Page 48 of Cursed
Not something. Someone.
Two separate and distinct thoughts vied for prominence in her madly scrambling mind. The men from town had followed her to this isolated location and were going to finish what they’d started on the road. Or one of the ghosts she’d sensed in this place of death had snuck up behind her.
If the men were after her, her next act might have been rational. Fumbling in her purse, she pulled out the gun she’d just bought and slipped her finger through the trigger guard as she whirled around—prepared to shoot the enemy.
Her heart leaped into her throat when she found herself facing Andre.
He was wearing a tee shirt, jeans and muddy work boots. His face and shirt were streaked with perspiration, and he was staring at her with an expression that mirrored her own shock.
“Put down the gun,” he said in a steady voice.
“You’re dead,” she gasped, backing away from him, bumping into another crypt. Somewhere in her brain, she knew she wasn’t thinking rationally. Andre was standing in front of her—alive and well. He had been out in the bayou working. And he had followed her into the cemetery.
But she kept seeing the white burial chamber imposed on his image. And she kept the gun pointed at him, the weight of the weapon reassuring.
“No. I’m very much alive.”
“But … your name.” Without lowering the weapon, she gestured toward the crypt.
“That’s my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather,” she repeated. Suddenly she felt dizzy. Closing her eyes, she pressed her free hand to her temple. “Andre. What just happened to me?” she whispered.
He answered with his own question. “Where did you get that gun?”
“In town,” she said, lowering the weapon, feeling now like it was weighing down her hand.
“Put it away, before somebody gets hurt.”
“Right.” As she eased her finger away from the trigger and carefully put the weapon back in her purse, realization slammed into her.
“I could have shot you,” she wheezed.
“You didn’t.”
“What’s happening to me?” she asked again, pressing her fingers to her temple.
“I don’t know.”
Suddenly it was important to explain why she had been so startled. “There are no dates on the gravestone,” she whispered.
He kept his voice even. “They’re at the foot of each marker.” He moved past her, brushed away leaves and pointed.
She made out the dates. Andre’s grandfather had been born in the late eighteen hundreds, died in the nineteen eighties.”
“You knew him?”
“When I was a boy. He was pretty old when I was born,” Andre said, then cleared his throat. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Yes.” She wanted to get as far away as she could from this place. When he took her hand and led her to the gate, she followed willingly. But something glistening on the ground made her stop short, a strangled sound bubbling in her throat.
CHAPTER TEN
Andre shoved Morgan protectively behind him. “What?” he asked urgently.
She pointed to the gris-gris. “Another one. It’s another one.”
Still holding her back, he knelt and pushed the weeds aside, then swore. Prepared with another handkerchief, he scooped the blob up and closed his fist around it.
