The Awakening (24 page)

I'm anything
but
all right. I'm half sitting in Jason's lap and I can feel his body heat radiating out at me. I sense his pulse picking up to join the rhythm of mine, and his eyes search my face. His hand moves to cup my face, and I know exactly what he's about to do.

Because it's exactly what I dreamed he would do. And what I truly want him to do.

Jason leans over and kisses me. His lips are cool at first, tentative, as he moves in. He's waiting for my reaction—or participation. Without thinking twice about it, I tilt my head slightly to the right and part my lips. He takes that as a green flag and pulls me closer. Mother of pearl ... that's
niiiiiiiiiiiiice.

I'm not a pro in the art of kissing, but I've watched enough movies and read enough books that I'm able to fully kiss him back. There's lots of heavy breathing and shifting and hands in hair and stuff. We're totally making out on the stairs, like we have no care in the world.

He moans. Or I do. Who can even tell at this point? We bump noses and scrape teeth, but it doesn't stop us from continuing our snog-fest at the top of the stairs.

What does stop us is the staticky click and beep of the walkie-talkie clipped to my jeans.

"Y'all about finished up there? Over," Celia says over the airwaves.

We freeze midkiss.

My heart starts beating again when I hear Taylor say, "I'm done. Over."

I push Jason away like he's got the plague. "Taylor's coming."

He looks as wild-eyed and dumbfounded as I feel. There's no hesitation on either of our parts as we scramble to our feet and step far away from each other. Neither of us wants to get caught by Celia, Becca, or especially Taylor.

I try to get my composure—
how?
—and head down the stairs with Jason on my tail. Two steps down, I stop and turn to meet his gaze. "Thanks for catching me just then."

I don't want this thing—
whatever it is
—between Jason and me to get in the way of our ghost hunting. I think I'll keep this turn of events all to myself for now.

He winks those beautiful gold eyelashes at me and says, "Anytime."

Oh, man. This. Is. Not. Good. Not good at all.

I
CHECK MY WATCH
as I leave the house. The homeroom bell at RHS won't ring for another twenty-five minutes, so I've got time for my stealth reconnaissance side trip this Thursday morning.

I need protection and I can only think of one place to get it.

No, I'm not going to the sexual-health aisle at Mega-Mart to purchase family-planning products just because Jason and I kissed. Get real! (Although I have hit Rewind and Play like ten zillion times in my head to relive the moment.)

Currently, I'm in need of something from a higher calling.

Twice now I've been around spirits where something not good—to say the least—has happened to me. First in the cemetery, when I nearly passed out from the overwhelmedness (I think I just made that word up, but it works here), and then yesterday, when I was nearly killed on the stairs at city hall. Loreen told me never to go into a ghost hunt without protection: a prayer, a cross, or whatever works for me. I should've listened to her.

So, now I'm after holy water.

I turn down Pace Street and then cross over to Market to the large building with the lush green lawn. I slip up the front steps and through the brick portico. I push the sturdy red door open slowly, making it groan on its hinges. My used but thoroughly sterilized Clinique Happy perfume bottle is in my backpack and should make a good receptacle for splashing myself with the blessed liquid. I just need to get a stash of it that I can funnel into the small container.

I move through the vestibule of Christ the Redeemer Holy Episcopal Church, wondering if it's a mortal sin to swipe holy water from a baptismal font. I certainly hope not, and God forgive me if it is.

Once inside the sanctuary, I take a moment to soak up the majesty of such a breathtaking cathedral in the middle of Nowhere, Georgia. The ivory marble floor is smooth and immaculately clean against the redwood pews, which have crimson velvet kneeling benches between each set. Up front is the altar, five steps up, decorated with a large gold cross, white tapers, and mossy green ferns. Pipes and chimes from the organ fill the back wall in shimmery brass. The Gothic ceiling forms a ship's-hull-like pattern, culminating at the front of the church with a fantastic stained-glass window of Jesus and his disciples.

Not thinking of how I'm disturbing the serenity of the quiet morning, I slip over to the baptismal font that sits at the back of the sanctuary. It's an oval marble stand about three feet high, with a wood finishing around the rim that coordinates with the benches. I lift the lid of the fountain and smile when I see the clear water filling the bowl.

