Ghost Huntress Book 6: The Journey

by Marley Gibson

  Zelda’s the skank he apparently hooked up with while he lived in Alaska with his dad. I didn’t need his sister, Taylor, to report this fact to me because Jason’s Facebook page had plenty of Instagram pictures of the two of them together rock climbing, salmon fishing, and other outdoorsy activities.

  Jason’s eyes widen with nothing short of shock. He opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better than to do so.

  At just that moment, Hyacinth, the flight attendant who’s been taking care of us, appears in the aisle. “Good morning, miss. Are you ready for breakfast?”

  I sit up tall at the thought of more free food. Anything to distract me from Jason’s intrusion. “Sure. Whatcha got?”

  “Full English fry-up,” she says with a smile. “Fried eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread, baked beans, and mushrooms. I’ll set you right up.”

  Inwardly, I cringe at the thought of what such a meal will do to my young arteries. However, I give Hyacinth a big smile and nod.

  She turns to Jason. “I’ll bring you a tray, too, love.”

  Love? Hardly.

  I stop myself, halting the flow of angry lava through my veins. I swallow my pride and then say to Jason, “You know, you don’t owe me any explanation. It is what it is.”

  “No, it was what it was, Kendall. The future can be anything we want it to be.”

  “Maybe, but my present is with Patrick,” I say firmly.

  “Oh, him.” Jason groans and tosses his arms up, nearly knocking the tray of steaming, hot teacups out of Hyacinth’s hands.

  “Careful, love,” she says with a smile. “Here you go. Your breakfast will be out straight away.”

  I take the mug of steeping tea and blow on the top. Anything not to look at Jason or be pulled into the depths of trouble those blue eyes offer. Jason and I had our brief time together and I’ll always cherish it. I’m with Patrick now. The guy with the deep-chocolate eyes, the sexy singing voice, and the psychic connection through our minds. I wonder if he can hear me this far away.

  Patrick? Are you there?

  “Kendall…” Jason presses.

  I don’t look his way. I sense the frown on my face when Patrick doesn’t respond to me psychically. I suppose an ocean between us has something to do with it.

  Jason won’t leave me the hell alone, though… turning up like a bad habit every time I lift my eyes. Is this what it’s going to be like all summer? I don’t know if I have the strength to fight him off. And what’s the deal with my heartbeat getting all freaky and double-pounding when he says my name and the mere sight of him all mussed and stubbled from sleeping on the airplane.

  “Kendall,” he says a bit louder this time.

  “Here we go, love,” Hyacinth says, setting a lovely tray of food in front of me. Typically, I wouldn’t go for baked beans as a breakfast food, but when in Rome… err… London.

  “Come on, Kendall,” Jason stresses.

  I pop up and raise my eyebrows. “I’m eating here, hello!”

  He turns as I dive into my meal. Nothing like yummy food to distract me from the cute guy who won’t leave me alone.

  *~*~*

  The Kendall has landed! And I’m in the motherland.

  Okay, so my adopted surname, Moorehead, is Scottish. Still, it’s part of the British Isles. And I couldn’t be happier to be here.

  Celia bounces in place in front of me in line at Customs as she hoists up her backpack onto her shoulder. Taylor, perfectly coifed and makeup’d from her overseas beauty treatment, smiles from ear to ear, frantically checking her Twitter and Tumblr accounts.

  “This is so exciting!” she says with a bit of a squee in her voice. “I’m going to Tweet non-stop all summer and do an amazing photo blog.”

  “Do you think we’ll be able to go to Stratford-Upon-Avon to see Shakespeare’s birthplace?” Celia asks.

  Jason nudges her. “You have an obsession with The Bard, huh? Always have, since like third grade.”

  Celia’s cheeks splash bright fuchsia at his words, and I can see with my mind’s eye that the childhood crush Celia once had on Jason Tillson is still simmering beneath the surface. It’s weird to think that these guys have known each other their whole lives, yet I’ve only been part of the group for under a year.

  Taylor interjects, “If we can’t take a day trip out of the city, Celia, we can always go to the Globe Theatre in London. Maybe even catch a show.”

