The 13th Sign Part 14

But my gut was telling me to tamp my anger down, that something was off. Sagittarius had been given many opportunities to strike. So many near misses. So many almosts.

"These are warning shots," I heard myself say out loud. "Sagittarius could hit us if that was the goal. No, this sign is trying to tell us something."

Brennan was shaking his head as I spoke. I turned to him. "I know, okay? This used to be my sign. Trust me."

At that, I knew my plan. I stood and stepped from behind the tombstone.

I opened my arms wide. "Go ahead!" I yelled, my eyes squeezed shut. "Shoot me!" My heart thrummed. Was I nuts?

"You know I won't abuse Ophiuchus's powers!" I yelled, spinning now, arms still wide. I managed to open my eyes, more to check that I was still alive and whole than to show any amount of bravery. I felt like I was my heartbeat standing there, so stripped down, so vulnerable. In the next moment, I would either continue to be or I would cease to be. Just like every corpse in this cemetery. Each one, a heartbeat, beat, beat, beat...snuffed.

Nothing. No arrows, thankfully, but no surrender, either. I hadn't figured it out yet.

My mind whirred back to each time we'd seen the arrows in the past. I'd been confused at first, thinking the arrows had been fired by Agents Cygnus and Griffin. We'd seen the arrows at my house. At the bulldozer. In the agents' car...

Every time we'd seen the agents.

"The agents!" I yelled, still spinning.

"Ah, very good, Jalen," someone whispered. Her voice was ice on my skin. I whipped around. A ghost of a woman disappeared behind a mausoleum. I saw nothing but the wisp of a braid and the hem of a dress. I ran to catch up, but when I peeked around the corner, no one was there. I s.h.i.+vered.

"What do we need to know about the agents?" I asked, still leaning around the corner of the grave. "Should we trust them?"

An arrow whizzed through the inches-wide s.p.a.ce between my face and my hands, the side of the arrowhead grazing my knuckles and slicing them like a knife. I stuck a knuckle in my mouth and tasted metallic blood. I turned in the direction of the arrow. Where I looked, a shadow flitted across the face of a saint, making the statue look like it was mumbling prayers.

"I take it that's a no."

"Believe me, Jalen," the icy voice whispered. From where? I couldn't tell. "Believe me, you can't trust them."

I felt myself scowl. This was just like Sagittarius. I had a lifetime of Sagittarian predictions and suggestions and forecasts that didn't make sense. "Fine. I won't trust them," I scoffed.

"No! You've never believed me, Jalen!" Then I heard it: the unmistakable wheeeez of an arrow flying toward me. I cringed and my every muscle seized, preparing for pain. I had made the wrong choice, being so flippant with a Keeper. With Sagittarius.

But the arrow arced and skidded in the gravel, coming to rest with the arrowhead pointing at a huge mausoleum. The monument's iron gate creaked open, and a boulder blocking the entrance slid aside with a groan.

"Show me you believe me." Sagittarius's voice now echoed from inside the grave. I swallowed and took a step forward.

No. It was a trap, wasn't it? If I went inside that grave, the stone would slide back into place, and Brennan and Ellie wouldn't even hear my screams.

"Show me you believe me, Jalen. Show me you don't trust those men."

Another step forward, but I looked back over my shoulder. Where were Brennan and Ellie?

But I knew why they weren't here. Sagittarius, I'd have to face alone.

I nodded, breathed, and walked through the rusty gate of the mausoleum. It swung shut behind me. I jumped.

"Jalen," the voice echoed.

If nothing else, I had to see her. All the other Keepers were so blatant. All but this one. This one had always been so slippery. I squeezed through the chilly rock opening.

Inside the mausoleum, five mossy steps led down to a small open area. The grave itself was a concrete slab crumbling into dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Cobwebs clogged every cranny. The only light was the shaft of sunlight coming in through the opening I'd crawled through. It smelled earthy, moldy, like decaying leaves. Decaying something. My pounding heartbeat filled the chamber, or at least it seemed that way.

The movement of a shadow to the left made me jump. Dust crumbled and sprinkled to the ground. A glimmering something was there, reflecting the tiny bit of light that had stolen into this grave.

I padded down the slimy steps and moved closer. It was a mirror, an antique piece of gla.s.s with black, spidery lines etched across it and a yellowy tinge to its surface. My Nina had once told me that voodoo priestesses and pract.i.tioners were often buried with mirrors to help them navigate the spirit world. Mirrors allowed them to watch the spirits that were too beastly to look at directly.

