Ghost Huntress Book 6: The Journey (17 page)

Jason takes over.  “Seems that this MacLeod was a magician back in the 1970s who stirred up trouble throughout the UK at county fairs.  Had quite a rep as a fraud and con artist, trying to get money from people by predicting their futures with his Ouija board.”

This is all very interesting, but I’m not sure where they’re going.  I’m totally impressed that they spent so much time, but as to how this relates to Christian…wait a second…my psychic headache taps at my left temple and my eye begins to twitch.

“Christian is from East Kilbride,” I say, as if knowing it for a fact.

Celia points an apple slice at me.  “Bingo.  Give that woman more sparkling soda.”

I rub my head with my hand to massage away the pain.  “Okay, so what if he’s from the same town?”

A snicker escapes from Jason’s lips.  “Our research shows that Christian Campbell is merely a stage name.  Seems that our salon-highlighted-hair friend is really Andrew Christian MacLeod, grandson of Anderson MacLeod.”

Patrick claps his hands together.  “Snap!”

My mouth drops open.  “I was right!  He’s a fraud!  A scam!”

“Just ‘cause he’s using a pseudonym doesn’t make him a fake,” Celia points out.  She has a point, yet still, something doesn’t add up.

Taylor nods her head.  “We’ve got to do something.”

“Damn right we do,” I say.  “We have to get this information to Oliver Bates immediately or not only will he lose his TV show and his reputation, but someone’s bound to get hurt!”

Our climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower will have to wait.

 *~*~*

Forty-five minutes later, we arrive at the Hotel Ritz in Place Vendrôme in the first arrondissment on the right bank.  The second we walk up the red carpeted steps and spin into the lobby through the revolving door, splattered images appear to me like a slide show on speed.  I see socialites and diplomats, rich tourists and French businessmen.  All people who’ve passed through these doors.  In the lobby, I glance up at the glittering, gorgeous chandelier that dangles overhead.  Across the marbled floor, a rich red-carpeted staircase leads up, dividing to go up to the left and the right.

Standing at the top left, gripping the black railing is… Princess Diana.

I gasp at seeing her again, my hands flying to my throat in disbelief.  At least, it looks like her.  Maybe it’s just another spirit taking her form, but… no.  The Hotel Ritz was the last place the princess was photographed alive.  I’ve seen the video of her in the back elevator with the driver of her car, Henri Paul and her boyfriend/fiancé, Dodi Fayed.  Yes, I know all about it because I’ve read every book and seen every documentary about Diana’s life.  I can’t believe I’m actually in the hotel where everything happened.  Flashes of that night hit me like homerun balls. 
Diana and Dodi in the back elevator.  Getting into the black Mercedes Benz.  Driving too fast.  Outrunning the paparazzi.  Too, too fast.  A bad dip in the road.  The car flips.  It smashes into the pilon.  Screams.  Blood.  Pain.  Heartache.

“Are you okay, Kendall?” Patrick asks with concern in his voice.

“She’s here again.  Can you see her?”

“Princess Di?”

I nod.  Patrick shakes his head.

My fingers jam into my hair and I rub hard at the images.  Ones I’d seen on the news reports and online, but now they seem so real, as if they just happened all over again.  I glance up at where the Princess stands on the stairs gazing down at me with her caring blue eyes.  I so admire everything she stood for… all the charity work, caring for the poor, and perhaps here to help me?

Is this the spirit protector Anona was referring to?

Maybe this really
is
the Princess of Wales.

She lifts her stern chin and gestures with her head for me to move deeper into the hotel.  I read her thoughts.  She wants me to go into one of the grand salons where Christian is conducting his gallery reading.  Ironically, it’s in a room called “Psyché.”

“This way,” I say to everyone.

I try not to think of all the famous people who’ve crossed these hallways…not wanting to connect with their residual energy right now.  Diana is the only spirit I need to see.  She’s showing me the way.

We slip into the room, trying not to cause a ruckus.  There, we find Christian is in full performance mode with the TV cameras rolling.  That didn’t take much effort on Oliver’s party.

Christian points at an elderly woman in the front row who is in a wheelchair.  Just as he did in London, he leans down to her and tells her, “I’m sensing some health issues.”

Celia snorts and says, “Really?  Is that the shtick he’s sticking with?”

