“Most are for tourists. Voodoo isn’t just about lighting a candle, or buying a trinket. It’s a trade. A matter of give and take. Nothing gained without something sacrificed.”

The tarot card glows in my mind.

Give and take.

No way to win without losing.

The crew has moved on to another grave. Lucas starts toward them, and I follow, before realizing Jacob’s not with me. I look back at Marie Laveau’s tomb, and see him, crouching to examine the offerings left at its base, and I wonder what I’ll have to give up in order to win.

*  *  *

Halfway through St. Louis No. 2, it starts to rain.

A lazy drizzle, little more than mist. I huddle beneath a stone angel, its wings just wide enough to keep me dry, but Jacob doesn’t have to worry about getting wet. He stands on top of a nearby crypt, head tipped back as if enjoying the storm.

The rain falls through him, but I swear, it bends a little around his edges, tracing the lines of his floppy blond hair, his narrow shoulders, his outstretched hands.

I lift my camera and snap a photo, wondering if I’ll catch the outline of a boy, arms spread in the rain.

Jacob notices the camera, and grins, and then he slips, almost loses his footing.

He catches himself, but a shingle comes loose beneath his shoe. It skitters down the roof and crashes to the ground, interrupting one of Mom’s stories.

They all turn toward the sound.

Jacob grimaces. “Sorry!” he calls to people who can’t hear him, and I just shake my head.

I don’t think about the fact that ghosts shouldn’t be able to bend rain or knock shingles off roofs. I don’t think about what happens if he keeps getting stronger. I don’t think about what it means for Jacob, for us. I don’t think about anything but not thinking about it.

And the not thinking is loud enough for Jacob to look at me, and wince.

I’m grateful when it’s time to move on.

We take a cab to St. Louis No. 3 (I wanted to take a horse-drawn carriage, but apparently they don’t go beyond the French Quarter) and from there to Metairie Cemetery, a sprawling graveyard that used to be a racetrack.

If I listen, I can hear the thundering hooves, the rush of air against my back. It takes all my strength not to cross the Veil, just to see the spectral racers on the other side. But it’s easier to resist after Dad says the track was used as a Confederate campsite during the Civil War.

No wonder this place isn’t as quiet.