Page 3 of Bewitched By the Djinn
I need to understand why it’s calling to me. The urge to yank it out of my bag and plop down on the dirty sidewalk for a look is nearly overwhelming.
Footsteps echo behind me. Slow. Then faster.
I glance back, my grip tightening on the bag. My other hand slips into my pocket, fingers closing around the key fob with the pepper spray.
The wind picks up, sending an empty Pat O’Brien’s hurricane cup skittering across the pavement like a drunken ghost crab. No one’s there.
I hug my sweater tighter and keep moving, a little faster now. Only two blocks from home.
The footsteps return. Closer.
Okay.Nope.
I spin around, pepper spray in hand.
Nothing. The street is empty.
First the lamp sings to me like a magical Disney trap, now I’m getting phantom stalked?
Unlike my brother Kevin, our own little ghost whisperer, I don’t do the dead. Thank the stars my magic’s limited to finding things. Or being found by them, apparently.
I stretch out my senses, sending a ripple of magic down the street like a fog, sweeping across sidewalks, up lampposts, curling around the buildings.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
There are people inside the buildings, inanimate objects littering every corner, but not a soul is in my immediate vicinity out here on the street.
Except there is something.
A shadow?
But not a shadow. It’s alive. But not human.
I try to get a read on it, wrap around the shape of it in my mind, but it’s slippery. Wrong. Not a person. Not an animal. More of a magical echo of something. A shadow with teeth.
The hairs on my arms stand up. Cold trickles down my spine.
Leave. Now.
The instinct is sharp and certain, and I don’t question it. I learned long ago to trust my gut. My grip tightens on the pepper spray, and I clutch my bag like it’s a shield.
Then I turn and run.
Chapter
Two
The scent of cayenne and black pepper envelops me as I slam the door shut and engage the lock.
It’s Monday, which means Mimi is making red beans and rice. It apparently also means I’m losing my damn mind.
I gaze through the peephole, breath sawing in and out.
The narrow alley between our building and the one next door is empty, aside from the uneven cobblestones, the opposing brick wall, a half-dead ficus in a chipped blue pot, and a sagging jack-o’-lantern Kevin brought home from school.
I would bet money I was followed the entire sprint home. Was it a ghost? I have never sensed one like it, if it was. The hex bags should keep them out.
I set my keys on the heavy wooden Bombe table in the entry and then tiptoe in the direction of the stairs, willing the sounds from the simmering stove to cover my steps and the slight rustle of the bag in my arms.