  “That would be cool,” Celia says as she tucks her black hair behind her ears. I think of that One Direction song, You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful, when I think of Celia. She’s tall and thin and has such a naturally pretty face hidden behind her dark hair. She was really coming into her own… until stupid Clay Price broke up with her. What a jerk. Why didn’t I see that coming? You’d think with my psychic abilities, I could give my friends more of head’s up when things are headed their way. Of course, maybe that’s not how it works. No lottery numbers for me or easy answers on tests, but in terms of connecting with lost spirits, I’m your girl.

  Speaking of, there’s an oddly-placed gentleman standing in front of us in the passport line. His clothing of thick wool and jacket trimmed in fur—in the dead of summer—tells me that he’s no tourist on a cheap vacation package to enjoy the exchange rate of the dollar versus the euro. He’s… from the past. Leather pants and thick boots make me think he’s from the World War II era.

  “Excuse me, miss. Perhaps I can assist you,” he says to me. “May I show you around?”

  I freeze up, unsure at first if maybe I’m wrong and he’s some sort of costumed entertainment at Heathrow airport, not a real apparition addressing me directly. He looks pretty authentic in his leather and with those goggles around his neck. Almost too good. He’s got to be an actor. Right?

  I shift my eyes over to Celia to get a reality check. “Do you see him?”

  She glances about. “Which him? There are, like, three hundred people in line.”

  “The World War II pilot standing to my left.”

  The pilot shakes his head at me. “Oh my, this isn’t working.”

  “What isn’t?” I ask him.

  The ghost stares at me. “I’ll have to try something else.”

  Then he fades away.

  Celia grins at me. “Oh, it’s started already! Excellent.” She sets her backpack down and reaches for her sketch pad. “Tell me all about him and I’ll draw him for you. You know Heathrow Airport was constructed from land from the former Heath Row farmers market area, hence the name. It was first established in 1929 as a small aircraft field and then in 1944, the land was used primarily for military aircraft, so that more than likely explains the—”

  I stop her with my hands. “Never mind. He’s gone.”

  Taylor nudges me from behind before I can overthink the brief close encounter. “Your turn, Kendall.”

  I step up to the counter where the worker barely glances up at me. He seems exhausted, even at this early morning hour, from dealing with some many incoming flights to his country. He takes my passport and scans it through some machine before flipping through the empty pages. This may be my first time out of America, but I know it won’t be my last.

  “Purpose of your visit?”

  Technically it’s business, but I don’t say that. “Summer vacation.”

  “How long will you be in the United Kingdom?”

  “Two weeks,” I say, feeling like I’m taking a college entry exam.

  He still hasn’t glanced up at me. “What’s your occupation?”

  I try not to laugh. “Umm, I’m in high school.”

  Finally, he lifts his head, realizing he doesn’t have to go through the stiff business routine anymore, and smiles at me. A crooked-toothed grin, but a grin nonetheless. Then he punches a stamp into my passport and slides it back to me. “Welcome to the United Kingdom, dearie. Enjoy your stay.”

  I retrieve my documents and pass through. I’m on British soil now, officially! So much to look forward to this summer… yet.
There it is. The wave of nausea. The searing pain. Suddenly, the psychic headache begins to tap at my skull on the left side. Hard. Menacing, almost. Dread overwhelms me, starting at the tips of my toes and flaming out the top of my head. I’m cold and scared and locked in place. Not freaked out that I’m in a foreign country without my parents or anything. It’s more like there’s a niggling in my head telling me something’s not… right.

  I turn and watch passengers from other planes slip through the bonds of the customs check out. Waves of psychic energy reverberate from all of them. The man in the turban is worried about how much a cab into London will cost. The small Asian woman fears she won’t make it to the Royal London Hospital in time to see her dying sister. The French couple holding hands and making out are afraid…ooo!...they’re having an affair and are afraid their spouses will find out. So not my business! But, hey… some advice? Don’t mack on each other in a public place where everyone has a cell phone with a camera and video recorder. Duh!

