After a few pumping songs, Becca slows things down with a chill out tempo to get everyone close. The street lights adjust to a lower hue and you can literally feel that romance is in the air. Patrick pulls me to him and we dance together. I weave my fingers around his neck and up into his thick hair. He nuzzles my shoulder with his chin, softly humming along to the music. I breathe in the scent of him, spicy from his cologne, yet warm and boy-sweaty from the summer heat. I love being in his arms, feeling protected and loved. Even though he hasn’t actually said the three meaningful, magical words, he’s still the best boyfriend.
I turn to look over at Taylor who’s found some hot French friend of Alain’s to dance with and… I do a double-take. Are Celia and Jason slow dancing? Together?
I cock my head a bit and peer over Patrick’s shoulder to see my gangly, gorgeous, geeky friend absolutely beaming as she looks up (and it’s a big deal for Celia Nichols to look up at someone) into Jason Tillson’s blue eyes. The same Dasani-blue ones I once gazed into the exact same way.
She’s not wearing makeup for Christian Campbell… she’s doing it for Jason!
It’s like I’ve been smacked in the face with a cold glass of iced tea. Celia once had a massive crush on Jason before I came to town and now she—hey, they’re kissing!
“Oh, my God! Jason and Celia are totally making out,” I exclaim to Patrick.
He turns. “So they are.”
Umm, yes they are! Right here in Paris. The city of love.
Right here in front of me!
Wait a second…
For a moment, my heart cracks and aches as I watch my former boyfriend and my best friend together, apparently quite into each other from the way things are progressing. Suddenly, Patrick tightens his grip on me as if to remind me of where I am and who I’m with.
Oh, right. This is a good thing.
What two better people than Celia and Jason? They’ve known each other since they were little kids, have grown up together, and share so many common interests. Some psychic I am, since I never saw this one coming.
A crazy big smile crosses my face and I breathe a sigh of relief. My heart stitches back together quickly and the moisture on the rim of my eyes isn’t for any kind of loss or jealousy, rather it’s from a joy that Celia and Jason have found each other.
I nudge Patrick. “I had absolutely no idea.”
He tilts his head down and kisses me deeply, touching my soul with his. When he pulls back he says, “Yeah, well… I did.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next day, our group meets up with Becca, Alain, his friend, Rémy—who Taylor swooned over all night—at the park next to the Eiffel Tower, Parc du Champ de Mars. Look at me getting all French and stuff. When we arrive after the short walk from Rue Cler, we see Becca’s toting a huge picnic basket and Rémy’s carrying three French baguettes like they’re military rifles on his shoulder.
“I hope y’all are hungry,” Becca shouts out to us.
“I’m famished,” Taylor responds.
Celia steps back from me. She’s been a little standoffish since last night’s DanceFest. Even though I smiled brightly at Jason and her together, I can see that my friend is feeling a little bit of guilt at hooking up with my ex. It really doesn’t matter. I’m happy for them. Really, I am.
“We okay?” I ask her as we help Becca spread out the large blanket over the lush green grass. “Wasn’t last night great?”
She glances over at me and a slight pink blush crosses her cheeks. “It was. Kendall, I need to tell you—”
“You and Jason hooked up. I know. I saw. I’m thrilled.”
Her eyes grow huge. “You are?”
“Of course. As you said, I can’t have all the guys on this trip.”
She shakes her head. “Kendall, I never meant—”
I take her hands in my and bounce them up and down. “It’s totally cool. You guys look awesome together. I just want you to be happy.”
Celia launches at me and hugs me like she’s never hugged me before.
“Now what?” Jason asks.
I sneer at him. “You think something’s wrong just `cause we hug.”
He nods. “When girls hug, it means something’s happened.”
Okay, Jason. “Yep. You guys happened. And I’m very happy for you.”
Now Jason blushes as he shifts his eyes over to Celia. She reaches out her hand and meets his halfway in the air space between them. I grin broadly at them.
