A Gift of Ghosts (Tassamara) (9 page)

Akira raised her eyebrows at Max, encouraging him to go on, and
he continued. “My wife was the driving force behind General Directions. The
company is primarily a holding company. We buy and sell shares of other
companies, and sometimes pick up useful patents. As I’m sure you can imagine,
foreknowledge is an asset when it comes to dabbling in investments.”

“Shouldn’t that be illegal?” Akira was fascinated. It had never
occurred to her to look for such a pragmatic use for her own quirk. Not that
ghosts were likely to be useful when it came to buying stocks, but they could
have been helpful in other ways, she supposed. Maybe?

“Oh, probably,” Max agreed. “But I wouldn’t want to be the
politician trying to get the law passed.”

“Or the lawyer trying to prosecute,” Zane said. “It’s tough
to prove. Turns out that knowing the future looks a lot like insider trading
from the outside, at least to the SEC, so we’ve had some experience.”

Max waved his hand, as if brushing away the SEC. “We’ve
worked all that out.”

Akira was still trying to put the pieces together. “If it’s a
holding company, why do you have research labs?” she asked. The labs she’d seen
on her first tour were impressively well-stocked and the scanner that Nat had
used earlier in the day had to be a multi-million dollar piece of equipment.
That didn’t fit the picture of a company that only invested in other companies.

“I like research,” Max answered, as if that was all that
needed to be said.

“Got to spend the money on something,” Zane murmured to
Akira. “Mom always spent it on making more of it, but Dad uses part of the
profits for his interests.”

“We’ve got some fascinating projects underway. Some, of
course, explore our, well, quirks, if you will, but we’ve funded some
biochemical research that’s quite amazing. And there’s a quantum teleportation
project that you might be interested in.” Max sounded eager to share, and Akira
heard the words with a surge of curiosity. Quirks?

“You’re researching psychic phenomena?” she asked, not sure
how she felt about that. Academically, of course, it was disastrous. Her one
speculative paragraph had led to stern words from her department head, whispers
in the staff room, mocking jokes from her colleagues, and a seeming end to her
academic career.

“I hire people with gifts,” Max said. “Or interesting ideas.
And then see what they do. Often that means researching the phenomena that
affect them directly.”

Akira didn’t really know much about business, having spent
her life in academia, but Max’s tactics sounded risky to her. Maybe he really
could see the future: the company might need the advantage just to survive.

“Ah, finally,” Zane said, as a waitress approached, balancing
three plates of food.

“Here you go.” The teenage waitress had short blonde curls
and way too much eye make-up, but she smiled brightly as she placed the plates
on the table, one in front of each of them. Akira’s held a cheeseburger, thick
and juicy, the lettuce green, the tomato lushly red, and fries that were still
sizzling. But she hadn’t ordered a cheeseburger. In fact, she hadn’t ordered
anything.

“What is this?” Zane was looking at his plate with an
expression of mild dismay.

“I dunno. I’ve never seen it before.” The waitress glanced
over her shoulder at the open kitchen and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Do
you want me to take it back? Maggie’ll be madder ‘n heck.”

“I think maybe you got the plates wrong,” Max said to the
waitress, not unkindly, as he picked up his fork. His plate held grilled salmon
and broccoli, Akira noted.

“Do you want this?” Zane asked Akira, his doubt obvious.

Akira looked at Zane’s food: golden rice sprinkled with
chunks of cauliflower, carrots, green beans, and potatoes, almonds and raisins.
“It’s vegetable biryani,” she said with relief. “And yes, I want it.” As she
passed her plate over to Zane and he slid his rice dish along the table to her,
she asked Max, “How did you know that?”

“Know what?” he asked, taking a bite of salmon.

“Know what I’d want to eat.” Akira was pragmatic about food:
she ate what was put in front of her. But when she cooked for herself, she
mostly ate vegetarian. Had Max had her investigated? Or was this his foresight
in action?

