Free Saved by the Spell (Anna Wolfe Series, Book #2) by Casey Keen Page B

with her nerves on edge, it’s impossible to overlook the magnificent remnants of the Victorian era presented before her. Strings of moonlight filter through the lush canopy above, illuminating the milky headstones and monuments in a spooky glow. Shadows slink behind the trees like thieves in the night, taunting Kristy’s fears of the unknown. Marble sculptures of angels guard over the graves of loved ones, mingling in between the overhanging branches of Live Oaks draped in their silvery-gray spirals of Spanish moss. Clusters of azalea bushes, bursting with pink and white flowers, conceal numerous headstones, as nature begins to reclaim what it rightfully owns.
    This cemetery feels emptier than most. Walking between the narrow rows of headstones, Kristy can’t ignore the feeling that she is intruding on a place time has purposely kept hidden. Empty tombstones sit deserted, absent of flowers, statuary or sentiments. It’s a place most people have never set foot in, a small number pass by often, and nearly everyone has forgotten. She kicks the stale dirt under her feet, watching a small cloud of dust rise and settle.
    “Bonaventure Cemetery sure is a creepy-ass place,” Martello points out. “Yet, somehows it’s stunning. Who was this Mr. Bonaventure anyways?”
    “There isn’t a Mr. Bonaventure . It was named after a plantation that stood here years ago. Bonaventure means good fortune ,” Valen answers. “This cemetery was constructed in the Victorian era when people of that time period believed death should be dignified and experienced as a community,” he adds.
    Martello snorts. “Honey, nuttin’ ‘bout death is dignified or fortunate.”
    “You’d be surprised,” Roman retorts. “Okay, this seems like a good spot for Kristy to work her magic.”
    They stop, allowing Kristy to float toward the front of the group. Her eyes immediately skip around the landscape, looking for the smallest ripple.
    So far, nothing.
    She continues scrutinizing the headstones, surprised she isn’t seeing anyone or anything hanging from them. “I don’t see anyone.” Her voice is hushed and careful.
    “Ghosts have a tendency to hide when humans seek them,” Valen answers. “Most of the time, teenagers break in, armed with their Ouija boards and candles, trying to recreate séances,” he shrugs.
    “I thought ghosts thrived on the attention from humans?” Janie asks.
    “They want attention from people who can help them… people like her,” he answers, pointing to Kristy.
    “Or something else could be keeping them away,” Roman interjects firmly.
    Abruptly, the air in the cemetery transforms into something more sinister. Kristy, Janie and Martello huddle against each other like scared puppies. Roman, Valen and Brielle surround them, facing outward into the dark night, waiting. A dense, murky fog lurks on the ground, slithering between the cracked tombstones. The savage harmony of dogs growling and snarling shatters the dense stillness. Eyes dart between the granite stones and pockets of shadows littering the cemetery. An overpowering smell of burning brimstone permeates Janie’s nostrils, making her cringe.
    “Do you guys smell that?” she whispers.
    Everyone nods, fanning their noses. “Yes,” Roman replies sternly. “No one move,” he instructs.
    Valen shifts his weight and Kristy watches his fists ball at his sides. “Hellhounds,” is all he says.
    Martello’s eyes grow as large as saucers. Janie and Kristy cling to one another firmly. “I can’t sees shit!” Martello yells.
    “Martello, keep quiet,” Roman snarls.
    “There’s two to the left, four out in front, and two to the right,” Brielle states.
    “I see them.”
    Kristy never thought fear could be converted into a tangible thing until right now, as she gawks at the hellhounds in front of her. Eight gigantic beasts are standing in formation, glaring at them. Flaming, red eyes soaked in hatred hang under their thick, hooded eyelids. A slimy