Blood Song (15 page)

Well, shit.
Not Ivy, but whoever it was knew the code? Did ghosts talk? I mean, if they cared enough to stay and latch onto someone, there was generally a reason, and they almost always tried to talk to the living, but do they communicate with
each other
? That I
didn’t
know.
Damn it.
I wracked my brain. Ghosts attach to a person or thing that was important to them in their life, someone or something that they consider unfinished business. Until that business gets settled or the body gets cremated, they don’t move on to the afterlife. Trouble was, I never have found out what Ivy wants from me.

True believers almost never ghost, so this was someone I knew who wasn’t a churchgoer. Not many of those in my life, are there?

Um, just about everyone but my gran. But considering the level of violence in my life, there have actually been very few fatalities. Could it be Bob Johnson? The timing was right and he’d been with me once when Ivy had manifested. I couldn’t think why he’d latch onto me, but stranger things had happened. The car was practically a meat locker at this point, and I shivered, my skin crawling with goose bumps.

“Bob, is it you?”

Two flashes. Wrong again. The spirit, whoever it was, was starting to get frustrated. I could feel an electric tension building in the air, enough to make my hair start to frizz.

“Easy. Take it easy. I know you’re trying to communicate. We can work this out.” A thought crossed my mind. It might work—or not, depending on how focused and powerful the ghost was. “See if you can focus the cold to use frost to write on the window.” If it was an older ghost, they should be able to. I pointed to the rounded surface of the windshield. In response, the temperature dropped even further. My teeth started chattering as an arctic blast ruffled my hair to hit the glass with pinpoint precision. I watched in fascinated horror as familiar handwriting took shape and a name appeared.

Vicki
.

My heart stopped for a moment and I felt dizzy.
No.
NO! Dammit, she wasn’t … she couldn’t be …

“Vicki?” My voice was a raw whisper. I stared at the frost on the window, tears freezing on my cheeks, a knot as hard as a rock in my throat. I could barely breathe.

The ghost reacted to my emotions. They always do. The Miata began to rock back and forth, the radio blasting to noisy life, static whining and crackling from the speakers, loud enough to make me cringe. The dome light and headlights were flashing.

I shuddered from the cold. Every breath I took burned going into my lungs. Every exhale was a visible mist in the air inside the car. “Stop. Vicki, you’ve got to stop. Please, you’re hurting me.”

It was as if I hit a switch. All the poltergeist-style activity just stopped. But the cold didn’t diminish. She was still there.

“God, what happened? How? I mean, you were
fine
!” I picked up the pictures as though she could see them. “See? You were happy.” Hot tears flowed down cheeks that felt chapped with cold. I couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make any sense.

Ever so slowly, I saw writing form in the frost on the window. Letter by letter, until I could read her full message.

Love you.

And then she was gone.

It was
a long time before I could pull myself together enough to drive. My best friend was dead. The shock was horrible. On top of everything else, it was just too much. She
wasn’t
dead. I didn’t want to believe …
couldn’t
believe—

I cried. I screamed. I cried some more. Eventually, I got myself under control enough to restart the car. Now I was definitely speeding, but I needed to get to Birchwoods, find out what the hell was going on. Yeah, I could’ve called. But I wanted to hear this in person. Discretion was
beyond
the grave there, so I was going to have to fight to get answers. I’d just get stonewalled on the phone and they’d have time to prepare a response … or a security team.

I pulled the car up to the outside gate and ran my card. I went through without problems and stopped before the second gate, rolling down my window. Gerry was on the gate again. He flinched when he saw me, and this time when he ran through the security protocol he did it like he meant it. I passed with flying colors, but that didn’t seem to reassure him much. “Dr. Scott has asked that you go to his office in the main administration building. He needs to speak with you urgently.” Gerry’s voice was its empty, professional best, giving nothing away. I shivered. His attitude wasn’t helping my denial.

My stomach tightened into a knot, making the nausea worse. But I didn’t ask any more questions, just handed back the clipboard along with my driver’s license.