“Oh, I didn’t,” he replied, as she began to eat. “I ordered
three specials when I came in. Maggie decides what they’ll be.”

“Maggie?”

“It’s her place,” Max replied. “She took it over six, maybe
seven years ago. Used to be a diner—your basic fried eggs and bacon for
breakfast, meatloaf and potatoes for dinner. Not a bad place but nothing
special. Maggie shook it up a bit.”

The biryani was terrific, the rice soft, the spice with the
perfect level of kick. Akira ate it thoughtfully. Vegetable biryani, in the middle
of nowhere, Florida. For that matter, vegetarian food, in the middle of nowhere,
Florida. And Max was psychic. And Tassamara was a town of psychics.

“No menus?” she finally asked.

“For visitors, yeah,” Zane answered.

She nodded, taking that in. She was beginning to understand
what other people must feel like when she told them she could see ghosts. There
was doubt, and then a cautious interest, and then total confusion.

“So the town. . .”

“Attracts people with gifts, yes.” Max nodded. “We look for
them, too, and find them and bring them here, but some show up on their own.”

Akira looked around the restaurant. She wondered how many of
the people in it were like her. Not that they could see ghosts, of course: Max
wouldn’t have been looking for a medium for so long if mediums were easily
found. But keepers of secrets that most of the world scoffed at?

“Vampires? Werewolves? Ectoplasmic blobs?” she finally asked.

Max looked mystified by the question, but Zane grinned. “No,
no, and you’d probably know better on the last. Although I should probably say,
not to the best of our knowledge. We’ve never met any.”

Akira ate another bite of rice. Could this be an elaborate
practical joke? “You realize this is a little tough to believe.”

“Zane’s best at providing proof,” Max replied readily.

Akira glanced at Zane. He was psychic, too? That was
unexpected. “Can you tell me—um—what I’m going to eat for breakfast tomorrow
morning?”

“Yogurt,” he replied without hesitation and then chuckled at
the look on her face. “Did I get it right?”

“Yes,” she replied, but something about the laugh in his eyes
was making her feel more defensive than convinced.

Max shook his head. “You give psychics a bad name, Zane.” He
sighed. “That was a cold read. Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know anything
about the future.”

“Rabbit food, California girl, easy guess,” Zane agreed. He
was watching Akira and she shifted under his gaze. His laugh, the warmth in his
look—that tingle was back and more inappropriate than ever. But she could feel
her heart picking up its pace a little, her pulse accelerating.

“A cold read?” Akira asked, pulling her eyes away from Zane
with an effort, and looking at Max.

“There are a lot more fake psychics in the world than real
ones. A cold read is when a pretender makes likely guesses and uses your
responses to improve further guesses. Zane’s got a gift but it’s not
precognition.”

“I find things,” Zane told her. “Lost anything recently?”

“No.” Akira thought for a moment. “But most of my belongings
are on a truck somewhere. Can you tell me where it is?”

He nodded, and held out his hand to her, palm up. She looked
at it and raised her eyebrows questioningly. “It’s easier if I’m touching you,”
he explained.

Touching her? That seemed like a bad idea. But Akira placed
her hand on his, and as his warm fingers closed around hers, she tried hard to
ignore the melting feeling that was starting in her belly. His eyes were closed
and she watched him in fascination, wondering what he felt, what was happening
inside his head.

And then his eyelids flickered open and his eyes caught hers,
the pupils dark and dilated in the gray-blue, and for just a moment he was
leaning toward her—and then, hastily, he dropped her hand and pulled back and
said, with a slight rasp to his voice, “Outside Jacksonville. The truck will
get here tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? It could be a guess. But she’d find out soon.

Akira paced across the porch.

If only she’d gotten here before the movers. But they’d
arrived too early. She had only the loosest grasp on Florida geography, but Zane
could have been right the evening before, when he’d said her belongings were
outside Jacksonville. Either way, the moving company had made good time. She’d
gotten the call at the hotel and by the time she arranged for a ride to the
house, they were here. Unfortunately, that meant she’d had no chance to
introduce herself to the ghosts.

