Oxford Whispers Part 19

He didn't finish. Light flashed inside the car like thunderbolt.

A car was coming from the opposite direction.

The Audi had deviated.

Rupert grabbed the wheel, sending the car sideways. He managed to avoid a crash but lost control of the vehicle. The Audi swerved and Rupert's head spun.

Monty screamed.

A bang. A crash. The airbag exploded into Rupert's face.

Silence.

Then a cough. His cough. His lungs sucked in a gulp of air.

Rupert pushed the airbag out of his face, but the taut balloon resisted.

Memories of another night collided in Rupert's mind. Panic took over. Not again, please G.o.d, not again.

"Grrr ..." Monty muttered next to him. He was alive.

It wasn't happening again.

Rupert's eyes picked out a glimmer of light. He squeezed his body out from under the airbag, the pressure of which had started to burn his chest. He stole a glance at what was happening outside the car.

Fear tensed his muscles.

The car had crashed into an electricity pole now embedded into the front of the Audi. Small tongues of fire escaped from the engine.

Get your a.s.s out of this car, Vance.

He unclicked both their seatbelts, and with another twist of his body extended his arm to open the pa.s.senger door. It worked. With a kick he opened the door wide.

He extracted himself from the car and circled its bonnet to stand in front of Monty's door. It was stuck. Rupert tried again and again, pulling and pulling. No success.

He heard screams in the background. The siren of a police car screeched through the darkness. He couldn't wait for help. The fire was building up.

Swearing at the airbag and the burning on his chest, he ran back to the other side of the car, used the pa.s.senger seat to support himself, slid his hands along Monty's back and grabbed his friend underneath his shoulders.

How he found the strength to pull Monty's body out, he didn't know. The heat now blasting out of the car was putting his skin on fire. Someone helped him carry Monty away. A policeman. They took him as far as they could until the blast of the explosion threw them to the ground.

Rupert covered Monty's body with his. He couldn't see the car burning.

He didn't want to.

The only thing that mattered now was whether Monty, his brother, would make it out of his own drunken stupidity.

"Don't f.u.c.king die on me."

RUPERT LOATHED hospitals even more than he did public transport. He had already been discharged, only a few hours after the accident. The doctor had kept repeating, "It's a miracle, a miracle." Over and over.

Rupert b.l.o.o.d.y knew it was. The last time he had been in a car crash, he had remained out cold for two days. Last night, he had escaped with light burns on his torso. More importantly, Monty only suffered concussion.

The coffee tasted bitter, its texture watery. He threw the half-full paper cup in the trash and stared through the window. Dawn was finally breaking, closing the curtains on one of the s.h.i.+ttiest nights in his entire life. And he had had a few already.

He'd talk to that dumba.s.s. He'd give him a piece of his mind. As soon as he was home, he would throw out every last bottle of gin, of vodka, even his fine wines ... or maybe he would save the wines and send them to Magway. Out of Monty's reach.

"He wants to talk to you."

Rupert turned toward the policeman who had helped him save Monty. The dark shadows under his eyes showed that last night had been busier than the average night s.h.i.+ft.

"Thank you, officer. Thank you for saving my friend." And, because Rupert suspected that he'd see more of the police over the next days, or months, he added, "I'll make myself available for any interviews or tests, or whatever you want me to do."

The policeman was a rotund man, and he had to tilt his head backward to look into Rupert's eyes. "I didn't save your friend, you did. That was b.l.o.o.d.y courageous."

Rupert shuffled on his feet and lowered his gaze. He hadn't expected praise.

The policeman continued. "Now, it's going to be a different story for your friend. He'd better get a good lawyer. But, provided your blood test comes back clean, you should be fine. Montgomery testified you got into the car only to discourage him from driving under the influence."

Relief flooded over Rupert. A drink-driving charge would have meant a lot of trouble and a guaranteed expulsion from Coach Bartlett's team. Rupert had trained too hard to kiss goodbye to his goal: winning that d.a.m.ned race.

He nodded to the policeman and thanked him again, then pushed open the door to Monty's room. The curtains were half drawn and the room was bathed in the dim morning light. Rupert exhaled. Monty was lying on the hospital bed, a bandage wrapped around his head. But he was safe. He wouldn't be dying anytime soon. Rupert fought back tears.

