The Wish Collector
Page 36

As he approached her, John’s expression was so solemn it caused Angelina’s heart to contract and nerves to flutter in her belly.
He took her face in his large hands and for a moment he simply gazed at her. She looked back at him, searching his eyes and finding the love always present in his gaze.
She released a pent-up breath. Whatever it was would be fine. As long as he still loved her, she could endure anything else.
“I’m going to war, Angelina.”
A lump formed immediately in her throat, and she turned away, his hands dropping from her face as she leaned against the wall.
“When?” she choked.
“I leave day after tomorrow.”
Her heart squeezed painfully and she brought a hand to it. “Day after tomorrow? Why, John?”
He turned away, pacing as he ran a hand through his hair. “The Confederacy needs me.” He said it quickly, his tone making the hairs on the back of Angelina’s neck rise. His tone was different, one she’d never heard before. She had the vague notion he was lying to her, or leaving something out, and she didn’t know why she felt that, but she did.
He turned back to her. “This war, Angelina, it could change everything. It could free you.” The sentence was uttered on a burst of breath and then his mouth settled into a thin line as a muscle jumped in his jaw.
Angelina stared at him for a moment. This war that John had spoken of for months had all seemed so unreal, so distant and disconnected from her world. But she suddenly realized that that would not be the case for long.
“But, John, you’ll be fighting for the South.” Fighting against the side that would see her free, that would see her mama free, and all those men and women and children who came back from the fields sweaty and dirty and without hope day after day after day.
John let out a grunt of frustration. “I know. It’s the way it has to be.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he grasped her upper arms in his hands, holding on to her as though she might disappear at any moment if not for his strong grip. “It seems wrong. Damn it, Angelina, it feels wrong. But I . . . I have to. I’m sorry.”
Hurt trickled through her. She couldn’t help it. She knew it wasn’t his fault, knew he was only doing his job as a soldier, following orders delivered by other men with other ideas. That’s how war worked, wasn’t it?
But the knowledge that he would be fighting against her freedom was an arrow to her soul. Despite having no choice, the knowledge that his weapon would be aimed at the hearts of men who would free her if they could, crushed her on a level that defied logic or reason.
“I know,” she breathed. Because she did, even if she couldn’t feel it.
“Listen to me, Angelina. Keep your head down. Don’t take any risks. Just do as you’re supposed to do until this war is over.”
She wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. What did he know about keeping her head down? She’d been raised to keep her head down—born to do so maybe, although that thought was too hopeless to consider—and everything else along with it. It was all she knew. All she’d done her whole life . . . until him.
And now he was the one telling her not to take any risks. That would be easy, wouldn’t it, now that he was leaving? The thought should have brought her relief—there would be no more hiding and lying and sneaking around.
And maybe the idea of him telling her to keep her head down should have made her angry. But her feelings were all over the place, and the only one she could identify was anguish.
She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want a war—especially one the South might win. She just wanted to love him and feel loved in return. Why was that too much to ask? Why must the color of one’s skin determine destiny? Determine wars. Separation. How did the color of one’s skin create such distinction when no one asked to be born what he or she was? Surely God on High hadn’t intended that. Had He?
“Kiss me, John.”
His gaze moved over her face for a bated breath, hot, fierce as if he was memorizing her features one by one. Then his mouth was on hers, demanding, urgent, and she had the sense that time was ticking . . . ticking, because of course it was.
He brought her to the floor, his hands moving under her dress, and something rough dug at her back. It didn’t matter. As long as he was with her, she’d sleep on dirt or rocks or the thorns of a hundred prickly rose bushes.
He entered her body in one smooth thrust. “I love you. I will come back to you, do you hear me?” he breathed, his words punctuated by his pounding hips.
“Promise me,” she gasped, her nails sinking into the damp skin of his back.
“I promise you, Angelina.”
She took his promise inside of her and locked it safely away. It was all she had in the world that was hers and hers alone. Nothing else belonged to her—not her future, not her happiness—not even herself.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Steam rose from a nearby manhole cover as Clara stepped off the curb, glancing both ways before crossing the narrow, deserted street.
This was obviously not the safest of neighborhoods, but Clara was determined to get to the address she’d looked up online, the address of a shop belonging to Fabienne Simoneaux, who advertised herself as a voodoo priestess providing healing and spiritual comfort. It was the small line at the bottom of the ad that had given Clara the most hope: “Descended from a long line of voodoo priestesses.”
Clara had called the number listed on the ad—repeatedly—only to get a message telling her the voicemail connected to that number was full.
So she was headed to the address where she hoped to have better luck. She didn’t know if Fabienne Simoneaux was a distant relative of Sibille, but apparently, there was only one way to find out.
Clara glanced over her shoulder, swearing she’d heard footsteps, but the street behind her was deserted, not a soul in sight.
Despite that the sky was still light, no shadows to fear, a strange bristling at the nape of her neck caused her to shiver, and she unfolded the printout of the ad, double-checking the shop number. It should be right ahead, on the next block. She hurried toward it.
Jonah had warned her not to do this, and realistically, she knew she should be cautious. Bad things happened to women alone in questionable neighborhoods all the time. But that damn ticking feeling was growing louder, more insistent, and she could not sit idly by if there might be information somewhere waiting for her. It simply wasn’t in her nature to hesitate.
She gripped the address in one hand and kept her other hand in her pocket, her fingers curled around the container of pepper spray.
Clara walked past several boarded-up businesses, a Laundromat, a framing shop, and what had once been a deli. Was this one of the neighborhoods still recovering from Hurricane Katrina?
Mr. Baptiste had told her some sections of New Orleans were still struggling to get back on their feet, though the disaster had occurred over a decade before. How awful.
Were any of the shops still open for business? A sinking feeling descended over Clara, right before she spied the one she was looking for, the sign chipped but there. She was even more relieved to see light coming from under the door, even though the windows had been painted over with black paint.
Clara tried the door but it was locked, and so she knocked, putting both hands in her jacket pockets as she waited. She heard footsteps from within and then the door was pulled open to reveal a woman with long, black curly hair and one of the most beautiful faces Clara had ever seen in her life. She was wearing low-slung jeans and a crop top that exposed almost all of her smooth, mocha belly. “Yeah?”
“Hi. Are you Fabienne?”
The woman eyed her. “Who’s asking?”
Clara held out her hand and Fabienne took it suspiciously. “Hi, I’m Clara, and I was hoping you were open for business and I could ask you a couple of questions?”
“Questions about what?”
Clara heard voices in the street and glanced behind her. “May I come in?”
Fabienne glanced over Clara’s shoulder, pressing her lips together before looking back at Clara. She sighed. “Spiritual readings are a hundred and fifty.”
“Oh, I don’t want a read—”