The man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, appeared confused by the question. “What do you mean? I’m waiting to cross the street.”
My grandfather often appeared to have infinite patience, and it was on full display today. “Over there.” He pointed with his chin. “What’s going on?”
“Oh.” The man’s face lit with delight. “You’re talking about the ritual.”
That was a word we knew well, but given what was happening thirty feet away, it didn’t seem to fit. I couldn’t wrap my head around the chanting — words I couldn’t make out — and what the man suggested made no sense. “How is that a ritual?”
Grandfather shot me a quelling look before focusing on the man. “What ritual are you trying to perform?”
“The Ritual of Summoning.”
I’d heard of summoning rituals, but I’d never heard it phrased that way.
“What are you trying to summon?” Grandfather asked. The look on his face suggested he was bracing himself for a dark entity, or perhaps a malevolent spirit.
“The Axeman.”
I jerked up my head. The Axeman of New Orleans was something of a local legend, a 1918 serial killer who supposedly said he would spare victims who played jazz. There was plenty of conjecture about him because he’d never been caught. Why anyone would want to summon him was beyond me.
“The Axeman?” Grandfather glanced between the man and me, obviously not thrilled by the revelation. “Why would you want to summon him?”
The expression on the man’s face was hard to read. “He had a message that we want to embrace.”
“Message?”
“That life is only worth living if the beautiful things are shared far and wide. If they’re not, then you might as well be dead.”
“I see.” Grandfather’s smile never wavered, but he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and tugged me to his side. “Well, it sounds like you have an interesting day planned. Just out of curiosity, what made you come to this spot for your ritual?”
“This is the place he died,” the man replied. “You must be near the dead to summon them.”
That was only true in specific circumstances, but I didn’t bother giving voice to my opinion. It was obvious something above my ability to understand was happening. I figured it was better to let my grandfather handle this one.
“I was under the impression they didn’t know who the Axeman was,” Grandfather argued. “How can you know where he died if you don’t even know his identity?”
The man’s gaze was withering. “Oh, we know. It was common knowledge back then. The police didn’t make it public because they believed in his cause and helped him.”
Grandfather’s face shifted into an expression of polite dismissal. “Well, that’s lovely. Have fun with your demonstration.”
“It’s a ritual.”
“That, too.”
I waited until we were back in front of the house to speak again. “I don’t understand what they’re doing,” I admitted as I retrieved the pillowcase full of frogs. “Why would they want to bring back a killer?”
“They’re sick.” Grandfather was matter-of-fact. “They’re not good people. They’re either bored with their lives and don’t believe in the cause or they’re bad people. Plain and simple.”
His answer wasn’t enough for me. “But why are they in a group like that? And why are they lying to themselves? I don’t understand.”
“Sometimes people convince themselves that a good lie is better than a bad truth. These people want to believe that the ugliness in the world has meaning. They don’t realize that they’re deluding themselves.”
I chewed my bottom lip as I glanced over his shoulder and stared at the chanting crowd. “They can’t really bring him back, can they?”
“Of course not. Nobody knows who the Axeman was. People like this aren’t to be feared. They’re just ... sad. It’s the other people, the true believers, who are to be feared.”
“These aren’t true believers?”
“No.”
There seemed to be much he wasn’t saying. It was a heavy topic, and I was tired after a day of catching frogs. Deep discussions could wait. “If I let this go, can we have chocolate cake for dessert? I checked yesterday and we have all the ingredients.”
He smirked at the question. “The older you get, the smarter you get. Chocolate cake is definitely better than what they’re doing.”
I believed him yet still I stood on the front steps a good five minutes watching the show. No matter what he tried to convince me of, an undercurrent of evil flowed through the crowd. It made me uneasy.
The group at the church might not have been filled with true believers, but I was willing to bet there were one or two who could fit that bill. Thankfully, they were woefully outnumbered and little to no magic bubbled through the group.
Grandfather was right. These people were not to be feared. If there were others out there like them, though, I would have to keep my eyes open.
The monsters of the gate might have shrouded my dreams, but other types of demons haunted the living. I must remain vigilant.
One
Present Day
“What are they like?”
Even though I wasn’t the nervous sort, news that my boyfriend’s grandparents were arriving had me nervous. I, Izzy Sage, was a badass bruja with courage out the wazoo, but the stories I’d been told about Mary and Emmet Grimlock were enough to make my insides shrivel faster than the notion of liver for dinner. So when my boyfriend Braden Grimlock dropped by for lunch I decided to grill him.
Braden appeared to be over the incessant questions I’d peppered him with for the better part of the week.
“They’re crabby,” Braden replied, peeling a banana as he exchanged amused looks with my assistant, Oliver Samuelson, a vampire with attitude and an intense loyalty. “You know those shows in which old people scream for kids to get off their lawn? Those are my grandparents. They’ve been that way for as long as I can remember. If you ask my dad, he’ll tell you that they were like that when they were toddlers.”
I was used to the Grimlock tendency to exaggerate. All of them — with the possible exception of middle brother Cillian, who was as calm and rational as they came — had no problem concocting stories to suit their purpose. As much as I loved Braden — and I did — I recognized he sometimes couldn’t help himself from resorting to tall tales. There were five Grimlock siblings and four of them routinely competed with one another to see who could tell the most outrageous story.
“They have to be more than crabby,” I persisted, my potato chips all but forgotten. I didn’t have much of an appetite. The reality of Grimlocks I hadn’t met was enough to turn my stomach, which was saying something, because I’d inherited my grandfather’s iron constitution and could eat almost anything. “I mean ... they’re your grandparents. You must have stories about them.”
“Oh, I have stories.” Braden leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on my desk. It was a lazy move, one that might’ve bothered me at a different time, but we were still basking in the afterglow of dropping “I love you” on one another several weeks before. It was as if we couldn’t stop smiling, and there were times I swore I saw little hearts dancing over his head. Of course, I have magic at my disposal, so it was possible I placed the hearts there without even realizing it.