Bitter Spirits (4 page)

They hauled one long leg over the side of the bathtub.

“Cold!” Winter shouted, suddenly energized. He attempted to bolt.

“Oh no you don't!” Bo said, giving him a shove.

The giant cried out as he crashed in the tub. A tidal wave of pink water surged over the rim. His great body shivered as water and ice clinked against the sides of the tub.

“Don't drown the man,” Velma said from the doorway. Her dress fluttered around her calves as she strode past Aida with a steaming cup of tea on a saucer. The scent wafting from the liquid was nothing short of repulsive. “You gotta drink this, Winter,” she said, hooking her foot around a three-legged stool to shift it next to the tub. “You gonna go quietly, or am I gonna have to have Manny and Clyde hold you down?”

“Holy shit,” Bo murmured, jerking his head away from the potion.

“I won't lie—it'll taste terrible,” Velma said to Winter in a calm voice as she sat on the stool. “But it will remove your hex.”

“Want . . . doctor,” he answered between shivers.

“No regular doctor can save you now, you understand?” Velma said firmly, snatching his chin between her fingers and turning his face toward hers. “
I
am your doctor—you are my patient. I will heal you. Drink.”

Winter hesitated, his face pinching from the ghastly scent of the tea, teeth clicking together from the cold. “Iffit kills me—”

“Then I'll get Miss Palmer to bring you back from the beyond to chat as often as you like. Now, open up and drink.”

He obeyed. His face was rigid as she held the cup for him, chanting a prayer. Brown rivulets leaked from the corners of his lips. Aida thought of the crunch from the mortar and pestle and couldn't bear to watch him drink. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

He gasped in pain—he was trying to keep it down, gagging. Bo turned around, hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

“There you go,” Velma praised.

Winter stilled. His eyes rolled back into his head, but instead of white, they were swarming with black lines, moving and vibrating like a spiderweb being shaken by a fly. He looked possessed. Aida had never witnessed anything like this—and she'd seen a lot of strange things in her line of work.

Bo gaped at Winter with horror-stricken eyes. “He's not breathing. What have you done, witch?”

“He's really not breathing,” Aida seconded.

“Wait!” Velma shouted.

They all stood stock-still. Watched. Waited. Winter wasn't moving, but the water was. It bubbled up, the pink hue turning darker . . . blackening. Something moved within it, shifting and stirring.

Suddenly the surface rose like boiling water inside a pot. It churned and roiled, and up from the depths, tiny black shadows wriggled and danced, thousands and thousands of them.

Everyone jumped back. Disjointed shrieks of terror reverberated through the bathroom.

Winter's body sagged into the mass of black shadows as if he were melting. His limp arms hung over the sides. Velma called his name, but he was unresponsive.

As his head sank below the surface, the shadows rose until they spilled over the sides of the tub. But when they hit the black-and-white checkerboard of Velma's floor, they just . . . disappeared. As if the entire gruesome spectacle was a mirage. Might've been; magic often was.

Winter remained underwater, unmoving.

Aida's heart drummed a crazed rhythm. A silent scream welled up inside her.

The foamy bathwater calmed and lightened to pink. Then, like a submarine surfacing, Winter's head shot out above the water. Eyes wide and clear, he gulped air and began coughing.

“You see?” Velma said triumphantly as Bo and her men rushed to pull him out of the water. “I told you I was a doctor.”

Aida exhaled a long-held breath as the men hauled Winter onto his feet and covered his shaking body in towels. He looked exhausted and defeated, but he could stand. He gave Velma a pitiful, grateful look, as if that was all he could manage.

“My pleasure,” Velma said as she turned to exit the room. “Get him dressed and leave the bathwater alone. I'll need to throw it away at a crossroads and cleanse this room later.”

Aida stepped in the hallway with Velma and shut the bathroom door with a shaking hand. “Is he really going to be okay?”