He couldn't lose someone else, someone else he loved. "You're such a jacka.s.s." Affection wrapped around the insult. Monty's eyes opened wide. A faint smile lightened his bruised face.

"I'm paying for it, mate. It's the worst headache ever."

"Good." Rupert stood next to the bed. Monty gestured toward a plastic cup on the side table. Rupert grabbed it and held his friend's head while he sipped the water through a straw. "Just like a baby." Monty let out a sad laugh and put his head back on the pillow. He shut his eyes, obviously exhausted by the effort. "I'm so sorry."

"So you should be. You're even more stupid than I am. That says it all, dumba.r.s.e." Monty shook his head. "No, not just for that. For what I said in the car ... about your mother."

The memory flashed back in Rupert's head. "You were drunk. It's forgotten."

"Nope. The truth is that I'd like to be more like you." "Like me?" That was a first in Rupert's life. "You spent your gap year teaching kids in Africa. I spent it bungee jumping in New Zealand. You're training for the race, while my drinking is getting worse and worse. I'm stuck in the same old s.h.i.+t. You're doing something with your life."

"I'm not," Rupert denied vehemently.

"Yes, you are. You even have a nice girl in love with you." Rupert's heart stopped beating.

In love with me?

"Who?" He already knew the name, but the illusion was comforting. "The American girl you dumped last week. She's totally into you."

Really? How can you see that? Did she say anything to you?

Rupert wanted to ask these questions and more, but that would have made him sound like a girl. "You're one of the good guys, Rupert. You saved my life." Rupert seized Monty's hand and squeezed it. Nothing more was said and Monty soon drifted back to sleep. Rupert was one of the good guys. And Madison might still like him.

Chapter 29.

THE MCCAIN FAMILY had been walking in tall cotton since Napoleon was in knee pants.

Whether Jackson owned the grand merchant's house here in Oxford or rented it, Madison's suspicions were confirmed. The Victorian building, its interior in stainless steel and oak, was way beyond the means of a young Christ Church fellow.

She walked on the sanded floorboards to the open fireplace and warmed her hands. Her cursing episode had been the final straw. Her lack of control not only humiliated but scared the s.h.i.+t out of her.

G.o.d knew she had been rational about her situation until now. She had researched books at the Bodleian Library, drunk tea with a genealogist, and almost restrained herself from any magic tricks.

The time had come for her to use her powers instead of letting them use her. Whatever the risks to her sanity. She owed it to Robert and Sarah. She owed it to herself and to the LeBon women who had come before her.

Her meeting with Archie Black had brought new material to her research, but it had also raised more questions. So today she intended to contact the ghosts, rather than wait for them.

Robert's father had wanted him to marry into the aristocracy to solidify his claim to the t.i.tle. But Robert had been in love with someone else and had opposed the marriage, until he gave in and married the Lady Elizabeth in April 1651.

Maybe Sarah had already been dead and Robert had obeyed his father because he had nothing else to live for. Five months later he died fighting for his king anyway ... having sired a b.a.s.t.a.r.d of his own.

Good heavenly days. Shakespeare Burton had uncovered a seventeenth-century soap opera.

"I've found some matches." Jackson entered the living room, waving a small box and pulling Madison back to the here and now.

In the journey ahead of her, she needed the support of the person who remained unfazed by her witchy madness, the person who made her powers feel tenfold stronger. To take the next step, Madison trusted Jackson. She wanted to have him by her side and he was eager to learn about her heritage.

"Do we have a plan? I mean, are you clear about what you want to ask?" He was straight to the point.

"I've been chewing on what I learned from the genealogist for almost two weeks. There are many questions I need to ask."

"Like what?"

"Why did Sarah and Robert not get married? And if the rumors of an illegitimate child had been true, was Sarah the mother? Robert might have been an awful womanizer who impregnated women across the Kingdom."

"Maybe ... I wonder how Shakespeare Burton has known about Robert's story, though." Jackson took a pause, then continued. "He must have found something, heard something, during his stay at Magway. His inspiration can't just come from looking at Robert's portrait. Burton knew more."