  But this is no laughing matter. There are others. Spirits. Entities hanging around the living. Random ghosts from centuries gone by. Not just a few hundred years of existence, like my own homeland. Rather, England has the psychic energy of thousands of years hanging onto the shorelines, the cliffs, the cities, and the countryside. It’s like a blasting wave of electricity reaching out to me, warning me, almost. A peasant woman stands in one corner, wandering, lost. A Beefeater stands guard—of what?—a few feet away. A dirty ragamuffin of a kid is chasing an equally grimy mutt. Something tells me none of these people are props or actors of any sort.

  I rub my eyes and shake my head hard trying to catch my breath. Aunt Andi approaches from behind and rubs her hand across my shoulder.

  “Kendall, is everything all right?”

  I nod, but say, “No. Not really. Just getting long distant messages from ghosts of centuries past.”

  Andi’s eyes shift to concern. “Loreen said this might happen. What with you still having your psychic awakening and spirits knowing they can come knock on your skull, so to speak.”

  I wince. “What do you mean?”

  My aunt smiles. “These centuries-old ghosts see fresh meat. You basically have a neon sign over your head. You’ve got to shut yourself off the best you can.”

  Talk about the ultimate history assignment if I were to help Mary Queen of Scots find her chopped off head, or help the Jacobites with their uprising in the Battle of Culloden, or help Richard the Lionhearted pass into the light. Or even meet Shakespeare and ask him if he really wrote all those stories or if Christopher Marlowe did it. That would be the penultimate of coolness. That’s not what I’m here for, though. I’m here to work with Oliver on his important cases. That’s what I’ve got to focus on. We’re here to help the living, not the dead.

  “So what did Loreen say?”

  “She said you have to protect yourself not only in a bubble of white light around you, but you have to make sure you visualize the light going through you, penetrating you, coming in and out and forming a fortress around you to keep these spirits at bay.”

  A spiritual suit of armor. Makes sense to me. “I’ll make sure I protect myself, Aunt Andi. Thanks.”

  She smiles and touches her forehead to mine. “Just call me Andi, sweetie. I’m so happy to be with you on this trip.”

  I hug her to me. “I’m so happy to have you in my life.”

  “Hey, you’re blocking the aisle!” Celia says kiddingly.

  “And I happen to know there’s a gorgeous guy waiting for you,” Taylor says, holding up an iPhone that shows Patrick’s recent Facebook post and then reads, “Waiting for Kendall at Heathrow Airport. I can feel her getting nearer…” She puts a hand to her heart. “That is the sweetest thing ever.”

  Thank heavens Jason has his ear buds in; otherwise I’m sure there’s be some extensive color commentary.

  Who cares, though! I can’t wait to see my sweetie. He’s here. I just have to find him.

  I bob and weave through the rest of the terminal, making my way to the escalator that takes me to baggage claim. The terminal building is silver-shiny and very high-tech and modern looking. You’d never know it was merely a crossroad for destinations and journeys.

  And then I see him. Actually, I feel him first. A bright, spreading warmth coats me in love and comfort from the inside out. Patrick Lynn is here waiting for me. My feet carry me forward on the terminal floor, past the hordes of people waiting for their bags at the incoming Berlin flight.

  At carousel number eight, I barely see our flight number from Atlanta displayed on the board. Instead, I spot the familiar head of brown hair and the gorgeous brown eyes peering out over a white cardboard sign that reads: I *heart* Kendall Moorehead

  Did Patrick just tell me he loves me?

  “Awww… c'est si romantique,” Taylor says with her hand over her heart again.

  I see Jason roll his eyes and then gag like an eleven-year-old boy, until Celia smacks him hard in the stomach and he stops.

  “Hey, babe!” Patrick shouts out, obviously not hearing my psychically-posed inquiry. Oh well, I’ll drop it for now. I’m just so damn happy to see him.

  I run the last few steps toward him and literally throw myself into his arms. He lifts me off the floor and swings me about as though I weigh nothing at all. (Not an option after that fattening breakfast!) He sets me down and kisses me firmly on the lips. I totally want to make out with him more, but this isn’t the place. Instead, I lace my fingers up into his thick hair and hug him again.