“I love it. Come on, let’s eat!”
Taylor dances in place. “And then let’s climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower.”
“And spit off the top,” Becca says cheekily.
“I can’t wait to see what the world looks like from up there,” I say dreamily.
Patrick lowers himself down to the blanket and pats at the spot next to him. I plop down and reach forward to grab a grape off the platter Becca’s setting out. There are several cheeses, deli meats, sliced apples, grapes, carrots, bread, and a huge box of pastries. She also breaks out a couple of… wine?”
“Umm, Becca, aren’t we a little young to be drinking?” I ask.
“Technically, Alain is old enough to drink because he’s eighteen. However, this is not alcoholic. This is club soda with grenadine flavored Sirop Teisseire in it. It’s a totally French drink and I thought it would do in place of champagne.”
“What are we celebrating?” Taylor asks as she sits down next to Rémy.
“Life,” Becca says, raising her plastic cup high. “To good friends, a beautiful summer day, the opportunity to be here, and to all the lost souls we’ve been commissioned to help.”
I swallow hard as the fizzy-syrupy drink suddenly sours in my mouth. I feel my pulse pick up as disappointment in my own cowardice cascades over me. As lovely as this picnic is—we’re sitting under the Eiffel Tower…hello!—we shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t have wasted the last two days being tourists when Christian Campbell is still out there somewhere spewing his garbage on an unwitting public who easily parts with their money for the wannabe TV talent to tell them things they already know.
I set my cup down. “We have to go back.”
Patrick turns to look at me. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“Back where?” Becca asks as she breaks off a piece of the baguette.
“To the tour with Oliver… and Christian Campbell.”
Alain’s brow lifts. “The Scottish teen psychic? He was on Métropole 6, one of our TV stations, yesterday afternoon. My grand-mère is going to his psychic reading at the Ritz.”
“Are you kidding me?” I shout.
“What’s the deal with this kid?” Becca asks.
We catch her up on everything that transpired in London and since we got to Paris.
I pick at a piece of brie on my plate. “It was wrong to leave and let Christian get his way. Oliver’s judgment is clouded about Christian and I should have tried harder. I shouldn’t have left Jayne. I should have protected her more.”
Becca flattens her lips. “Then do something about it. You’re frickin’ Kendall Moorehead. You’ve taken on a hell of a lot more than some fame-hungry, self-aggrandizing Scot. You’ve dealt with malevolent spirits who’ve hurt your dad, pushed you down a staircase, damn near killed you, and did kill our friend, Farah. This Christian kid is a piece of cake.”
Turning to Patrick, I snicker. “She makes it sound so easy.”
Jason draws himself up from his stretched out position and pops the last bite of his cheese and bread into his mouth. He withdraws his tablet computer from his backpack and fires it up. “Actually, Kendall, it might just be that easy.”
Now I lift a brow. “What are you talking about?”
Celia stops chewing. “Jason and I stayed up late last night doing some research on our little friend Christian.”
I slant my eyes toward her. Yeah, research… between make out sessions.
“What did you find?” Patrick asks, intrigued.
/>
Jason taps on his screen a bit and then turns the tablet around. “I was thinking about this alleged ‘Dojo Disturbance,’ so I Googled around some. Turns out this disturbance is for real. Or at least there’s a bit of a world-wide epidemic of reports of a spirit using this name.”
Nabbing the tablet, Celia clicks on a bookmark they saved. “It seems that these reports stem from a particular type of tree that’s on the border of Germany and France. A company made Ouija boards from these trees and sold them throughout Europe to kids in the 1960s and 1970s as toys.”
Becca tosses her head back. “Who wants to play dress-up with Barbie when you can communicate with Satan?”
“Seriously,” I say, sarcastically. “So what about these boards from this tree?”
Jason reads on. “The trademark is owned by Hasbro back in the states, but other companies make similar boards in the same manner to be used as a ‘parlor game.’”
