More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Jackson Crow
He’d returned to his old Behavioral Science Unit in D.C. to discover that he was being given a new assignment. His leave of absence, it seemed, was somehow permanent.
His last assignment, despite the excellent work done by him and his colleagues, had ended with three of them being dead. Yet if it hadn’t been for his intuition, two other fellow agents might have died as well. Local police had not responded to the call sent out, and there was no way to blame himself. Naturally, he did.
Angela was about five foot eight and slender, though shapely. Despite her height, she was almost fragile in appearance. She paused for a moment, staring at him with enormous, bright blue eyes that belonged on an anime character.
The woman was a witch. She had been pleasant, serene and completely at ease, certain of herself as she had spoken to the detective. She was certainly beautiful enough with her golden hair and crystal-blue eyes, lithe figure and easy poise.
His eyes, however, were an extremely deep shade of blue—not black at all, as she had first imagined. A strong contrast with his black hair.
she opted for a cabernet.
Though tall enough to stand just an inch or so above most men, he had an easy courteous manner and a slow smile that appeared to enchant everyone around him.
his scotch on the rocks.
“English—well, Scottish, originally, but my mom grew up in London.”
My mom died from cancer eight years ago, my father had a heart attack four weeks later.”
I like family. You? What is your feeling for your brother?”
“I adore him. My turn. Siblings?” “No.”
“You two were together for years,” he commented. “Five, to be exact.”
He talked about his love for the city; he had worked here for nearly a year when he had first joined the bureau.
“I went to Tulane.
“And majored in history and philosophy,”
“I spent six years in college. I liked it. I might have stayed a college student all my life, but it doesn’t pay the bills. World religions, history and psychology.”
a young man with a guitar case strung over his shoulder and an overnight bag in his hand.
I’m Jake Mallory. I know it’s kind of early, but I grew up in the Garden District, and I was awake—and here I am.”
Jake Mallory was tall, probably half an inch short of his own height. He had auburn, slightly long hair, an angular, well-defined face and light green eyes. His build was more lanky than bulky, but he looked as if he was about to play guitar on the streets for money. It wasn’t that he looked unkempt; he was fastidious and probably extremely attractive to young women. He just didn’t have the look of someone about to become part of an elite investigation unit.
Jake was a local boy by birth; he’d also gone to school here, and gotten a music degree from Yale. He’d returned to New Orleans and worked with a musicians’ coalition in the city.
Adam had apparently found him fascinating because of his ability to find people. He’d been responsible for finding both survivors and those who had not survived after the summer of storms wrought their havoc on the city and its residents.
they’d been together five years.
“I grew up in Virginia,
“Friends of mine almost went insane. Their five-year-old was kidnapped, and two boys had been kidnapped right before. One’s body had been found. I had a dream about a child holding my hand, taking me down into an area of bayou near Slidell. I found the body of the second. And it was amazing, because when I found it, I also found the old swamp house where they were keeping my friends’ little boy. He survived. I was so grateful, but the experience shook me up—that was for certain. But I didn’t dwell on it. Knowing things, seeing events and people—it isn’t always good. Some people turn away from
...more
“I get feelings that seem almost like a divining rod—and yes, I get the dreams. I—I saw something when my parents were killed in a plane crash. I saw them walking toward the light, along with a lot of other people. The therapist who worked with me afterward told me that I saw what I needed to see in order to be able to bear the grief.”
“Well, I do know people who see them—ghosts—and see them easily.”
Nikki and Brent have three small children now. I’m sure Adam would have liked to have them on a team, but they’re busy parents. I don’t believe they would work away from the city, not with their children growing up. They have their schools, their church, their sports teams…they’re good people, though. I met Adam through them, actually…”
“And I’m pretty good at picking up after myself. I can cook, too,” he assured them.
Whitney Tremont, had just rung the bell. She’d been born and bred in New Orleans just like Jake, but with the difference that Jake came from an “English” background and Whitney was pure Creole. She was, he thought, a compelling little bundle of energy. She was little, no more than five-two or five-three, slim, with curly hair and hazel eyes, and skin the color of amber. She had a smile that was infectious, and a soft, sweet voice. They had sent him another child.
No, there was a keen intelligence in her eyes. She had been a straight-A off-the-charts student; she had studied ethnicity, religion, philosophy, modern and ancient beliefs, while also receiving her degree in film from NYU. Her maternal great-grandmother was a noted contemporary voodoo priestess, and owned a shop called As You Believe up near Rampart Street. She had helped the local police crack down on a cult of would-be voodoo worshippers who had taken it upon themselves to bastardize the beliefs for the sake of human sacrifice—two young people had died during blood-drinking rituals.
...more
“That’s my brother, Tyler, over there.
Tyler was as tall as his sister was short, ranging a good foot over her head. He was as pleasant with the others as if he had been leaving his sister at summer camp, but when he was actually ready to leave, he gave her a huge hug and said seriously, “You be careful, and you don’t take any chances, and you don’t go getting your nose in where it shouldn’t be.” “I’m all grown up now, Tyler,” she reminded him, but she hugged him in return. “She has a tendency to rush in—right into people who have guns,” he said.
A tall, slender woman of African descent stood there as straight as a ramrod, and as ancient as one.
“I am Mama Matisse. Whitney didn’t tell you that she asked me to come?” the woman asked. “Whitney, child! I don’t come where I’m not invited!”