Velma nodded. “He'll feel better after a good rest. Hopefully he won't be drawing any more ghosts . . . though I can't do anything about him seeing them if he stumbles on any around the city. His eyes are open now—no fixing that.”

Tough break, but Aida had little sympathy. She'd been able to see ghosts since she was a small child. If she could live with it, surely a big, tough man like him could do the same.

The conjurer stared at the empty cup in her hands. Traces of antidote ringed the bottom. She turned it upside down on the saucer. “Once he's back to normal, he'll need to track down the person responsible. Looks to me like he's got some enemies in your neighborhood.”

A FEW HOURS AFTER LEAVING GRIS-GRIS, WINTER SAT IN A
leather armchair in his study, staring out a long set of windows that overlooked twinkling city lights ending at the bay. A splendid view. One of the best in the city. He never grew tired of it, and right now it was a small comfort he needed in order to ground himself after the evening's unsettling events.

The hot tea his housekeeper, Greta, had brought up was doing little to take the chill off his bones. He was slowly feeling normal again, but he couldn't get the taste of Velma's satanic brew out of his mouth.

Once he got his hands around the party responsible for what happened tonight, he was going to choke the life out of them or break their neck trying. But he had his work cut out to find the culprit: all they had was the chop mark of the sorcerer who'd issued the spell, scribbled among the arcane symbols on the paper left on the table when he was poisoned.

Black Star.

Bo had never heard the name; maybe someone around Chinatown would know it.

In the meantime, Winter wouldn't be imbibing any more strange drinks. And there was still the matter of the resident ghost inside his study. “Maybe she can get rid of it, too,” Winter said, but he didn't really have the ghost at the top of his mind. He was thinking of the way the spirit medium had looked at him in Velma's bathroom. That look was telling. Maybe she didn't find his scarred face attractive, but she was interested on some sort of base level. No virgin blush on that curious face of hers. No one had looked at him like that in years. Perhaps he'd been hallucinating under the poison's dank influence.

Leaning against the window frame nearby, Bo stuffed his hands in his pockets and said nothing for several moments. “She's witty.”

“She's got a sharp tongue. That's always trouble.”

“Trouble's better than demure and boring. And I've never seen someone with so many freckles. Kind of exotic, don't you think? Looks a bit like Louise Brooks.”

“Far better-looking than Brooks.”

“Same big brown eyes,” Bo argued.

“Mmm. Bigger, I think. Should probably ask her to come up here.”

“You mentioned that already. Are you sure you're all right?”

Winter felt himself becoming irritated. “Considering what I've been through tonight, I think I'm feeling pretty damn good. I won't pretend to understand what happened to me tonight, but somebody's screwing with me, and I don't want to see another damn ghost again if I can help it. Miss Palmer is an expert on spiritual matters, and I want her to come out here and get rid of it. What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing.”

“That's right, nothing.”

Bo gazed out the window. “She should come out here because she's an expert.”

“Exactly.”

“And her eyes are bigger than Louise Brooks's, as well as her breasts.”

Damn that impudent kid and his smart mouth. But he'd made his point, and now Winter was angry at himself for saying too much, maybe a little embarrassed as well. He also didn't like Bo noticing her. At all.

“Might take some convincing to get her out here,” Bo said. “Maybe
you
should go call on
her
. Apologize for flaunting your balls in her face and nearly smashing her to death.”

He hazily remembered her last words to him—
I'd rather be horsewhipped
—and wondered if she'd already had her fill of him. She'd not only seen him naked; she'd seen him weak and sick and delusional. God only knew what she must think of him. His mood blackened.

“I'm sure Miss Palmer—” Bo started.

“Enough!” Winter snapped. “I've changed my mind. I don't want to hear her name again.
You
just concentrate on finding someone in Chinatown who knows the hellish name on that cursed piece of paper.”

