With a tired sigh, I turned to Joshua. “Please tell me no one else in your family can see me. I don’t think I could stand any more compliments tonight.”
He gave me an apologetic smile. “Not according to Ruth. When she told me about all this Seer business, she also said we were the only ones who’ve had our triggering events. Oh, and now Jillian. So you’re in the clear.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
A few feet away I saw Jeremiah hug the pretty brunette woman. While returning the hug, the woman leaned around Jeremiah’s shoulder and waved directly at us. Well, at Joshua anyway.
“That’s my aunt, Patricia Comeaux—Trish,” Joshua said from the corner of his mouth, waving back at her. “I don’t see Annabel or Celeste anywhere … guess they’re inside.”
Joshua had given me a brief lesson in Mayhew family history during the first hour of our car ride. But I could only keep a few crucial details straight.
Ruth Mayhew—formerly, Ruth Angeline—had grown up in New Orleans. She’d also met and married her late husband here. They had one son and two daughters before moving to Oklahoma, ostensibly for her husband’s business (although Joshua and I knew the real reason: so that Ruth could lead her own group of Seers). Once grown, only Jeremiah chose to stay in Oklahoma; both of his sisters had returned to Louisiana, settling down to raise families in or near the French Quarter, where many of their relatives still lived.
Watching the Angeline and Mayhew descendants flock together on the sidewalk tonight, the only names I could remember were those in Ruth’s direct line: Aunt Patricia and her daughters, twenty-year-old Annabel and ten-year-old Celeste; Aunt Penelope and her nineteen-year-old son, Drew. Who I couldn’t pick out of this crowd if someone paid me to anyway.
But there was one conspicuous absence on the curb tonight: Ruth. Not that I was complaining.
“Josh,” Trish called across the crowd. “Most of the kids are in the drawing room. Why don’t you go say hey before you put your stuff up? I think Annabel’s got something planned for you all.”
“What is it this time?” he asked. “Movie night? Ritual sacrifice?”
Trish chuckled, letting go of Jeremiah to extend another hug to Rebecca. “She’s saving that last one for Christmas morning, actually.”
When Joshua laughed loudly, she gave him one final smile before turning away to talk to his parents. Joshua waited until everyone’s attention was otherwise occupied and then looked fully at me. He tilted his head toward the open front door and mouthed, Inside?
I felt a sudden twang of nerves. But I nodded and held out my arm, pointing to the town house.
“Lead the way.”
With a last, fiery brush of his fingers against the back of my hand, he walked past me toward the front door. I took a deep breath, told myself that not every Mayhew house held a nasty surprise for me, and then followed him.
Normal, I reminded myself. These are your last moments to feel normal. So take advantage.
But as I passed by the gas lamps at the entrance of the town house, their flames sputtered, plunging the nearby sidewalk into darkness. From behind me a chorus of voices cried out in protest. After that I could swear I heard a rush of whispers from somewhere close—maybe from Joshua’s family … maybe not.
I stopped, one foot on the cobblestones and one foot hovering in the doorstep. Then, unthinkingly, I let that foot drop onto the welcome mat inside the house. The moment I did, I heard two soft pops, and the gas lamps brightened again.
I gritted my teeth and shook my head, hard. That doesn’t mean anything. Those lamps are probably a century old—I’m sure they go out all the time.
“Amelia?” Joshua whispered from inside the house. “You coming in?”
“Yes,” I whispered back, like I was one who needed to worry about my volume. Then I laughed softly.
You know, I told myself, for a ghost, you get spooked way too easily. So I straightened my back and stepped fully across the threshold.
There, in the tiny foyer, the light was almost as dim as it had been outside. The only illumination came from an electric-lit pendant hung above a winding staircase down the hall and from the rooms leading off of the foyer. Through the archway to our right, I could see a tiny dining table, still half covered with the remains of tonight’s meal. To our left, a set of young voices filtered through the opening between two French doors.
Joshua angled his head toward the doors. “Sounds like Annabel and Drew are in there. Want to ‘meet’ the rest of my family?”
I blew out one sharp breath and said, “Okay. Sure.”
He paused for a second to study my face. Then his expression softened. “You know I’m really glad you’re here, don’t you?”
The little ache in my heart uncurled itself ever so slightly, and I had to clench one hand to my side to keep from pressing it to my chest. “Thanks,” I said, managing a smile. “Me too.”
He gave me that boyish grin, all dimples and full lips and inevitable heartbreak, and then pulled open one door. I heard a girl cry out a greeting, so I ducked behind him, feeling oddly shy as we entered the room together.
Once inside, however, Joshua moved aside too quickly for me to hide. At that moment I had a full view of the room. All over the walls, from the tops of the antique furniture to the base of the crown molding, were hundreds of framed photographs. I could just make out Joshua’s smile in a few that hung near the fireplace. But aside from some current family photos, most looked ancient, clustered together in groups of black-and-white or sepia-toned portraits. Generations of Angeline Seers, all staring eerily out at us.
On the other side of the room, two teenagers sat together, draped over each other on a red velvet couch. The boy looked up briefly at Joshua and made a gesture with his head that was either a nod of acknowledgment or just an attempt to get his floppy dark hair out of his eyes. Almost immediately he turned back to his companion, a pretty blonde with a chic bob who’d snuggled suffocation-close to his side.
Across from us, another couple huddled together in a pair of overstuffed armchairs near the fireplace. The couple leaned so close to each other, I thought they were kissing. But when their heads turned toward Joshua, I could see they’d just been talking, heads together in intense conversation.
The girl broke away first, leaning back in her chair and flashing Joshua a wide grin. She brushed back her hair—jet-black like his, but cut ultrashort on one side and longish on the other. The long side flopped back, but not before I saw that she shared Joshua’s midnight blue eyes.
As Joshua had promised, the girl didn’t seem to see me. But when we came close, her friend abruptly sat up like someone had pinched him. He rested both his hands on his knees and then slowly turned his upper body toward us.
For a full minute he stared at Joshua. As he did so, an awkward silence fell over the room. I looked around and realized that everyone else—the black-haired girl, the two lovebirds on the couch—watched him, as if waiting for some kind of signal.
Aside from being creepy, their behavior also didn’t make a lot of sense. After all, this boy didn’t seem like someone this small crew would follow. First of all, he was significantly older—at least twenty-two. Then, the others wore artfully messy clothes and up-to-the-minute hairstyles. But the boy in the armchair appeared more like a young politician, in his white dress shirt and crisp gray suit. His light-brown hair was so short, I’d be hard-pressed to call it anything but a buzz cut, and I could barely see his eyes through the glint off his wire-rimmed glasses.
When he turned his head slightly to the right, however, the gleam off his lenses disappeared and I had a clearer view. His eyes were a cold gray—steely, almost. And unless I was imagining things, they moved from Joshua … to me.