision clears, and I’m back in the bathroom, clutching at the sink. It takes a moment to catch my breath. The vision was one of the most powerful I’ve had in over a year, and it’s left me feeling breathless. I stumble back and stare at myself, confused by what I saw. Who was that woman?
I pick up my phone and finish my text, anxiously awaiting a reply. If Tory were here, she’d know what to do and say. I don’t know how to navigate life anymore without her by my side. As soon as Graveyard texts back that she’s stable, I feel like I can breathe.
I head back to the pew and see that Hex is still gone. He left well before I did. I look at Pocus who is busy scanning the crowd. He usually avoids funerals, too overwhelmed by the palpable grief, but he isn’t feeling any grief today. No one is sad to say goodbye to this asshole.
I elbow Pocus and ask him where Hex is. He shrugs, hardly stopping his scan of the crowd. He’s too focused to notice something is wrong, but my vision has me shaken. If Hex is gone, there’s a possibility that my vision is about to come true, and I can’t let that happen.
“Pocus,” I hiss at him. “We need to go right now. Something is wrong.”