Madison nodded, but this wasn't a question her ghosts could answer. "I think we should start."

She opened her satchel and spread its contents on the floor around her: Robert's cape, some incense sticks, the "little" book of magic, and a gris-gris. Mamie had given her the last two items when Madison had left Pierre Part to return to England.

"I've read about Louisiana voodoo, but still need to get up to speed. I don't see the dolls and snakes, though." A smile twisted Jackson's mouth upward.

Mamie would have had such a laugh right now. "The world has so many misconceptions influenced by Hollywood. Voodoo isn't all about hexing and sticking pins into dolls. In our religion, we believe spirits preside over everyday life, and we gave them the names of Catholic saints."

"Are you going to follow the rituals performed by past voodoo queens of your family?"

"One of my ancestors was the Marie Laveau of her time. She was a respected voodoo queen, and New Orleans people would ask for her help." Cold blood shot a chill through her veins. The woman had thrown herself in the Mississippi. "My grandmother is a voodoo priestess, or medicine woman. She was initiated in the New Orleans tradition and earns an income by administering charms, blessing amulets and giving away curative powders."

"And other voodoo priestesses, can they see dead people like you do?" The professor had pinpointed what Madison considered her real curse.

"No, they don't. When voodoo believers invoke spirits, they mean deities, small G.o.ds, not the restless souls of the deceased. This whole psychic drama is my family specialty." She tried to deliver the information lightly, but nearly choked on the words.

Jackson sat now cross-legged on the rug beside the fire opposite her, the holy possessions scattered between them. Her sticky palms lay on her thighs to steady their shaking. Madison wasn't sure she could pull this one off.

Jackson echoed her self-doubts. "I'm not sure you're in the right state of mind for this."

She wasn't sure either, but what did he mean exactly?

Jackson coughed, his eyes glued on the wooden floor. "Miss Lindsey mentioned she saw you one night with Rupert Vance."

The senior censor had spied on them when Rupert spent the night in her room and had reported her findings to her crush. By gossiping, she had probably hoped to upgrade her profile in the professor's eyes. Madison made a mental note to brew a custom-made curse for dear Miss Lindsey.

"She must be confused. I spend time with Rupert because of our common a.s.signments, but that's it." She was lying and she knew he knew it.

"Just be careful. The first time one falls in love, it can be confusing." Jackson looked straight at her. "We don't know each other well enough for me to tell you this. I just don't want you to get hurt, that's all." His stare reached into her defenses. She wanted to lean against him, confide in him and cry.

Falling in love for the first time was d.a.m.ned confusing, yes. d.a.m.ned painful too, if the feeling wasn't reciprocated.

She shook the self-pity away. She had to forge ahead. Robert and Sarah needed her, and she was so looking forward to kicking Peter's a.s.s. "Please, light the incense and blow out the flame. We have to allow time for the jasmine fragrance to rise."

Jackson's expression faltered, but he recovered. He lighted the incense stick and closed the shutters over the bow windows. The room was now dark enough for Madison to enter a trance-like state. She focused on the flames in the fireplace, and their shadows flickered against the white walls.

Holding tight to the small leather pouch of the gris-gris, she shared one last piece of information. "I'm going to invoke Saint Expedite. She's the spirit standing between life and death."

Jackson nodded and mirrored her when she made the sign of the cross and started reciting the Lord's Prayer. Hail Mary followed on. Soon, their two voices became one and rose toward the high ceilings, while they repeated the prayers, one after the other.

The scent of the incense tingled inside Madison's nostrils. Jasmine should help the meditation and allow her thoughts to center on the working.

At least, that was the theory.

Perhaps Saint Expedite wasn't in any hurry to intercede on her behalf with the dead.

Where were the spirits when you needed them?

s.h.i.+t.

"I can't do it."

Jackson opened his eyes, and she repeated her frustration. "It's not working."

"You're putting too much pressure on yourself. We can try again later."

Defeat made her shoulders slump.

He leaned toward the incense sticks and cut off their ashened tops, while Madison laid her hands on Robert's cape on the floor in front of her.