Gerry passed back my license. “Take the left fork of the road; the administration building is in the back.”

“I know.” Duh, I’ve been here how many times?

Gerry stepped back from the car and waved a signal to the gate operator. With the flick of a switch the heavy metal framework barring my way moved smoothly aside. I felt, rather than saw, magical protections I’d never known existed ease in response to the opening of the gate. I drove through and down the long, curving drive that led to the administrative part of the complex. The white brick buildings were gleaming and pristine, like pearls scattered decoratively across the vivid green of the manicured lawns.

I drove slowly. I hated this. Hated it so much. God, it was only
yesterday
that I’d had the bellhop haul stuff up that hill. What in the hell had happened?

She couldn’t be gone. How many times had I driven up here in the past few years, bringing her news of the outside world? How many afternoons had we walked the path around the little freshwater pond behind the main complex, or fed stale bread to the ducks that congregated there?

I’ve had losses before. My father’s abandonment, my sister’s death, even, in a way, my mother’s retreat into the bottle. You’d think I’d be used to it, that by now I’d have developed a hard shell that would protect me. I suppose that’s exactly how it looks to people who don’t know me. But it’s a lie.

I pulled into one of half a dozen or so parking spaces with neatly printed signs proclaiming
VISITOR PARKING
and climbed out. The sun was low enough in the sky that the umbrella might not have been necessary, but I used it anyway.

I slammed the car door shut with more force than was really necessary and heard an ominous sound of metal fatigue that normal human muscles couldn’t make happen. Another thing broken. I was broken, Vicki was broken … why not everything else? I hurried up the gentle slope of the handicapped-friendly entrance feeling both like an idiot and like a child who’s been beaten one too many times. When I reached the shade of the small ivy-bedecked porch that protected the entrance, I collapsed the umbrella. The automatic doors whooshed open and I walked in.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Graves.” The receptionist stood as I walked through the door. She had to notice the pallor and fangs but managed to hide her reaction admirably. I could not hide the fact that I was about to burst into tears. She was wearing one of those fitted suits that are tailored to emphasize every curve. It was tomato red and had been hemmed to a length that would show enough leg to be attractive without being improper. Her dark hair had been swept up in a twist. That, coupled with a sweetheart neckline, showed a lot of creamy neck and just a hint of cleavage, the effect emphasized discreetly by a pearl necklace and earrings. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll let Dr. Scott know you’ve arrived.” She gestured in the general direction of the expensive leather couches that graced the tastefully appointed waiting room.

“Thank you.” My feet sank into the deep golden pile of the carpet as I crossed over to the cushy waiting chairs. There were magazines, of course. The latest copy of
People
sat on the polished mahogany coffee table. Vicki’s parents were on the cover, under the headline “Hollywood’s Top Power Couples.” I shook my head sadly and reached for
US Weekly
instead. I’d probably have to see them at the funeral. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Jerks. It made me wonder how they were going to deal with their daughter’s death in a way that didn’t reveal the embarrassing truth about Vicki to the world.

That was cynical of me, and I knew it. But it had been Vicki’s greatest heartbreak—that her parents couldn’t handle who and what she was.

I didn’t read the magazine, not really. If you asked me what was on the page I was staring at, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. But I was in a reception area. Reading magazines is what you do. So I pretended, flipping the pages while my mind was a million miles away. I could feel the stares of the other people in the waiting room but pretended not to notice.

The receptionist reappeared after only a minute or two. That she came to me instead of others who’d been waiting longer raised a few brows. I didn’t care. I was too raw, the pain too fresh for me to bear being in public for too much longer.

“Dr. Scott will see you now.”

I followed her down a long wood-paneled hallway lined with impressionist paintings in gilt frames until we reached a heavy set of mahogany doors. Despite their apparent weight, the receptionist pulled one of them open and held it for me with silent ease.

I stepped over the threshold and took a long look around.