She’d been anxious enough about those introductions. It had
seemed so simple when she’d made the decision to rent the house. The turret
room, the lovely backyard, Rose’s enthusiasm, Dillon . . . it all added up to a
worthwhile risk. But she’d imagined herself starting by calmly sitting down in
the kitchen, talking to the ghostly inhabitants, setting some ground rules,
establishing a few guidelines for how they could all live together. If the
ghosts were typical, they’d have questions for her—questions that she probably
couldn’t answer—and maybe a few tasks that they hoped she’d do. As long as no
relatives were involved, she didn’t mind running a few ghostly errands.

Instead, she was forced to try to pretend she couldn’t hear
Rose’s running commentary as the movers carried her belongings into the house.

“Yes, that goes into this front room.” Akira directed the
movers carrying her sofa up the front steps.

“Ooh, those muscles are dreamy.” Rose jumped onto the piece
of moving furniture and draped herself over it, eying the young man in a tight t-shirt
who was carrying the front end. “You’re just my type. I wonder if you like to
dance. I’d love to go dancing with you.” As the movers placed the sofa, Rose
slid up the seat to the end, until the man lifting it gave a convulsive shiver.

“Cold in here,” he said to the other mover.

Akira chewed on her lower lip, as Rose sighed, and collapsed
back onto the sofa melodramatically, before springing to her feet again and
following the movers back outside.

“Now that’s a pretty chair,” Rose said about a floral-patterned
wing-back chair the mover was pulling out of the truck. “Awfully old-fashioned,
though. I guess you inherited all your furniture. You don’t look like the
flowery type, bless your heart. I mean, those clothes. And that lipstick. No, I’m
thinking that was your grandma’s chair.”

With an effort, Akira kept from looking down at her clothes.
Jeans and a t-shirt seemed like a practical choice to her. And what was wrong
with her lipstick?

“Ooh and speaking of dreamy.” Rose clasped both hands
together under her chin, and took a deep appreciative breath. Akira followed
her gaze and tried not to smile. The black Taurus was parked behind the moving
van and Zane was stepping out. Dreamy, huh?

“He can visit us any day,” Rose continued. “Look at that
hair. I just want to run my fingers through it.” It was nice hair, Akira agreed
inwardly—dark and wavy, with coppery glints in the sunlight.

After exchanging a few words with the movers who were
offloading boxes, Zane headed up the walkway. Spotting Akira on the porch, he
grinned at her.

Dropping her hands, Rose clutched the porch post. “Oh, and
that smile,” she squealed. Akira couldn’t resist finally letting her own smile
break free. Back at the Taurus, Dillon hovered uncertainly next to the car
door, looking up at her. She nodded and tilted her head, a slight gesture to
tell him to come on in.

“Jacksonville yesterday evening,” Zane drawled as he
approached. “You convinced?”

“Not exactly,” she answered, stuffing her hands into the
front pockets of her jeans and shrugging her shoulders. “Could have been a
lucky guess.”

“Huh. A skeptic. Not what I would have expected.”

“Why? Just because—” Akira stumbled to a halt as the movers
walked toward them.

“Television in the living room, ma’am?” one of them asked
her.

“No, no,” she said hastily. “Put that upstairs, in the
bedroom right off the top of the steps. Oh, and hey, bring that flowered chair
up there, too, please.”

“Oh, yay, a television in my bedroom! And the chair? But that’s—the
bedroom? My bedroom?” Rose was staring at Akira, and Akira couldn’t resist
widening her eyes at her.

“Can you see me?” Rose’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Can you
hear me?”

Akira looked at Dillon, and raised her eyebrows, trying to
signal to him to explain to Rose, but he was staring at Rose, mouth agape.
Akira looked back at Rose. Oh. Oops.

“How old was Dillon?” she asked Zane.

“When he—?” Zane started and then answered, “Fifteen. Why?”