“It worked before,” Jason mutters.

Princess Diana materializes close to me, so much so that I can smell her powdery perfume.  She lifts her delicate hand and points in the direction of where I see Jayne Mcburney sitting in the audience.  She pushes her glassed up her nose as she’s taking notes and gazing adoringly at Christian.

“You have to save her,” the princess says to me.  “You must.”

I look at the innocent girl, so full of admiration for this fake.  The spirit of Diana is right.  Jayne has to be protected at all costs.

This summer hasn’t exactly gone as planned, so I wonder, is this why I’m on this journey?

Princess Diana nods at me and fades away.

My psychic senses tell me that everything is about to be revealed.

I watch as Christian prances across the stage.  And yes, it’s a prance.  A preen.  A posturing.  Positioning and probably a hundred other “p” words that boil down to rhyming with “t” that stands for trouble.  His hair and makeup—I can see he’s wearing base and powder for the camera—is perfect and his black silk shirt shows off his tanned neck.  On the back of his shirt, he has silver embroidered angel wings.  As if!  All part of the good act, though.

He opens his eyes and folds his fingers together as he points at a woman in the audience.  She stands and hands him something.  I can’t see at first, but then I notice it’s a Ouija board.

“Great… here we go,” I mutter to my friends.

Patrick places his hand on my knee to calm me.

Let’s see what he’s up to.

No good.  We should stop him now.

We have to talk to Oliver and handle this professionally.

Whatever.

Patrick squeezes my knee and I just scowl as Christian asks his “assistant Jayne” to join him on the stage.

I fiercely want to protect her like a momma bear protecting her cub.  I can’t, though.  Our team agreed to see how this plays out first.

“Jayne and I will attempt to communicate with the spirits using this device,” Christian announces to the room of one hundred listeners.

I see that Jayne’s small fingers are trembling as she touches the planchette.  Christian’s hands join on the item, as well.  The cameraman moves forward, kneeling in the front to, no doubt, get a good close zoom shot.

Head tipped back and eyes closed, Christian asks out, “What is your name?”

The planchette slides across the glossy MDF board—damn Celia and her information overload!—with Jayne calling out the letters.

“D.  O.  J.  O.”  She gasps roughly at the last one.

Christian smiles.  “Ahh… my old friend, Dojo.  You are here with us tonight after all.  Come forward and be heard.”

“I can’t take this anymore,” I say firmly.  Patrick tries to hold me in my seat, however, the adrenalin is flowing through me like a raging river and I break free.  I charge down the middle aisle, unnoticed.  That is, until I scream out, “You’re a fraud!”

Every head in the place turns to me.  I feel a hundred sets of eyes on me, including the shocked ones of Oliver Bates on the front row.

Christian merely sneers at me.  “Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Moorehead?”

Teeth gritted, I say once again, “You.  Are.  A.  Fraud, Christian.  Or should I call you Andrew Christian MacLeod!”

The fake-and-bake tan of Christian’s fades on his ashen face.  He levels his stare at me and I can almost see the smoke coming from his ears over his instant anger and irritation at me.  He knows I’m on to him, so let the real show begin.

“You’re taking advantage of these people who are grieving the loss of loved ones.  You’re preying on their emotions and charging them for false hopes and information.”

I move up the aisle to gasps of horror and a few tears.  Still, I have to do what I have to do.  “Admit it,
Andrew MacLeod
, you and your family made up this alleged Dojo Disturbance just so you can get an international tour and your own television show.”

Christian’s mouth literally drops open.  Jayne’s does too as the Ouija board falls to the stage.

Oliver stands to head me off.  “Kendall, this isn’t the place—”

“Yes it is!  Shame on you, Oliver, for encouraging this.  He’s nothing but an imposter.”

Christian screams out, “Security!”

Oliver rushes over to Christian and Jayne and sweeps them away back stage.

Before I know what’s happening, two large men in black suits move in, take me by the arms, and drag me out of the ballroom.

“Patrick!  Help me!”

 *~*~*

I’m unceremoniously shoved into the expansive suite where Oliver, Christian, and Jayne are waiting for me.

Immediately, Patrick and our friends spill into the room to defend my honor.  “Kendall, you’re not hurt, are you?” Patrick asks.

I rub my arm where one of the gorillas manhandled me.  “I’m okay.”