“I think I prefer gin rummy,” Taylor says quietly.
Celia reads: “One of the first mentions of using a Ouija board is found in 1100 AD China historical documents of the Song Dynasty. The method was known as fuji or ‘planchette writing.’ It means ostensibly contacting the dead and the spirit-world, and, albeit under special rituals and supervisions, was a central practice until it was forbidden by the Qing Dynasty.”
She’s starting to make my head hurt. “What does this have to do with Christian?”
“We’re getting to that,” Jason says. “See, the word ‘Ouija’ comes from the combined French and German words for ‘yes’ – oui and ja. A lot of the original boards were actually made in both countries until Parker Brothers bought the idea. Now, Celia managed to get one of Christian’s prized boards before we left his company.”
“Celia! You stole it?” Taylor exclaims.
“Sort of.”
Becca leans over and fist bumps Celia. I merely smile.
“I looked at the board and saw a name on the board,” Celia says. “It said Nuremberg, Germany. So, I did a little more digging. Seems that tilia trees are prominent in this area of Germany. Manufacturers use tilia sawdust to make medium-density fiber board.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “You’re making my head hurt. What does this have to do with Christian?”
“Be patient, Kendall,” Jason says, standing up for Celia. She smiles at him.
“Sorry… go ahead.”
“Ouija boards are made from MDF, or medium-density fiber board. Most are now produced for cheap in China—”
“—just like everything else,” Patrick quips.
“—but these older boards, the ones people are claiming the Dojo Disturbance on, come from those original tilia trees in Germany,” Celia says. “It gets better though.”
Jason lights up. “Oh, this is the best part!”
Blinking hard, I listen up.
Celia taps the tablet again and pulls up a genealogy website. “I hacked a little more and found that back in the 1950s, a particular tilia farm in Nuremburg was owned by a man named Henrik Anderson who willed it to his adopted son from his Scottish war bride, Anderson MacLeod from East Kilbride, Scotland.”
Jason takes over. “Seems that this MacLeod was a magician back in the 1970s who stirred up trouble throughout the UK at county fairs. Had quite a rep as a fraud and con artist, trying to get money from people by predicting their futures with his Ouija board.”
This is all very interesting, but I’m not sure where they’re going. I’m totally impressed that they spent so much time, but as to how this relates to Christian…wait a second…my psychic headache taps at my left temple and my eye begins to twitch.
“Christian is from East Kilbride,” I say, as if knowing it for a fact.
Celia points an apple slice at me. “Bingo. Give that woman more sparkling soda.”
I rub my head with my hand to massage away the pain. “Okay, so what if he’s from the same town?”
A snicker escapes from Jason’s lips. “Our research shows that Christian Campbell is merely a stage name. Seems that our salon-highlighted-hair friend is really Andrew Christian MacLeod, grandson of Anderson MacLeod.”
Patrick claps his hands together. “Snap!”
My mouth drops open. “I was right! He’s a fraud! A scam!”
“Just ‘cause he’s using a pseudonym doesn’t make him a fake,” Celia points out. She has a point, yet still, something doesn’t add up.
Taylor nods her head. “We’ve got to do something.”
“Damn right we do,” I say. “We have to get this information to Oliver Bates immediately or not only will he lose his TV show and his reputation, but someone’s bound to get hurt!”
Our climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower will have to wait.
*~*~*
Forty-five minutes later, we arrive at the Hotel Ritz in Place Vendrôme in the first arrondissment on the right bank. The second we walk up the red carpeted steps and spin into the lobby through the revolving door, splattered images appear to me like a slide show on speed. I see socialites and diplomats, rich tourists and French businessmen. All people who’ve passed through these doors. In the lobby, I glance up at the glittering, gorgeous chandelier that dangles overhead. Across the marbled floor, a rich red-carpeted staircase leads up, dividing to go up to the left and the right.
Standing at the top left, gripping the black railing is… Princess Diana.