I pull the Ziploc bag out of my pocket and I'm just about to dunk it in the depths when I hear, "I'm afraid you're a little late for Wednesday night's Eucharist."

I spin around and squelch the words
Holy shit!
that threaten to tumble off the tip of my tongue. "Oh! I'm sorry." My eyes connect with the crisp white liturgical collar. "I mean, sorry, Father." I feel like I should curtsy or something, although no Episcopal church would ever require such action.

"No worries," he says with a kind smile. Then his eyebrow lifts. "May I help you with something this morning?"

Man, am I busted or what? And by the priest, no less! At least, I think the guy's a priest. He's tall, dark, cute, and waaaaay young. Maybe in his midtwenties. He must be straight out of seminary.

"I just ... needed some holy water," I say plainly, not wanting to lie in church. "I hope that's okay."

"Of course it is. Whatever you need." He spreads his arms wide. "That's what we're here for."

"Thanks." I dip the bag in, then seal the sloshing-full Ziploc. I'll worry about transferring the water to the perfume bottle later.

He stretches his large hand out toward me. "I'm Massimo. Father Castellano."

I look at it, unsure what to do. What is wrong with me? I'm just not used to my priest being damn near a contemporary. I'm used to way-past-middle-aged Father Ludwig and his ten-yard comb-over that swirls around his head in a crop-circle effect, which you get a good gander at as he's bending down to hand out Communion wafers. This guy before me has short black hair, a firm jaw, and a bright white smile that could adorn the cover of any men's-fashion magazine.

"Please don't take this wrong, but you're not old enough to be a priest, are you?"

His laughter reverberates up to the beams of the church. "You flatter me. Let me assure you that I earned my degree many years ago, and Radisson is my third parish. I'm thirty-three."

Red tinges my face, and I feel like a total goober. "I'm sorry, Father. Geez. I mean..."

Shut up, Kendall.

He smiles again. This time with his eyes, like Tyra Banks is always telling the girls to do on
America's Next Top Model
. "You must be new to Radisson."

"I am," I say, fingering the Ziploc full of
agua
. "My family moved here a couple of weeks ago. We're still getting settled in, but we'll start coming to Holy Eucharist, I promise."

Father Castellano nods and then squints at me in recognition. "Oh.
You
must be Kendall Moorehead, then."

Hand to my chest, I ask, "You know me?"

"I know
of
you," he says. "Father Burt Ludwig from Chi cago called me about your family." Following an elongated pause, he adds, "However, your mother called me about you."

There are absolutely no secrets in this town. What happens in Radisson is shared with Radisson.

"Great," I mutter. "Look, I don't know what she told you about me dabbling—"

The priest holds up a hand to stop my defense. "I'm not here to judge you, Kendall. I'm here to help. In any way. Please know that."

I scrunch my brows down in a "what 'choo talkin' 'bout, Willis" way—
What? I've seen reruns on TV Land
—and try to figure out Father Castellano's game plan. "You're not going to tell me that talking to spirits is evil, satanic, or demonic?"

"Are you talking to demonic spirits?"

"Not so far." Unless you count ghosts that lash out at people. "You can't be too careful, though." I hold up the little bag to show him. "That's why I need the holy water, so I can protect myself when dealing with the spirit dimension."

He steps forward. "Whatever strengthens your faith and trust in God."

Any minute now, the other shoe will drop. He'll tell me what a bad idea this ghost hunting is. How my abilities are a sin. That I should be spending my spare time at the church praying for my mortal soul or working with the Episcopal Communicators network—they're a group that focuses on helping young people deal with the stresses of just being a teen.
Oh, honey, how much time do you have for me?

Surprise follows when he says, "I think it's wonderful that you and your friends are trying to help those who may need assistance crossing over to their final resting place with our Lord."

"You do? Y-y-you don't think we're crazy?"

"No. And in fact, that's what I told your mother when she came to see me. I told her that God has called you for a specific purpose and no one should stand in your way until His plan for you is revealed."

Whoa
.

I swallow the ginormous lump in my throat. "I've never thought of it that way." I jump slightly when the church bells ring, signifying fifteen minutes until the hour. "Excuse me, Father Castellano, but I've got to get to school."