To say Dr. Scott’s office was spacious was an understatement. The house I grew up in probably would’ve fit inside. Although the house had a bathroom. Come to think of it, there probably was one behind one of the pair of doors on the north wall.

The entire west wall was windows, so that even through the thin film of cream-colored drapes I could see a wide expanse of ocean, a spectacular sunset coloring the clouds and water with shades of mauve, orange, crimson, and purple. It was just the sort of sunset that Vicki and I had watched only a few weeks before in her room, sipping on chilled iced tea with a hint of peach while breathing in the tangy ocean air.

The sunset expanded into this room, decorated to incorporate the view—the golden tans of sand with the blues and greens of the sea and sky. Dr. Scott sat behind a table made from glass and weathered driftwood. Instead of the traditional suit, he wore khakis and a melon-colored polo shirt that showed off his dark skin and the shining silver of his hair and beard. Loafers with no socks completed the outfit.

“Come in, come in.” He gestured toward a conversation grouping in an area far from any stray patches of sunlight. “Pardon my appearance. I’d scheduled the day off—”

He gave me a penetrating glance, taking in the red eyes, the chapped nose that was already healing. “I don’t need to tell you, do I?”

I shook my head, tears threatening again while my stomach wanted to relieve itself of contents, and mumbled, “No.”

He moved behind the desk, settling into the enveloping leather of a high-end executive chair. “Has word leaked to the press?”

“Not from me.” My voice sounded tight, not surprising. It was all I could do to force words past the lump in my throat. “I was on my way here for a visit when her ghost manifested in my car.”

“Considering how close you were and the strength of her force of will, I’m not surprised.” He shook his head sadly and modulated his voice. “I’m so very sorry for your loss. Please be assured we did everything we could. Unfortunately, based on her medical records, we always knew it was a possibility—”

I lowered myself into the enveloping chair without answering. I hadn’t known it was a possibility. I’d never asked anything about Vicki’s medical history. He could be telling the truth or lying through his teeth. I had no way of knowing.

“Which was why we had procedures in place to care for her in an emergency.” He continued speaking without hesitation. If he sensed my mood, he ignored it. Leaning forward across the desk, he addressed me respectfully, his expression earnest. “As is the case with any death of one of our patients, we’ve reported the incident to the authorities, and they will launch their usual investigations. I don’t expect them to find any negligence.”

Neither did I. Even if there was a problem, there was enough money floating around this place that I was betting it would be handled
discreetly.
But I wasn’t going to say that. It would be rude. And while I am more than capable of being rude when the occasion calls for it, I wanted information.

“I appreciate your concern. I know that Vicki chose Birchwoods because of its stellar reputation.”

“Thank you.” He gave me a gentle smile. “Can I get you a drink? I’d offer food, but the only guest we’ve ever had with your
condition
wasn’t able to process solids, so I’m not sure it would be appropriate.”

So, the closed drapes were no coincidence. Gerry must have called ahead, which also explained the receptionist’s lack of reaction. I found it very interesting that they’d dealt with someone with my
condition …
especially since my condition was supposed to be pretty damned rare. I was curious, but he
wanted
me to ask, so I perversely avoided the question and got to the point of my visit.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

It was a deliberate question, because I’m not part of Vicki’s family. He nodded, just the tiniest drop of his chin, and folded his hands on the tinted glass. “Ms. Cooper left the appropriate written permissions for us to speak with you frankly. You’re probably aware that, as is the case with many high-level psychics, Vicki frequently suffered from both migraines and severe insomnia.”

Okay, that I
did
know. Vicki was always trying the latest homeopathic treatments for headaches—from weird herbs to gadgets that would change the lighting in the room and even magic charms to change her “energy patterns.” And she was forever calling me on the phone at weird hours. But I never really related those things to her psychic ability. Lots of people get migraines and can’t sleep.

I got caught up in memories and nearly missed what he said next. “It was the late-shift nurse’s duty to check on her when she came on duty at eleven and again at two. If Ms. Cooper was having trouble sleeping, at two
A.M.
she would be given the option of taking sleeping medication.”