Page 13 of The Mare Rider of Cornwall Cove
“You do not have to protect me.”
“Yeah, I do. You’re the important one. The brain, the seer. I’m just some dumb jock who carries the camera. You can train a monkey to do what I do.”
His shoulders slumped. I rushed over to him, reached up, and took his face between my hands.
“You are so important. This is a team effort. We’re a team. You and me. This stream wouldn’t be shit if not for you being behind the camera. I’m so boring.” He started to argue that point. I rose to my toes to place my mouth on his. He pulled me close, so close that I had a bit of trouble breathing, but the kiss that took place was explosive.
Then someone knocked on the door. We broke apart, his lips puffy, his eyes steeped with affection.
“I love you, Arch, please don’t do anything foolish.” With that, he stepped back and returned to throttling our sleeping bags.
“I love you too,” I said before calling out for whoever was rapping to enter. Monique peeked her head in, smiling feebly at us. She had applied her makeup and was sporting bright teal eyeshadow and what looked to be thick, glossy blue-green lipstick to match her dark teal jumpsuit. “Hey, there you are. Did you get your work done?”
“I did, yes. Can I come in?” she asked. I waved her in. She slipped through the door, closed it behind her, and then walked to us, hands behind her back. “I know a lot of people would think this foolish, but seeing as how you are who you are, and both of you are wearing about thirty ghost bead bracelets, my gifts to you will not bring rolled eyes or giggles.”
From behind her slim back she produced two red bags, about the size of a small bag of potpourri.
“I’m not sure we’ll have a teapot,” Phil said while lifting the tiny cloth bag from her palm.
She gave him a tender smile. “It’s not a teabag, honey. It’s a charm of sorts.”
I carefully took the second bag, opened it with care, and looked at the contents. Some dried herbs, a coin, a small obsidian gemstone, what looked like a tiny chicken bone, and a small scroll tied with some red thread. Her dark eyes met and held mine. A small tingle danced up from my hand to settle between my shoulder blades.
“Is this a gris-gris?” I asked and got a short nod from Grandpa’s girlfriend.
“It is.” Her reply was filled with pride.
Ah, well, this was some powerful magic then. I cocked my head slightly to gaze upon Monique in a new light. She had mentioned her ancestry before, just once, but I’d not imagined that she could do her own magic. I had never sensed anything paranormal about her, but then again, my gifts were mainly focused on the dead, not the living. The blood of Marie Laveau did course through her veins, and if anyone knew how genetics could flow through the generations, it was me.
“Are you a mambo?” I asked while Phil glanced between the two of us, obviously lost, while tucking the tiny bag into his camera tote. I’d explain later if Monique allowed it. If not, I’d have to fudge things a bit. “Mambo Kiwi perhaps?” She eyed me curiously. “I visited the twins.”
“Ah.” She sighed. “They tend to talk more than they should. Yes, I am Mambo Kiwi. Please keep that within our family group. I’m the descendant of a high priestess and have a few tricks of my own to work when the need arises, but I do not wish to be driven out of town with torches due to ignorant toads with no understanding of a religion that differs from theirs.” She gave me a tiny wink. “Before you ask, I simply like kiwi.”
Okay, that was what I suspected she would say. We who possessed gifts were usually pretty circumspect about throwing that knowledge around. For obvious reasons. A woman with blood of a famed Vodou queen, herbalist, and midwife would keep that close to her vest. Just as a man who could communicate with the dead didn’t broadcast those skills. Well, unless he was trying to make money to keep himself and his grandfather out of the poor house. Also, using a pseudonym was smart. Names had power as we all knew.
“Thank you,” I said, then retied the bag.
“You’re welcome. Make sure to carry them in your right pockets. Keep them on you from the moment you step onto that tainted ground. Please do not open yourself up to any spirit that seeks to get inside you.” She pressed a kiss to my brow, leaving the imprint of blue lipstick. “Do not wipe that kiss off,” she informed us as Phil was gawking at the lip print on my forehead. “That color will help protect you. It tricks spirits into thinking it’s water, and most haints will not enter water.”
Most haints—a Southern US term for a restless spirit—disliked water, but not all did, as Phil and I knew firsthand. Still, the added defense was deeply appreciated.
“I’ll wear it throughout the stream.” I gave her a tender hug and then released her so we could finish packing. She and Grandpa met us at the front door of the shop as did Reg, Caleb, and Eloise.
“You bring me pride,” Grandpa said to Phil and me both. “Wherever your parents are now, Phil, I know they also watch with great joy and honor.”
Phil ducked his head. “Thanks, Gramps, and thanks, Monique.” He gave them both gentle embraces, then hefted the camera bags to his shoulder and went out to load up the gear.
“We’ll be home tomorrow morning. Enjoy your parties,” I said to the elderly couple and the ghosts lingering about by theregister. Grandpa had made some snacks and chilled some mijiu for the stream, and Reg and his friends were going to watch the show over the shoulders of the living, then party once they knew we were safely away from the sanitarium.
“Do be careful, Archie,” Reg said. The other spirits nodded.
“I’ll be so careful you’ll be bored out of your heads,” I jokingly replied. The humor felt stiff since it was, but I wasn’t leaving on a dour note. “See you tomorrow!”
Everyone waved as we climbed into the truck and pulled away. Phil reached over to take my hand. “We’re going to have a great stream.”
“You know it!” I replied, gave his big hand a squeeze, and did my best not to dwell as we drove through the bitter cold darkness to where the asylum sat in the next county.
“Are you going to feel silly walking around with blue lips on your forehead?” he asked while I refreshed my knowledge of Cornwall Cove, the light of my phone causing a small twinge of a headache to surface. It would get much worse, I feared. The aura of the land where the sanitarium sat was steeped in suffering. The impact would be similar to that of nearing Lake Killikee before the cleansing. Not that I had set out to send a soul over, but often, once a phantom has found resolution of some sort for a crime committed against it, that energy can leave this realm for the next. The next realm being whatever a person imagined it to be—Heaven, Gan Eden, Elysium, Valhalla, Fields of Aaru, Nirvana, Jannah, or the imaginings of a personal afterlife. Maybe one of the destitute dead buried behind the hospital could be aided in finding peace. That seemed a worthy goal for the descendant of Kee Houng. There were no firm guidelines in that old, crusty book about ghosts that said every one of them had to be eradicated. Maybe we could just ease them to their next plateau of spiritual enlightenment by righting a wrongcommitted against them. It was a nice thought that felt good to me, anyway.
