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check out the pyramid mausoleum, built to be the final restin’ place of the Hollywood superstar, Nicolas Cage.”
    The crowd, led by Miles, moved away without me. I knelt to inspect the offerings scattered in the dirt. Candles, flowers, neon-colored strands of Mardi Gras beads, handwritten notes; a variety of trinkets were left by believers in hope that the spirit of Marie Laveau would help rid them of their problems or, possibly, to hurt someone. Entranced, I touched the cool, rough surface of the ancient crypt, lightly tracing the Xs left by those seeking help. From somewhere deep within, Marie’s energy pulled, compelling me to mark three Xs myself. I looked around for something to use, found a fragment of red chalk. Wild gusts of hot air whipped through the graveyard; gunmetal gray clouds gathered overhead, obscuring the rising moon. Chilled to the bone, I shivered in the silent cemetery, as if someone were dancing on my grave. Not sensing the presence behind me, I yelped when a hand grabbed my arm.
    “Just curious, little lady—what did you not understand about getting separated from the group? Remember, dangerous? Bad neighborhood? Not alone? Any of that ring a bell?” Miles seemed genuinely concerned.
    My heart was pounding. “I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t realize everyone had gone,” I stammered, embarrassed.
    “You gave me quite a fright when I realized you weren’t with us,” said Miles, annoyed. “I’m responsible for this group.”
    “I said I was sorry”—shaking his hand away, letting the chalk slip through my fingers. Now I was annoyed.
    “Maybe if you’re up to it after the tour, you can offer a proper apology over coffee?” he flirted.
    “I’ll think about it,” I replied, knowing I wouldn’t have to think too hard. Miles gently took my elbow and guided me safely back to the van.
    Miles began again, “Congo Square, now a part of Louis Armstrong Park, was a Sunday meetin’ place for slaves. Louisiana law forced slave owners to give their slaves a day off and a place to gather. Congo Square was the ‘in’ place to gather for Voodoo and drumming rituals. Sundays at the Square gave the slaves a sense of community and the freedom to practice their beliefs. The Sunday gatherin’s also attracted crowds of curious white folks. Eventually, Sundays at the park grew into a day of performance art and entertainment.
    “Congo Square was also close by Storyville, now the Iberville projects. That’s the neighborhood we just left, over by the cemetery. You may have already heard Storyville was the birthplace of jazz. Many of our jazz greats got their start on Basin Street between Canal Street and Beauregard Square, but that’s a whole other N’awlins tour, the Magical Musical History Tour!” laughed Miles.
    “Our last stop in the French Quarter tonight will be a house of Voodoo magic and medicine. Devotees say that Voodoo is not based on either white magic or black magic, but on spiritual power and the art of healing. That being said, their focus is also on retail power. If you are so inclined, you’ll be able to purchase CDs and videos of haunting Voodoo chants and rituals performed by world-renowned practitioners!” said Miles, bringing the van to a stop in front of the building.
    The rest of the group disembarked, but I stopped to speak to Miles, “Back there, in the cemetery, you lost your accent. What’s up with that?”
    Miles grinned sheepishly. “The stronger the accent, the bigger the tips! I need money for my school books, car insurance, dates, so I ham it up a bit.”
    “A bit? There’s enough ham in you to serve twelve people for Easter dinner!” I laughed. “Maybe you can tell me more over that coffee I owe you?”
    I winked and went down the steps to explore the Voodoo emporium and apothecary.

Chapter Five
    The group was nowhere to be seen. Looking back, I watched Miles in the van checking his cell phone. The streets were empty except for the tour van. The air was