Earl swallowed hard. "It started three nights ago. There were lights floatin’ ‘tween the graves. I thought it was teenagers with flashlights at first. I went to run 'em off and..." He shook his head. "They weren't solid. I could see right through 'em. And they smell—like flowers left too long in a vase."
"Did they do anything?" Kota pressed.
"They were gatherin’. Around that." He pointed toward the Larousse tomb. "The next mornin’, I found these." He turned and walked over to the other mausoleums. Each bore freshly etched symbols that sent alarm bells ringing through my magical senses. This wasn't your typical graffiti.
Adèle jumped from Dea's pocket and approached one of the symbols. Her tail lashed with agitation. "These are spirit traps," she projected loudly enough that even Earl seemed to sense something. The groundskeeper backed away from her as she inspected the markings. "They're designed to capture and redirect ghostly energy."
"They weren't here before?" I confirmed with Earl, who was eyeing our familiar nervously.
"I’ve been workin’ here fifteen years," Earl said as he watched Adèle. "I know every scratch and crack in this place. These showed up overnight. And more appear each morning." He stared at us and then at Adèle. "Your cat seems... unusual," he added hesitantly.
"She's special," I replied vaguely. "She’s very good at detecting supernatural things."
Earl nodded as if he understood. “I had a cat that could sense spirits when I was a boy.”
"Earl," Dre said to get his attention off of our familiar, "has anyone else been in the cemetery recently? Anyone asking questions or showing unusual interest?"
The groundskeeper fidgeted. "I had a fellow come by last week. He said he was a historian, researchin’ old New Orleans families. He spent hours takin’ notes and photographs."
"Did he give a name?" I asked.
"Professor Martin LeClair, from some university up north. He left his card." Earl reached into one of his pockets and handed over a dog-eared business card.
Phi read it with a skeptical expression. "University of Northern Massachusetts, Department of Southern Cultural Studies. This doesn't exist."
"Big surprise," Kota muttered.
"Has anything been disturbed?" I asked. "Any of the tombs opened?"
"Not that I've found. But..." He hesitated. "I haven't been checkin’ the underground sections."
"The what now?" Dea's voice rose an octave.
"Some of these old family tombs have deep chambers," Earl explained. "The Larousse crypt connects to a bunch of 'em."
"Of course it does," I sighed. "Are they accessible?"
Adèle went rigid, and the hair along her spine rose. "Something is awakening below," she projected. "Someone is harvesting ghost energy. I guarantee it’s for a dark purpose."
CHAPTER 2
DANIELLE
Adele’s observation jolted me. We had been standing around a creepy mausoleum listening to Earl, the groundskeeper. He rambled about fake professors and underground chambers when our familiar’s voice barreled into our heads. Now, I felt like we were standing on top of a supernatural time bomb. Our outings couldn't just stay nice and simple.
I'd had such plans for today. I'd figured we'd knock out this ghost thing in a couple of hours, then spend the afternoon at Café Du Monde like normal people. I'd been looking forward to beignets and coffee, maybe some casual conversation about the mundie wedding we had on the books for next month. We needed to present the centerpiece and seating options.
As if he sensed something was happening, Earl fumbled with his key ring. His hands were shaking so badly that the metal clinked like wind chimes. "These here open the old maintenance access," he stammered, pressing the keys into Dre's palm like they were radioactive. "But I'm telling y'all right now—I ain't responsible for whatever's down there. Been hearin’ things from those tunnels for days, and none of it seems friendly."
Before any of us could ask what kind of things, he was already backing away from us at speed. "Y'all seem like nice folks," he called over his shoulder, "but I got a wife and grandbabies to think about. Good luck with... whatever the hell this is."
And with that inspiring vote of confidence, Earl practically sprinted toward the cemetery gates like his ass was on fire. Honestly, I couldn't blame him. Smart man knew when to cut his losses and run.
Dre turned one of the old brass keys over in her hand, examining it with grim determination. "Well, at least he gave us the keys before he bolted."
"Small mercies," I muttered, staring at the iron door that led to the subterranean tunnels. The thing looked like the entrance to every horror movie basement ever filmed. "Let me guess—we're going down there to investigate, right? Because that always ends so well for us."
Dre snorted and pulled the door open with a scrape that made my hair stand on end. The hinge moved with the grudging protest of metal that hadn't been used in years. Why was it always stone steps disappearing into absolute darkness?