  “I thought you’d never get here,” Patrick says close to my ear. “This is so cool. We’re going to have an amazing summer together.”

  Just as I relax into Patrick’s arms, I see him again. The World War II pilot. He’s off to the side of carousel five, and he looks so much like he wants to tell me something. I shake him off and close my eyes, building that white light reinforcement around me for protection.

  When I open my eyes, he’s gone.

  I hope that’s the last I see of him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I can’t believe Tillson is here,” Patrick mutters to me.

  “Taylor’s part of my team,” I say as I watch the bags parade around the belt in front of us.

  Patrick frowns at me. “You know I mean Jason.”

  “Ignore him, Patrick. That’s what I plan on doing.”

  I want to believe that, Kendall.

  I sigh. I don’t have feelings for him anymore.

  He has them for you, though.

  That’s his problem.

  With that, I turn to Patrick. “Enough.” Then I lean and point at my black suitcase. “That’s it. That’s the last one.”

  He hauls it up off the belt and lets out a giant-sized groan. “Holy crap, Kendall. What did you put in here? Kaitlyn?”

  I giggle at the thought of my little sister stowing away in my bag. “No, fortunately the brat is at soccer camp in Florida. A long way from me. I just brought changes of clothes, bathing suits, dresses… shoes.”

  He shakes his head. “How many pair?”

  “I don’t know; I didn’t count,” I say firmly.

  “Patrick, darling,” Taylor says, nearing us, “a woman never needs to justify the amount of items—clothing, jewelry, or makeup—that she requires to be beautiful for her man.”

  “Kendall’s perfect just as she is.”

  Taylor gives me the doe-eyed look for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. “Honestly, Kendall. He’s a keeper.”

  I’m about to respond when I hear my name called out and see a red-headed blur coming at me.

  “Jessica!” I shout out and run to meet her halfway. We meet in a tangled mess of gangly arms and legs hugging and squealing.

  “Oh, my God! I can’t believe we’re in England!” she says exuberantly.

  Jessica Spencer was my roommate at Oliver’s enlightened kids’ retreat in California. We’ve kept in touch via e-mail and social media, but haven’t seen each other
since. This is really awesome to be able to spend more time with a west coast friend and someone who’s also dealing with paranormal phenomena in her own life.

  “Have you seen the Pucketts?” she asks. Maddie, Erin, and Harper Puckett from Alabama were also at the retreat with us. We’d been told by Oliver that the girls were invited along on the trip.

  “Did someone say my name?” I hear the high-pitched southern drawl say.

  I spin around and see Maddie Puckett, without her sisters, in a bright yellow sundress and sunglasses perched atop her head of golden hair.

  Hugs and air kisses are disbursed and Patrick moves in to hug the two girls as well. He takes their bags and adds them on to the rolling palate that already holds our own.

  “Well, if it’s not old home week,” Maddie says with a wide grin. “Too bad Harper and Erin opted for cheerleader camp instead.”

  “Are they crazy?” Celia blurts out.

  Maddie winks. “A little.” Then she spots Jason. “And who are you?”

  Taylor steps up. “He’s my twin brother. Watch out for him.”

  Maddie smiles brightly. “I don’t know if I want to.” If southern charm actually oozed, we’d all be standing in a big old mess of it right about now.

  Jason, being a southern gentleman himself, extends his hand. “Hey, I’m Jason.” Then he drops contact and goes back to reading messages on his phone.

  Maddie glances over at me. “Your ex?”

  “Yep.”

  Her eyes shift over to Patrick. “And your current?”

  “Yep.”

  She smiles wickedly. “Excellent.”

  A man in a blue uniform approaches our group. “I’m looking for Oliver Bates’s group from America.”

  “That’s us!” Celia says.

  “Please follow me. I’m here to take you on a tour of the city, and then deliver you to your hotel accommodations.”

  Very posh.

  We gather everything and head outside to the waiting area where a perfect, red double-decker bus is idling. There are people on the top deck, but I don’t know who they are. I try to hone in with my psychic senses, but I’m not getting anything. It’s like there’s a shield there. A steel wall of sorts that I can’t see through.