I gasp at seeing her again, my hands flying to my throat in disbelief. At least, it looks like her. Maybe it’s just another spirit taking her form, but… no. The Hotel Ritz was the last place the princess was photographed alive. I’ve seen the video of her in the back elevator with the driver of her car, Henri Paul and her boyfriend/fiancé, Dodi Fayed. Yes, I know all about it because I’ve read every book and seen every documentary about Diana’s life. I can’t believe I’m actually in the hotel where everything happened. Flashes of that night hit me like homerun balls. Diana and Dodi in the back elevator. Getting into the black Mercedes Benz. Driving too fast. Outrunning the paparazzi. Too, too fast. A bad dip in the road. The car flips. It smashes into the pilon. Screams. Blood. Pain. Heartache.
“Are you okay, Kendall?” Patrick asks with concern in his voice.
“She’s here again. Can you see her?”
“Princess Di?”
I nod. Patrick shakes his head.
My fingers jam into my hair and I rub hard at the images. Ones I’d seen on the news reports and online, but now they seem so real, as if they just happened all over again. I glance up at where the Princess stands on the stairs gazing down at me with her caring blue eyes. I so admire everything she stood for… all the charity work, caring for the poor, and perhaps here to help me?
Is this the spirit protector Anona was referring to?
Maybe this really is the Princess of Wales.
She lifts her stern chin and gestures with her head for me to move deeper into the hotel. I read her thoughts. She wants me to go into one of the grand salons where Christian is conducting his gallery reading. Ironically, it’s in a room called “Psyché.”
“This way,” I say to everyone.
I try not to think of all the famous people who’ve crossed these hallways…not wanting to connect with their residual energy right now. Diana is the only spirit I need to see. She’s showing me the way.
We slip into the room, trying not to cause a ruckus. There, we find Christian is in full performance mode with the TV cameras rolling. That didn’t take much effort on Oliver’s party.
Christian points at an elderly woman in the front row who is in a wheelchair. Just as he did in London, he leans down to her and tells her, “I’m sensing some health issues.”
Celia snorts and says, “Really? Is that the shtick he’s sticking with?”
“It worked before,” Jason mutters.
Princess Diana materializes close to me, so much so that I can smell her powdery perfume. She lifts her delicate hand and points in the direction of where I see Jayne Mcburn
ey sitting in the audience. She pushes her glassed up her nose as she’s taking notes and gazing adoringly at Christian.
“You have to save her,” the princess says to me. “You must.”
I look at the innocent girl, so full of admiration for this fake. The spirit of Diana is right. Jayne has to be protected at all costs.
This summer hasn’t exactly gone as planned, so I wonder, is this why I’m on this journey?
Princess Diana nods at me and fades away.
My psychic senses tell me that everything is about to be revealed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I watch as Christian prances across the stage. And yes, it’s a prance. A preen. A posturing. Positioning and probably a hundred other “p” words that boil down to rhyming with “t” that stands for trouble. His hair and makeup—I can see he’s wearing base and powder for the camera—is perfect and his black silk shirt shows off his tanned neck. On the back of his shirt, he has silver embroidered angel wings. As if! All part of the good act, though.
He opens his eyes and folds his fingers together as he points at a woman in the audience. She stands and hands him something. I can’t see at first, but then I notice it’s a Ouija board.
“Great… here we go,” I mutter to my friends.
Patrick places his hand on my knee to calm me.
Let’s see what he’s up to.
No good. We should stop him now.
We have to talk to Oliver and handle this professionally.
Whatever.
Patrick squeezes my knee and I just scowl as Christian asks his “assistant Jayne” to join him on the stage.
I fiercely want to protect her like a momma bear protecting her cub. I can’t, though. Our team agreed to see how this plays out first.
“Jayne and I will attempt to communicate with the spirits using this device,” Christian announces to the room of one hundred listeners.
Ghost Huntress Book 6: The Journey Page 13
