The Bone Orchard by Abigail Roux Page B

they both stood so quickly that they disturbed the candle in the center of the table. It flickered and went out.
    Ezra made his way through the maze of tables and diners to the group of gentlemen, reaching them as they were being seated.
    “Nice digs, man,” one of the men was saying. He was black, with dark skin and the accent of the deep bayou. “Glad you’re picking up the tab for this one.”
    “I always pick up your tab,” the man with the journal said. He set the book on the table beside him, and Ezra hurried over to see it. It was worn from years of use and storage. The leather had cracked and faded, and the bottom of the book was bent where it appeared to have sat on a shelf. But it was also newly oiled, as if someone had tried to protect and restore it. His initials were etched in the corner.
    “Is it yours?” Ambrose asked again.
    “It is,” Ezra whispered. He glanced at the man. “He must be a relative of mine. Oh my God, Ambrose.”
    Ambrose snaked a hand around his shoulders, patting him in support. Ezra didn’t know how to feel, looking at a man who could possibly have the same blood flowing through his veins. The great-great-grandson of Ezra’s brother—he had to be.
    “He probably found you through that journal of yours, Ez.” Ambrose let go of Ezra and reached to poke at the journal. His finger waved through it. “He’s here looking for you, he has to be. Trying to connect with his ancestors. That’s awful nice, this day and age.”
    Warmth and joy filled Ezra as he gazed at the man. Ambrose had to be right. This man was here with his journal. There was no other reason to think he might have walked into this hotel, the oldest hotel in the city, than to feel closer to Ezra, to be seeking information. The fact that a man born generations after Ezra had died—a hundred years after anyone had told tales of his life—was here with his journal made tears prick at his eyes.
    He reached for the journal, dragging his fingers across it. It was solid under his skin. He pushed it toward the edge of the table, hoping to surreptitiously make it fall so he could catch a glimpse at some of the pages. It reached the edge and teetered, then Ezra gave it a tiny poke and it plummeted toward the floor. But the man reacted with lightning speed. He must’ve seen it fall in his peripheral vision and reached out, catching the journal in his palm without ever even turning his head.
    Ezra stepped back, wide-eyed. He’d only ever seen Ambrose move so fast. He and Ambrose shared a look. They knew what that meant. This man, whoever he was, had lived a life where his reaction time meant life or death. By the way he carried himself, Ezra was willing to guess he was in the military, or at the very least a member of law enforcement. Ezra felt inexplicably proud of that. This was his family’s legacy, and he seemed like a fine young man.
    “Nice catch,” one of the men said, deadpan. He was a big man with auburn hair and striking green eyes. “Ghosts are after you already, Longjohns.”
    “Funny.” Ezra’s descendant frowned at the journal, swiping his fingers over it in a gesture of respect. He closed it and carefully placed it back on the table, further from the edge.
    “So Owen, what exactly are you looking for here?” another man asked. He was shorter, with brown hair and changeable eyes that reminded Ezra of the silver in Ambrose’s eyes when he’d been a ghost and Ezra was still alive.
    “Owen,” Ezra whispered. “That was my father’s name. He’s named for my father.”
    Ambrose bent close, putting his face in front of Owen’s. “His eyes are kind of brown. Otherwise he looks quite like you. Weird.”
    “I just want to find out what happened to him, you know?” Owen was saying, oblivious to Ambrose in his face. “His journal talks about this guy, Jennings, being hanged. But then he says the murders started up again, and he claims it’s Jennings. He writes it down like there’s no question,