I approached the mirror, drawn to it. What I saw s.n.a.t.c.hed my breath away.

It was me. Frowning, sorrowful, Sagittarian me. With a bright pink streak blazing through my black hair.

I felt the presence move up behind me, but it didn't cast a reflection in the mirror. I couldn't take my eyes off the sad girl there.

"Do you believe in me, Jalen?" the voice asked.

I knew what she was really asking. Do I believe in me? The me I was going back to, the Sagittarian me.

I reached out to touch the girl in the mirror. She reached out to touch me. I liked being fiery and electric and alive. I wasn't ready to go back, wasn't ready to be her again. But I knew I had to. I had to sacrifice my better self to right all these wrongs. I had to trust that the Sagittarian me could be strong and brave and happy, too.

"Yes," I whispered. "I believe in you."

I touched the girl in the mirror, cold and gla.s.sy. The mirror slid off the wall, cras.h.i.+ng into seven or eight large shards. I dug them out of the dirt and blew the dust off them, but the broken pieces of gla.s.s threw back the reflection of After Jalen. Before Jalen had disappeared into the shadows of this grave. My eyes p.r.i.c.kled with tears.

I turned, but Sagittarius was no longer there.

An arrow shaft wobbled oddly where she had stood. Strapped to the shaft with a leather cord was a speckled deep-blue stone, a turquoise the color of painted pottery.

Her birthstone. Her surrender.

My heart slowed, and the flame inside me cooled. I blinked back my tears. I spun and searched, but there was no sign of the archer herself.

I untied the birthstone and crept out of the dark depths of the grave. Once I hit sunlight, I lifted the turquoise above my head. "Sic itur ad astra." Several rows down, between two lofty mausoleums, the sparkling s.h.i.+mmers lifted and formed a dazzling archer racing into the sky. I dashed toward it, trying to get a glimpse of her, but by the time I skidded to a halt in the gravel, Sagittarius was gone.

As elusive to me now as she'd always been.

"I think we should head into the French Quarter," Brennan said. We strolled out of the cemetery like four tourists. Four tired, dirty tourists. "We can catch the streetcar on Ca.n.a.l and take it to the Garden District. That'll get us to the hospital."

One of the Ellies shook her blond ponytail the moment she heard "streetcar." "I don't like it," she said.

"You don't like anything," the other Ellie grumbled. I sighed and grabbed one of the Ellie's hand, then huffed and grabbed the other one's hand, too. We kept walking.

"El," I said to the upset Ellie. "We can jump out anytime."

"Like a ferry," Brennan said and chuckled. I laughed, too.

But one Ellie had her eyes cast down to the sidewalk, the other Ellie had a deep crinkle in her forehead. I squeezed both hands. "Ellie," I said, unsure of who exactly I was talking to-my friend or her twin.

"It's okay to be afraid. But you can't let it stop you."

I smiled and touched the spot where I'd once had a pink streak of hair. I sounded a lot like old Ellie-the before-the-change Ellie who supported me after Daddy had disappeared. Funny how our roles had switched. I missed my Ellie so much it hurt. I wanted her back. Gemini was now here, walking beside us.

The clock at Saint Louis Cathedral struck the quarter hour; it was five fifteen p.m. We had just over three hours to get to my Nina. Three hours to find Ophiuchus. Three hours to battle four more Keepers. I was just beginning to think that three hours might be enough time to get to Touro Infirmary when a s.h.i.+ny new black car slid around the corner.

We ran in the direction that we thought would lead us into the French Quarter, hoping we'd lose the black car in the swarm of tourists and one-way streets. Today was a good day to get lost in a crowd. People clogged the sidewalks, many of them wearing feathery masks or grotesque masks and piles upon piles of plastic beads, though Mardi Gras was still months away. They were singing and hugging and chanting. I ran smack into the chest of a man wearing the face of a gargoyle.

"Hey, watch it, kid," he growled from behind the plastic mask. I s.h.i.+vered. Any one of these people could be a Keeper, I thought. They could attack at any moment.

I looked over my shoulder but couldn't see if the new car was still behind us. Ahead, just up the street, a man was covered head to toe in silver paint and silver clothing, standing perfectly still on a platform, like a statue. One woman hovered in her shop's entryway, smacking the doorframe with a burning incense brush to ward off evil spirits. She looked at us with knowing eyes. Were they Keepers, either one?

