“Around here, it’s no big deal,” Tom said. “Tourists just think I’m one of the guides.”

“He does it to impress the ladies,” Eammon shot at him and they laughed like there was nothing wrong, but I could feel the energy pouring off the two of them.

I looked from one to the other. “You two are nervous, huh?”

Tom let out a slow breath. “Louis didn’t just stay behind to watch over Luke. This is a night for the dead. That is Louis’s magic. The problem is there is a bit of madness there too. Old vampire blood runs through the necromancers and if the gateway being opened needs a lot of blood, it could literally set him off.”

I nodded as if yes, of course, that made total logical sense. I mean, it did in a very weird way, but there was still part of me that was like whoa, nelly, this was not what I was expecting.

Bonaventure sprawled out in front of us, the large wrought iron gate soundly locked, the tall trees weeping with Spanish moss blowing in the night air.

“Keys, anyone?” I asked my companions.

“We can climb over,” Tom said with more than a little hesitation.

I shook my head. “I’ll pick it.” I grabbed my purse and rummaged around until I found the picks. I settled them into the lock, feeling the tumblers quickly. “They keep it well-greased, makes it easy.”

A satisfying click, and I slid through the now-open gate. “It’s a big cemetery,” I said. “You want to split up?”

I turned to see Eammon smiling. “See, Tom? I told you she was a natural.”

“I wasn’t sure she’d remember her gran’s training,” Tom said. “Her gran’s spell that she put on Breena was something else. Celia told me what she’d done up there in Seattle all those years ago, and I wasn’t sure anything could break that spell.”

Ignoring them both, I started off to the left of the gate, working my way around that edge of the cemetery. Night had fallen, but it wasn’t fully dark, so I didn’t bother with the flashlight. It would also be a terrible idea to alert the demons or whoever of our presence.

“Damn,” I muttered.

A mumbled yell spun me to the right. I hurried, using the tombstones and weeping angels as cover as the yelling grew louder.

No other voices, just the sound of a gagged person attempting to speak. Eric would be gagged; I had no doubt about that. Gagged and trussed up like a turkey for Thanksgiving.

“Shut up, you!” A man’s voice cut through the air, sharp, like the crack of a whip. I shivered and crouched lower against the gravestone to my right. I peeked around it.