As I move to walk off, he places both hands on my shoulders to stop me, and then looks down into my eyes. "Just a moment, Kendall." He takes one hand from me to open the Ziploc. Dunking his thumb into the water, he then draws it across my forehead, making the sign of the cross.

"The Lord bless you and keep you—the Lord make His face shine upon you, and be gracious unto you; the Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace. Amen."

"Amen," I say. "Thank you, Father."

"I'm here anytime you need anything, Kendall."

I smile and wave. "I may take you up on that!" Then I bolt for school.

***

Where r u? JT

My heartbeat races like a tiny raft scuttling through white-water rapids as I look at the text message on my cell.
JT
. Jason. He's looking for me!

@ study hall

I click Send and squish the desire to giggle like Kaitlin watching old Olsen twins DVDs. I can't believe I made out with Jason like that. I mean, honestly! I can't believe he likes me. He does, doesn't he? Why else would he have kissed me like that? Especially after the rough start we had. It's hard enough being in a new town, trying to keep up with schoolwork, and on top of that, learning that I've been a dormant psychic who's now awakening to her abilities and hunting ghosts. And now I may have a boyfriend?

Ooo, another message from him
.

Library? JT

Yep!

B there in a sec. JT

Becca Asiaf drops her heavily braceleted arm to the table. "Enough with the tap-tap-tap, beep-beep-beep, would you? I think I've found something major."

We're using our study-hall time to dig through old newspapers and scan microfiche to research city hall and what might be haunting it. Becca shoves a recent
Radisson Gazette
across the table to me and points. I stash my phone in my backpack and reach for the newspaper. "What am I looking at?"

Becca sighs. "It's an article about that development your dad's working on. The model that was destroyed at city hall, wasn't that about the new distribution center for Mega-Mart?"

I scrutinize the article a little more, scan-reading. "Oh, yeah. It's this massive two hundred fifty-seven acres on the outskirts of town where they're putting in the distribution center that'll cover a huge portion of the Southern chain stores for Mega-Mart. I heard Dad and Mr. Nichols talking about it in the backyard the other night."

Becca points at the paper. "It's a pretty aggressive project. They're adding affordable housing and a new elementary school to try and attract people to the Radisson area."

I keep reading. According to the reporter, the land originally belonged to a Mr. Charles Stogdon, who moved to Radisson from Buncombe County, North Carolina, in 1836. "Holy crap, 1836! That's a hell of a long time ago."

"Good, you got to that part. Keep reading."

My eyes dart right and left, taking in all of the words and loading them into my memory bank. Charles Stogdon was quite wealthy prior to the Civil War, and this land was part and parcel of a good chunk of the county that he owned. Somehow, the property came to be under the purview of the City of Radisson. Nothing's been done with the land—other than occasionally baling hay for local farmers—until this Mega-Mart venture.

The hairs on my arm stand at attention, alerting me to my psychic sense picking up on—
something
. In my mind's eye, I pic ture a stodgy older man with a handlebar mustache, a dark hat, and a dark coat. He appears to be irritated about something, raising his fist high. I blink at the vision, and just like that, it's gone. Gone, but not forgotten.

"I think we should look into this more. I mean, there's a connection to this project. Something tells me we'll find more of a link to this Charles Stogdon guy," I say.

"You're reading my thoughts exactly, Moorehead," Becca says. "Then again, you are psychic."

"Or so she says," I hear Jason say from behind me. This time, he punctuates it with a soft laugh and not his usual judgmental derision.

"Hey," I say a bit too breathily. This causes Becca to roll her eyes.

"What' chall doin'?" he asks, taking the seat next to me. He sits with his legs spread wide, so like a guy to take up as much space as he can, and the knee of his khakis touches mine. The sensation is almost more than I can stand.

While I attempt to wrestle my rampant teenage hormones, Becca fills him in on our latest discovery. I can barely pay attention. Even though Jason is supposedly listening to all that Becca's telling him, underneath the table, his fingers weave into mine and his thumb strokes the space between my thumb and forefinger—wreaking complete and total havoc on my central nervous system.