My mind leaped to Beausoleil/Fachenuit. We were just a block from the shop where this had all started. One of the Ellies looked at me; was she thinking about the shop, too? If so, then that one was my Ellie, I was sure of it. I waited to see if she'd make the suggestion. This could be it...

"Maybe Madame Beausoleil can help us," Brennan cut in. Rats. Another opportunity lost. My shoulders drooped.

We ducked through an alley and ran down half a block-this block was far less crowded-to the door we'd pa.s.sed through just hours before.

It was boarded up. Spray-painted, too, with black paint. GO ON! GIT! the paint read in hasty, dripping letters. I could hear Madame Beausoleil saying it, shooing us with her fingertips, scooting us along just like she used to dismiss my curious dad.

I blinked. "She closed her shop?"

The thick purple curtains covering the store windows wavered. Someone was inside, peeking at us. I pounded on the door.

"Let us in, Madame Beausoleil! We need your help!" I yelled. Brennan and Ellie and Ellie pounded and yelled, too.

The black car pa.s.sed this street half a block up, then must've stopped and reversed. The tires squealed. They drove straight toward us.

I saw red. I kicked the boarded-up door, hard, before chasing Brennan and the Ellies through another alley and down the next street.

We ran through the heart of the French Quarter. Virgo's birthstone was now leaving what must be a nice purple bruise on my leg, thanks to it thumping against my thigh all afternoon. Jazz music blasted out of every darkened doorway, and the smells of Cajun food blasted out behind it. The sidewalks were sticky and crowded. Tourists were flinging plastic beads up to people leaning too far over the railings of second-story wrought-iron balconies. Taurus would love this place.

I used to think of Bourbon Street as this seedy, strange part of town. But seeing it lit up now, with hundreds of neon lights flas.h.i.+ng in the pre-dusk, it looked magical, mysterious, a place where adventures happen.

In one of the darkened doorways, I saw a purple bridesmaid's dress, a black-and-white tuxedo. William-Virgo's groom! His shoulders sagged, but the lovely bridesmaid tilted up his chin with her thumb and nodded at him earnestly. Whatever she said to him made him grin, and one corner of his mouth tugged up. He would be just fine.

A shrill whistle made me skid to a halt and look around. The cas.h.i.+er from the vanis.h.i.+ng convenience store. Capricorn removed his thumb and pinkie from between his lips. He sat at an outdoor table, a red-and-white umbrella shading him from the other diners at the oyster house. His table was overflowing with food-crawdad, shrimp, gumbo, jambalaya, oysters. He plucked an earbud from his ear and motioned for me to sit across from him.

I did. The sight of all that greasy, spicy food made my stomach flop. Which was odd, because before, I loved Cajun food. Loved the spice, the heat. Now, I guess, I had more than enough spice and heat on my own. Now, the smell of those boiled crawdad, those shucked oysters-a heavy, salty, fishy smell-made my lips curl.

"Eat," Capricorn said. He pinched a red crawdad and tore off its tiny, lobsterlike head. Then he popped the spine of the mudbug in two or three places, ripped off the tail, and tossed the flubbery meat into his mouth. And to finish off this nasty little feast, Capricorn lifted the head of the crawdad to his lips and sucked out its juicy brain.

My whole body contorted. "It's an eating challenge, is that it?" I asked. There had to be sixty-some-odd crawdads on this table. There was no way I could eat thirty of these bottom suckers. No. Way. I felt my head shaking.

An Ellie dropped into the chair next to me and handed over The Keypers of the Zodiack, already opened to our dear friend Capricorn's page. I read.

"'Capricorn, the goat. January 19February 15. Capricorn, what a determined loner thou art, seeking answers from the far stretches of the universe. Thou art practical and ambitious, and thy determination to uncover life's great mysteries means thou art blessed with a great deal of patience and creativity. Thy self-sufficient nature, however, appears to many as conceit. Beware thine own intolerance, as these seeds bring forth callous, petty fruit. Thou art quite aware of thy limitations, however; both thine own and others'. This awareness breeds a calm confidence, disrupted only intermittently, and usually through an aura of pandemonium. Thy disdain for chaos is paralyzing.'"