Oliver is anything but fine.  From the bulge of the vein at his temple and his red face, I’d say he’s fuming.  He lifts his hand and for a split second, I actually think he’s going to take a whack at me for ruining this TV show that he and Christian have been working on.

He surprises me, though, by pointing his wrath at the Scottish teen.  “This is all true, isn’t it?”

I slump against a nearby chair in relief.

Christian advances.  “She’s poisoned you against me.  She’s turned you all against me.”

Celia snorts.  “Dude, I never liked you.”

“Me, either,” Jason adds.

Taylor and Patrick shake their heads and Becca laughs.  “I just got here and I think you’re a piece of crap.”

Christian is livid.  He knocks over the lamp on the table next to the couch.  “You’ve ruined everything!”

“No, Christian.  You’ve done it to yourself and you tried to drag us all down with you,” I say.  “Especially Oliver, who put his trust in you.”

Oliver stands aside rubbing his head.  His eyes roll back into his head and I know his psychic abilities are taking over.  “I didn’t want to see this.  I could have seen it, but I didn’t.”

“Tell him, Christian,” I say sternly.

He runs his hands through his perfectly coifed and gelled hair.  “I need the money.  My family’s bad off.  I just picked up where my grandfather left off.  He did all of the research on the Ouija boards that came from the same trees in Germany.  Grandfather said if he could perpetuate the myth that all of these boards together were some sort of portal that he could pass himself off as the only person on the planet who could save people from this evil, demonic activity.  He died trying and never succeeded.  But he didn’t have the Internet and connections and television like I have.”  He spins to face me.  “And I could have done it, if it weren’t for you!”

I feel that Christian’s about to dive at me.  However, Jayne’s tears stop him.

“I believed in you, Christian,” she says in a small voice.

Christian turns to Jayne and growls at her.  “You can still believe in me.  I’m the same person.  I still have powers.”

She circles her hands and throws him off of her with the strength of ten men.  As her tears gush, she screams out at him.  “You were my hero and all you did was manipulate me and everyone else.  All of those people in your gallery.  Those were simply lies.  Those people looked to you for guidance and you betrayed them all for fame and fortune.”

Rage overcomes Christian and he shouts gutturally like a banshee gone mad.  “Ahhhh!  Grow up!  All of you!”  He swings his arm again; this time knocking off a blue vase from the side table.  It flies three feet and shatters when it hits the hotel room wall.  Taylor, who’s capturing all of this on her video phone, has to jump out of the way to avoid the shards of china.

“Christian, stop!” Oliver orders.

But the fraud isn’t listening, and moves to the desk chair, picking it up over his head and smashing it to the ground.  Then he goes to the flat panel TV and wrenches it off the dresser.  Jason and Patrick rush forward to stop him.  He wrestles them off him and shoves Jason down.  Horror eats at me seeing muscular, athletic Jason Tillson knocked on his arse by the smaller Christian.  Patrick tries to capture Christian’s arms, but he twists out of reach and dives over to the nearby king sized bed where his bag sits.

He rummages through the bag and dumps out six, seven, eight Ouija boards, lining them all up on the mattress.

“What are you doing, Christian?” Oliver asks.

“Stay away!”

“Christian, you’ve lost it,” I yell.

“You’re going to be sorry.  All of you!  I am a messenger.  I can conjure up this spirit to smite you all.”

“Smite?” Patrick says mockingly.

Christian tips his head back as he places his fingertips on two of the boards.  “Dojo!  Hear my cry!  Come to me.  Help me defeat my enemies.  Bow to my commands, Dojo!”

I shake terribly from the fear of the situation.  Yet, I bravely step forward.  “Christian, there’s no such thing as Dojo.  Stop this right now.  You need help.”

He glares right at me and I swear his pupils are red, glowing with hatred for me.  He speaks to me slowly and distinctly in a very deep, growling voice. “
You
are the one who is going to need help.”

“Who’s that talking?” Celia asks, stepping away.

Oliver breathes deeply.  “Christian.  Stop this right now.  You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Christian laughs hysterically, long and hard, until he begins to cough.  It’s as though he’s choking, grappling for a good, strong breath.

Jayne hurries to his side, still crying something fierce.  “Christian, Oliver’s right.  Please stop!”