“Cemetery day!” she announces, the way a normal person might say, “We’re going to Disneyland!”

I look from Mom to Dad, a biscuit halfway to my mouth, waiting for one of them to explain.

Dad clears his throat. “As I mentioned, there are forty-two cemeteries in the city of New Orleans.”

“That seems excessive,” says Jacob.

“Please tell me we’re not going to all forty-two of them,” I say.

“Goodness, no,” Dad answers, “that would be impractical.”

“It would be a fun challenge,” says Mom, her face falling a little, “but no, we simply don’t have the time.”

“We are, however, going to six of them,” says Dad, as if six is a perfectly ordinary number of cemeteries. He ticks them off on his fingers. “There’s St. Louis Number One, St. Louis Number Two, St. Louis Number Three …”

“Somebody really dropped the ball on naming,” mutters Jacob.

“Lafayette, and Metairie—” continues Dad.

“And St. Roch!” adds Mom, sounding giddy.

“What’s so special about St. Roch?” I ask, but she only squeezes my arm and says, “Oh, you’ll see.”

Jacob and I exchange a look. Mom’s excitement is always a sign of trouble. And truth be told, I’m not in the mood for any surprises.

But Lara warned us to stay together, and cemeteries are usually pretty safe, as far as spirits go.

It can’t be worse than the séance.

We meet up with Lucas and the film crew in Jackson Square. The air is sticky again today, but the sun has been blotted out by clouds, the low, dark kind that warn of storms.

“Is it always this hot?” I ask Jenna and Adan while Mom and Dad chat with Lucas about the day’s schedule.

“Only in June,” says Jenna. “And July. And August.”

“And May,” says Adan.

Jenna nods. “And September,” she adds. “And sometimes April and October. But March is pretty nice!”

I try to laugh, but I feel like I’m melting.

I look around. The square is beginning to feel almost familiar, with its clashing music, its buskers and tourists. Despite the brewing weather, people linger all around, selling jewelry—pendants and charms designed to ward off evil or bring good luck.

“Hey, you.”

The voice comes from a young white woman in a lawn chair, perched beneath a blue-and-pink umbrella. At first I assume she’s talking to someone else, but she looks right at me, and hooks her finger.

“Come here,” she says.

I’ve heard my fair share of fairy tales; I know you’re not supposed to go with strangers—especially when you’re being hunted by a supernatural force. But she’s just sitting there, in the open. And as far as I can tell, she’s perfectly human.

I glance over at my parents, deep in conversation with the crew, and then I drift toward her, Jacob on my heels.

The woman’s hair is cut in a violet bob and she has freckled skin. There’s a fold-up table at her knees, with a large deck of cards facedown on top.