Winter fully expected the matter would be solved. People were always trying to muscle him out of business, and they always failed. But after a couple of days had passed, Bo hadn't tracked down the name and the ghost in his study appeared like clockwork every afternoon at a quarter past two, sticking around for a minute before it disappeared. And this was probably the only reason why Winter still found himself thinking about the spirit medium. The deviant fantasies his mind had been conjuring of the two of them together weren't unusual; after all, she was a pretty girl, and he was a healthy man.

But with those fantasies haunting him before bed and the damned ghost in his study haunting him by day, he got fed up. Three nights after the hexing, on his way to a midnight meeting with a bootlegging client, he stopped by Gris-Gris. He told himself it was merely a business transaction: he'd ask the spirit medium to get rid of the ghost in his study, she'd do just that, he'd pay her. End of story.

But he arrived too late to speak to her in person. Miss Palmer's show was already starting. Since he'd gone to the trouble of coming out here, he might as well see what she did. So he stood at the back of the club, hat in hand, and watched from the shadows.

Faces turned to the stage and scattered applause broke out as the house lights dimmed. A dark-skinned middle-aged man in a top hat and tails strode to a standing microphone—Hezekiah. The smiling compere's good humor and witty commentary between scheduled acts was legendary. In one hand, Hezekiah carried a small, three-legged table, and in the other, a glass bowl filled with the torn halves of the lottery tickets that they'd been passing out in the lobby.

“Good evening,” Hezekiah said in welcoming voice. “Please take your seats and locate your tickets. Mrs. Monroe, my dear, I think yours has fallen into the front of your gown, but I'm sure that young man at your side will be happy to retrieve it for you.”

A booming chorus of laughter followed the master of ceremonies as he placed the table near a secondary microphone to the right of the spotlight and set the glass bowl on top. “Ladies and gentlemen, it's my pleasure to welcome the famous spirit medium from the East Coast, recently transplanted to our fine city. Please give a warm Gris-Gris Club welcome to Madame Palmer.”

Velvet curtains parted. A burst of applause filled the room as the medium made her way across the stage. All of his muscles tensed at once as she stepped into the spotlight. Some childish part of him hoped that he wouldn't find her as attractive onstage as he had the night of his poisoning.

No such luck.

His attention roamed the length of her champagne-colored gown, tracking floral beading that ran down her stomach and arched over gently curving hips. Elbow-length gloves hid half her arms, and her golden stockings were opaque—a pity to cover up all that freckled skin, but it made what skin he
could
see that much more enticing.

She was stunning.

“Good evening,” she said into the tinny-sounding microphone after the applause died down. “To those of you who are new to my show, I am a trance medium. Tonight I will call forth spirits of your loved ones from the beyond, temporarily welcoming them inside me so that they may use me to converse with you. They will speak with my voice. I am fully aware during this experience. I do not lose consciousness or forget what's happened.”

The reverent quiet gripping the club was only punctured by the occasional tinkle of glass at the back bar or a single sneeze from someone in the audience; she had them all in her sway. How different she was onstage, so serious and reserved. But the confidence was still there. He remembered how she'd boldly spoken to him in Velma's office and smiled to himself.

“Before we start, I'll mention one last thing concerning memento mori,” she continued. “As it states in the program, I need to touch an object owned by the deceased in order to establish a connection, preferably something beloved that was handled frequently. I see that many of you have come prepared, so shall we proceed with the first participant?” She nodded at Hezekiah. “We will call as many numbers as we can during the next hour. Please be patient. If your number is called, please walk to the front with your memento and hand your ticket to Hezekiah.”

Hezekiah retrieved the first lottery number. “Number one-five-eight.”

A man in a green suit near the stage raised his hand and stood. His table clapped as he proceeded up a small set of stairs at the front of the stage and handed his ticket to Hezekiah.

“What is your name, sir?” the medium asked.

“Hannity.” He nervously thrust a pocket watch in her direction.

“Who does this belong to, Mr. Hannity?”

