Ghost Walking (A Maggie York Paranormal Mystery Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Ally Shields
Tags: Paranormal & Fantasy
was her replacement, huh? Arrogant SOB. If she could have had just a few more minutes at the crime scene… She sighed. Not that she wouldn’t have thrown him out if their roles had been reversed. Maybe it was his blunt manner—or more likely those eyes that saw too much. She shouldn’t have let him get to her like that. She’d already wasted too much time reliving their conversation and the things she should have said.
Stretching her shoulders to relax her tense muscles, Maggie turned into the public park on Rampart Street. She scanned the crowd strolling the paths or seated on benches and searched for a woman who fit the sparse description she’d been given—curly gray hair, flowered shirt. Maggie had chosen the location, refusing to visit Dalia’s home or let her near her own apartment. Too much like acknowledging the dubious connection before she had proof this wasn’t some kind of scam.
A woman waved both hands at her. Maggie switched direction and studied her alleged relative. Older, yes, and the flowered shirt was there, but not the matronly figure she’d expected. Skinny jeans flattered a sixty-year-old body that had retained its fitness.
“I’m pleased to see you, Maggie,” Dalia said, giving her a ready smile. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“Sorry if I seemed rude before.”
The woman’s eyes lit with humor. “No more than I expected…calling you out of the blue like that, revealing a heritage you knew nothing about. Shall we sit?” Dalia pointed toward an open bench.
“If you like.” Maggie chose the far end of the five-foot bench, angling her body so she could watch the older woman’s face. “Why wouldn’t my mother have told me about this family history? She must not have believed in it.”
“To the contrary. She moved from New Orleans to avoid it.”
Dalia’s frank words hung on the air. They might explain a lot—why her mother never talked about New Orleans or their relatives, why they’d never come back for visits, and why her mother was so upset when Maggie took the job with the NOPD.
“I don’t understand why she’d need to do that. What exactly is the it we’re talking about?”
Dalia gave her a rueful look. “There’s no easy answer. I hope you’ll be patient and listen until I’m finished.”
“I’m here, aren’t I? And I have a couple of hours.” Maggie heard the challenge in her tone, but she didn’t try to soften it.
“Then let’s get started.” Dalia set a large bag between them. “Our family has lived in this area since the early 1700s, long enough to respect the old ways. Current New Orleans witchcraft…” She lifted a finger when Maggie opened her mouth to protest. “Not yet.”
Maggie crossed her arms and subsided.
“As I started to say,” Dalia continued, “modern witchcraft is a hodge-podge of voodoo, hoodoo, traditional European craft, and various other beliefs and practices. But true Louisiana magic is more intuitive and relies on innate abilities more than ritual.” She gestured toward the bag. “Look inside.”
Maggie pulled the top open with one hand. Candles, bottles of oil, crystals, small bundles of dried herbs. Everything but a pointy hat and a broom. “So?”
“These are useful for spellcasting, blessings, and as focal points for many spiritual rituals, but they’re only things. Real magic is here.” She laid a hand over her heart. “It’s a gift fostered by belief and acceptance.”
“That rules me out then.”
“Sometimes a gift cannot be denied.”
“Gift? Not exactly how I’d put it.” Maggie stifled a flash of annoyance and clamped her lips tight. If her recent experiences were any part of it, a curse would be more accurate, but she wasn’t ready to discuss her own issues.
Dalia cocked her head, her expression sympathetic. “I’d heard you’d had…problems. It’s why I called.”
“Just who are you?” Maggie demanded. “You said you’re related, and you’ve implied you knew my
Stretching her shoulders to relax her tense muscles, Maggie turned into the public park on Rampart Street. She scanned the crowd strolling the paths or seated on benches and searched for a woman who fit the sparse description she’d been given—curly gray hair, flowered shirt. Maggie had chosen the location, refusing to visit Dalia’s home or let her near her own apartment. Too much like acknowledging the dubious connection before she had proof this wasn’t some kind of scam.
A woman waved both hands at her. Maggie switched direction and studied her alleged relative. Older, yes, and the flowered shirt was there, but not the matronly figure she’d expected. Skinny jeans flattered a sixty-year-old body that had retained its fitness.
“I’m pleased to see you, Maggie,” Dalia said, giving her a ready smile. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“Sorry if I seemed rude before.”
The woman’s eyes lit with humor. “No more than I expected…calling you out of the blue like that, revealing a heritage you knew nothing about. Shall we sit?” Dalia pointed toward an open bench.
“If you like.” Maggie chose the far end of the five-foot bench, angling her body so she could watch the older woman’s face. “Why wouldn’t my mother have told me about this family history? She must not have believed in it.”
“To the contrary. She moved from New Orleans to avoid it.”
Dalia’s frank words hung on the air. They might explain a lot—why her mother never talked about New Orleans or their relatives, why they’d never come back for visits, and why her mother was so upset when Maggie took the job with the NOPD.
“I don’t understand why she’d need to do that. What exactly is the it we’re talking about?”
Dalia gave her a rueful look. “There’s no easy answer. I hope you’ll be patient and listen until I’m finished.”
“I’m here, aren’t I? And I have a couple of hours.” Maggie heard the challenge in her tone, but she didn’t try to soften it.
“Then let’s get started.” Dalia set a large bag between them. “Our family has lived in this area since the early 1700s, long enough to respect the old ways. Current New Orleans witchcraft…” She lifted a finger when Maggie opened her mouth to protest. “Not yet.”
Maggie crossed her arms and subsided.
“As I started to say,” Dalia continued, “modern witchcraft is a hodge-podge of voodoo, hoodoo, traditional European craft, and various other beliefs and practices. But true Louisiana magic is more intuitive and relies on innate abilities more than ritual.” She gestured toward the bag. “Look inside.”
Maggie pulled the top open with one hand. Candles, bottles of oil, crystals, small bundles of dried herbs. Everything but a pointy hat and a broom. “So?”
“These are useful for spellcasting, blessings, and as focal points for many spiritual rituals, but they’re only things. Real magic is here.” She laid a hand over her heart. “It’s a gift fostered by belief and acceptance.”
“That rules me out then.”
“Sometimes a gift cannot be denied.”
“Gift? Not exactly how I’d put it.” Maggie stifled a flash of annoyance and clamped her lips tight. If her recent experiences were any part of it, a curse would be more accurate, but she wasn’t ready to discuss her own issues.
Dalia cocked her head, her expression sympathetic. “I’d heard you’d had…problems. It’s why I called.”
“Just who are you?” Maggie demanded. “You said you’re related, and you’ve implied you knew my