Across the table from me, sure enough, Capricorn's crawdads were stacked on his plate in a tidy pyramid. And unlike the other diners at this oyster house, when Capricorn had stripped the sh.e.l.l off the crawfish meat, he carefully lined up both head and tail in the cardboard box resting at his feet. Tiny armies of empty sh.e.l.ls.

Capricorn kept one earbud in at all times. The other, dangling earbud blasted shrill guitar music. A big contrast from the bra.s.sy blasts of trombone that boomed from inside the restaurant.

I picked up a crawdad, yanked off its head and tail, and gulped down the meat like I was swallowing a pill, before I could taste the salt, before I could feel the spongy meat on my tongue. My stomach seized all the way up to my lips, which burned like fire from all the spices cooked inside that tiny thing. I tossed the head and sh.e.l.l into Capricorn's box.

He lowered his eyelids at me, then straightened my sh.e.l.l inside the box, aligning it with the other exoskeletons. I gulped water and reached for the next crawdad with a shaky hand.

Half of Capricorn's face lifted in a snarky grin. "You don't like crawfish boils, Jalen?"

I shrugged one shoulder, but I wasn't fooling anyone. Those crawdads stared at me with beady black eyes, their thready antennae twitching in the breeze. So buggy. So like...like...scorpions. My stomach lurched, remembering Scorpio, remembering all those bugs.

"Maybe you'd enjoy some oysters instead?" Capricorn slid a platter across the table. The shucked oysters on it jiggled. Twelve oysters on the halfsh.e.l.l. Gray blobs that looked like something someone had sneezed up. I had to seal off my nose and throat to keep from vomiting. But I knew what he meant: I was expected to eat them, too.

I ripped apart another crawdad and shoved it down my throat. I tossed the sh.e.l.l into the box, then watched Capricorn line it up with the others.

After a few more crawdads, the oysters were losing their sheen, turning into twelve gelatinous globs. I had to turn my attention to them before they became inedible.

Saltine cracker, smear of oyster, splashes of Tabasco. Swallow. Ignore the sensation of gulping down a supersize slug. Stomach rebellion. Repeat.

I felt my skin turn green. My saliva went sour. It took every bit of my willpower to keep this food down.

After much gagging, the dozen oysters were gone, their craggy gray sh.e.l.ls stacked neatly inside Capricorn's disposal box. I went back to the crawdads, my orange anger growing, a fire stoked by spices and disgust. Sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging them.

Sweat? This was new, too. Before, I never sweated. Too much ice inside, I supposed. I reached up to wipe the sweat away, but Brennan caught my wrist.

"Don't," he said. "That spice on your fingers will hurt like the devil if it gets in your eyes." I nodded and blinked back the sting, wiping my eyes with my forearm instead.

Capricorn had, by this point, finished his share of crawfish and oysters. His eyes s.h.i.+fted, making sure that no one else here really could see him. Then he lifted the messy paper plate to his mouth and began chewing it.

Uck! Goats. My nose wrinkled.

I cracked open and sucked down a few more crawdads. Every time I tossed a sh.e.l.l into the cardboard box, Capricorn lined it up properly. It was unnerving.

Sh.e.l.ls in a box? I thought. That's what he calls chaos? I gagged down another mudbug. My stomach bulged. The empty sh.e.l.l I tossed flopped into the box. Capricorn huffed and righted it. My orange anger burbled over.

"You have no idea what real chaos is," I said to Capricorn. He smirked and started nibbling his napkin.

"Chaos is having your whole world turn upside down with the turn of a key." Another crawfish. Another tossed sh.e.l.l. Another glare.

"Chaos is not being able to pick your best friend out of a crowd of two." I leaned across the table. My eyes p.r.i.c.kled, from sweat or spice or tears, I didn't know.

"Chaos is not knowing if your dad is alive or dead."

I suppose I did it to myself. Because as I said it, I felt him. Behind me. I turned, and there he was.

My dad.

He was grinning, his scruffy short whiskers shooting off his smile like fireworks in my heart. He had on his stained ap.r.o.n, the too-small one that said KISS THE COOK in strained letters across his barrel chest. He c.o.c.ked his head at me.

"Jalen," he said. His voice! Low and commanding, like a big ba.s.s drum. I'd missed it so much. He took a step forward and picked up my hands. They looked small in his. They trembled.

"Jalen," he repeated. I nodded, speechless. I waited to hear how much he missed me, how much he loved me.