“My brother, Lenny. He was killed in the war and—”

Miss Palmer held up a gloved hand. “Don't tell me anything more. Please give me a second to prepare myself. If I am able to summon your brother, you will only have a minute or so to speak with him once he enters my body. I cannot hold on to him indefinitely. So I will advise you to keep your wits and don't waste time. To ensure you're speaking to the right person, I'd suggest you immediately question him about something only the two of you would know. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Mr. Hannity said.

The club waited with bated breath like children around a campfire listening to stories. Even the balconies above the sides of the stage were filled with spectators hanging over the railing. The medium placed her left hand over Mr. Hannity's pocket watch and balled up the other against her thigh. Winter watched, curious. She closed her eyes. After a few seconds, she inhaled sharply and her right leg twitched as if someone had kicked her. Her eyes flew open.

She exhaled.

Her breath floated out in a cloud of mist . . . just as it had the night they'd met.

Goose bumps pricked the back of Winter's neck.

“Go on, Mr. Hannity,” Hezekiah encouraged from the stage. “Ask your question.”

The lottery winner hesitated, wringing his hands. “Uh, Lenny? If it's really you, can you tell me where we buried the dead cat we found in the street on my sixteenth birthday?”

Miss Palmer looked down at him. Her manner didn't change. Ghostly breath continued to flow from her mouth as she spoke. “In Old Man Henry's field.”

Mr. Hannity gasped.

“Hello, Michael,” she said. “Happy to see you're finally going bald.”

Her voice was unaffected. And even though Winter had already witnessed what she could do to an existing ghost, it was startling to see her possessed—if that's what this was called. A couple of weeks ago, he wouldn't have believed it was possible, but now . . .

What was that thing she'd done with her hand when she was calling the spirit? Winter tuned out the conversation between her and Mr. Hannity and concentrated on figuring out her process. It was almost as though she were holding something, but what?

After a few exchanges between Miss Palmer and Mr. Hannity, Winter gave up cracking her method. His eyes roved over her sleek caramel bob and the freckled neck and shoulders below. He found himself desperately wishing he could set fire to her long gloves.

Then her gown.

His cock pulsed appreciatively at this thought. Christ, he needed air. Seeing her again had been a mistake. If he'd already had trouble tamping down fantasies of her in his bed, then watching her perform onstage, radiating poise and confidence . . . It wasn't something he'd soon forget. After taking one last look at her, he slipped away and—quietly pocketing a program with her photograph printed on the inside—headed back through the lobby to his waiting car.

 • • • 

Aida rented a room in a five-story building in Chinatown over Golden Lotus Dim Sum, at the northern end of tourist-laden Grant Avenue. All the residents were single working women like her. Cable cars clanged down the street during the day, and local streetcars ran until midnight, so she usually didn't have to pay for a taxi after work or worry about straining her calf muscles hiking up and down the hilly streets alone, which made the six-block walk from Gris-Gris seem twice as long. Weekly room and board included free dim sum—as the proprietors owned both the apartments and the restaurant—and her room contained a Murphy bed that folded up into a closet, an armchair, a desk, a telephone, and a private bath.

But the best part was the black iron fire escape that stretched outside her window. It doubled as a meager balcony, upon which she sometimes sat at night to stare out over pagoda roofs lined with swaying paper lanterns and the gold dragons entwined around Chinatown's lampposts.

Four days after the incident with Winter Magnusson, when Aida rose at her usual late-morning hour, she rubbed goose bumps on her arms and pulled back curtains from her window to peek outside past the fire escape. Nothing but gray skies and drizzle. Mark Twain supposedly once joked that a summer in San Francisco was the coldest winter he'd ever spent, and from what Aida had experienced since she'd arrived, this wasn't an exaggeration, especially at night when the fog rolled in.

“Better than the blistering heat out East,” she said to the small oval photo inside her gold locket. “And cold weather just means more customers stopping by the club tonight to warm up with a drink. See, Sam? I'm still thinking positive.” She snapped the locket closed and headed to her humble bathroom.