“I reckon you will.” He was despondent again, and Adrienne guessed his thoughts were on Therese.
They ate in silence, and she retrieved her backpack from the foyer. Her dad returned to the television, and she pulled out the iPad containing all her textbook files and homework.
What she didn’t tell him: some of the classes were beyond her. The kids were much more cultured and advanced than she was after years in a school more focused on the bible than math and science. She felt like she was reading Dr. Seuss while they were quoting Shakespeare. It’d take a lot of work to keep up and pass the classes. Her scholarship required at least C grades across the board.
Even knowing she needed to study, she found herself reaching for the black journal instead. Adrienne glanced into the living room to make sure her father was occupied with the television. She cracked the journal open and pushed through a few pages before deciding to start in the back. There were no dates in the journal, aside from the year embossed on the front cover, the year Therese spent in New Orleans with their father. If she ran into Jax, would there be some record of it?
Adrienne pulled out her French dictionary. If there was a mention of Jax, would she be able to decipher the jumbled French and English enough to understand it?
She sighed. Instead of translating, should she just skim for some mention of Jax?
She started at the back of the book once again, eyes falling to the protection symbols.
“He’s coming,” she repeated. She idly traced the robed figure with a finger. As before, her heart quickened of its own accord, as if some part of her sensed the danger she couldn’t define.
Perplexed, Adrienne flipped back a page. She hadn’t yet been able to determine what it was her sister was doing. She knew most of the veves from seeing them around her mother’s house. The only drawings that made no sense were those of the Red Man and the symbols around him.
A sketch of a zombie made her giggle. Therese had drawn it with googly eyes and a corny smile on its face. Adrienne saw several examples of her sister’s fun sense of humor and felt a familiar ache. They used to tell stupid jokes to each other all the time. Too poor to go to the movies or shop, they’d used their imaginations in a competition of who could make up the worst joke.
She could imagine Therese bent over her journal in the room that was now Adrienne’s, writing feverishly then laughing at the funny drawings as she made them.
Except it wasn’t a normal journal. It had a purpose, a special one that eluded Adrienne. Some of the writing and drawings were repetitive, as if Therese had an obsessive tendency as well.
The sketch of a fat heart caught her attention. It was in a corner of a page.
“J and T,” Adrienne murmured. She focused on this page. Pockets of writing were interspersed with veves.
Does Jax love me?
Adrienne sucked in a breath, startled to read one full, coherent sentence among the disjointed sentences on the pages. She looked up at the clock, dismayed to see two hours had passed. It was close to eight and she had homework to do.
Excited, Adrienne marked the page in Therese’s journal then set it aside with some difficulty.
She pulled a notebook and pencil from her bag and started taking notes of what homework she needed to do. Completing it would mean she’d be up half the night, and she tapped her pen against the notebook in frustration.
What if she couldn’t keep up? What if she lost her scholarship and never made it into the music industry? Christie told her talent scouts from major conservatories came to the academy. Did she have a chance of being discovered and given a scholarship to a prestigious conservatory or college known for its music program?
They were opportunities she hadn’t had at her Baptist school outside of Atlanta. She had to focus on studying.
What if the journal could tell her why she bore the mark of the curse?
Torn between her sister’s diary and homework, Adrienne pushed herself away from the table to grab a glass of water.
Homework tonight. Tomorrow, the diary, she promised herself. She returned to the table and pulled out her Tarot deck, wanting to check her cards to see how tomorrow would be before she drowned herself in homework.
After handling them for a moment, she drew one.
“Page of Cups, Reversed.” She thought hared for a moment. “Proceed with caution.”
It was a generally good omen, one she took to be reasonable, given it was her second day of school and she’d already started to fall head over heels for a boy she didn’t know.
Not nearly as satisfied with this card as the one she drew the night before, she threw herself into her schoolwork with earnest.
Chapter Five
A few blocks away, the man named Jax left the safety of his crew and strode through back alleys and side streets, headed to the same place he went every month. The balmy night was typical of a late Louisianan summer. He was the only one brave enough to cross through the St. Louis No. 1 cemetery after dark, knowing his gang was the one protecting the dead.
It had been this way for years, since Hurricane Katrina stripped the city of law and order. While the government and police forces had returned, there was a newfound, healthy respect for the voodoo gang that prevented looting, curbed crime and protected both living and dead in the aftermath of the storms. The stations in every ward knew who to call if there was an issue involving the voodoo community or in the crime-ridden Projects or other areas of New Orleans where routine police sweeps didn’t occur after dark.
Jax was the second leader of the gang. His late cousin, the son of his uncle Olivier DuBois, was the first to take on the sacred charge of leading up the voodoo gang and died in one of the occasional floods the city experienced over the past few years. Jax assumed the position after graduating college. It was a birthright more than a choice, for his uncle had only daughters after the death of his son.
“Hey, Jax.”
He glanced over at the uniformed police officer waiting for him at the exit of the cemetery, one of the many his gang routinely coordinated with.
“Yeah, Brannon,” Jax said, holding out his hand.
They shook. The officer was a deputy in the station nearest the Projects.
“Got an issue in the Irish Channel. Some tourist wandered off the beaten track and got hisself cornered by a drunk bokor or something,” Brannon said, handing him a note with an address. “Disappeared. We’re hoping it ain’t something related to black magic. Don’t need no more bad news in N’awlins to scare tourists away.”
Jax glanced at the address, recognizing the area. “We’ll take care of it.”
“Y’all hear anything else about the serial killer?” Deputy Brannon fell into step beside him.
“I’d tell you if I did.” Jax gave him a sidelong glance.
“I know. There ain’t nothing you can’t handle, Jax. Sometimes, the press asks too many questions.”
“Tell my uncle. Smoothing things over with his contacts in the press is his job. I’m just the muscle.”
“You and me both. Look, call me when you find this tourist.”
“Will do. Tell the boys at the station Rene will be in contact.”
Deputy Brannon nodded and offered a quick salute then turned and headed down the street to his waiting police car.
Jax texted the information Deputy Brannon gave him to Rene, who was his brother and second in charge of the street crew, then continued on his route. People took to Rene better than Jax, probably because they sensed Rene was gentle beneath his gruff exterior. Jax was feared for his willingness to resort to black magic, and Rene was regarded as the protector of those in trouble. Together, there wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle.