Haunted (10 page)

“And killed the other five.”

“We gotta work on our people skills, Kris.”

“And what would be the fun in that?”

I smiled, shook my head, then transported to Jaime’s apartment.

9

IF I SUCCEEDED IN GETTING RID OF JAIME’S STALKER-SPOOK
, I was supposed to go to her apartment and wait for her there. When I found her apartment, I did indeed wait for her…waited at least a good ten minutes. Then I started hunting for clues to tell me where she’d gone. I found the answer on the calendar—she’d been invited to an event at some city councillor’s place. That didn’t give me much to go on, but I struck it lucky a second time by finding a small stack of invitations on her desk.

Of course, tonight’s wasn’t on the top of the pile. That would be too easy. So I had to drill down through them using my Aspicio powers. That took some work—I could easily have cleared a peephole right through the stack and the desk, but going down layer by layer was much tougher. After about thirty minutes of working at it, I got down to the right invitation. That provided me with an address. Then I had to pop back to my house in Savannah, grab my book of city maps, and find out where that address led. I only knew three travel codes for Chicago, so the closest I could get was six miles away. Could be worse, I guess, but it was still quite a hike.

When I finally arrived at the house, it was past midnight. The street was lined with cars, people spilling from the house, eager enough for fresh air that they were willing to brave the cold—or too drunk to notice it.

I found Jaime in the dining room, talking to an immaculately dressed and coifed woman in her fifties. Now, I’d learned my lesson back at the TV studio. Or, I should say, I admitted that Jaime had a point about ghosts shanghaiing her when she was in the middle of a conversation with a living person. So I hung back out of her line of vision, and waited. Waited some more. Waited another thirty seconds, then decided to slip closer and see if I could politely divert her attention.

As I drew near, I got a better look at Jaime’s companion. Even from the back, she screamed upper-class professional, with perfect posture, a designer suit, and short hair artfully laced with silver, allowing the appearance of a graceful descent into maturity. An executive or a lawyer, maybe even the councillor hosting the party. Her posture and gestures oozed the confidence of a woman who’s found her place in life and settled happily into it. But when I circled around enough to see her face, it told a different story. Deep-etched lines made me add another decade to my age estimate. Her eyes were rimmed with red but dry, her face taut, as if fighting to maintain composure.

“No, I completely understand,” Jaime said. “Believe me, it’s not a question of—”

“Is it money? Money is not an issue, Jaime. I’ve said that and I mean—”

“Money isn’t the problem.”

The woman’s hands clenched around a food-stained napkin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult—”

“You didn’t. But I can’t help you. Honestly. If I could find your daughter—”

“I don’t need you to find her. Just tell me if she’s there. On the other side. I just need…it’s been so long. I need to know.”

Jaime snapped her gaze from the other woman’s, her eyes shuttering. “You need resolution. I understand that. But it doesn’t work that way.”

“We could try. There’s no harm in trying, is there?”

“There is, if it gets your hopes up. I—I’m sorry. I have to…”

She mumbled something, and darted away. I followed her through the next room and out the back door. She hurried past those gathered on the deck, and walked into the empty yard, pausing only when she reached the back fence and could go no farther, then leaned against it, shivering.

“That must be a shitty thing to have to do,” I said.

Her head jerked up, then she saw me. I walked over.

“You know you can’t help her.
I
know you can’t help her. But nothing you say is going to convince her of that. You did your best.”

Jaime wrapped her arms around her chest and said nothing.

“Got rid of your headless stalker,” I said. “If he ever comes around again, give me a shout, but I don’t think he will.”

She nodded, still shivering so hard I could hear her teeth chatter.

“You want to go someplace warmer?” I asked.

“Not cold. Just…” She shook her head, then gave herself a full-bodied shake, and straightened. “Thanks for the help. With the stalker. I owe you.”

“And I’m sure you’ll get the chance to repay me soon. I don’t know exactly what I’ll need or when I’ll need it, but we should set up something, so I can find you when I need to.”

She agreed. The Fates gave me just long enough to make arrangements for contacting Jaime again, then sent the Searchers to retrieve me.

The Searchers dropped me off in a foyer the size of a school gymnasium. It was white marble, like the throne room, but without any decoration or furnishing—a room for passing through on your way someplace else.

Lots of people were passing through it at that very moment. Wraith-clerks, those who kept our world running smoothly. Wraiths are pure spirits, beings that have never inhabited the world of the living, and they look more like classic ghosts than we do. Everything about them is white. Even their irises are a blue so pale that if it weren’t set against the whites of their eyes, you’d miss the color altogether. Their clothing and skin are almost translucent. If they cross in front of something, you can see the dark shape pass behind them.

Wraith-clerks can’t speak. Can’t or don’t—no one is sure. They can communicate telepathically, but never telegraph so much as a syllable if a gesture will suffice.

As I walked through the foyer, wraith-clerks flitted past, pale feet skimming above the floor. They smiled or nodded at me, but didn’t slow, intent on their tasks.

From the center of the room, I surveyed my directional choices. Too damned many, that was for sure. At least a dozen doorways off the foyer, as well as a grand arching staircase in each corner. No helpful building map to show the way. Not even discreet signs above the doors.

“Okay,” I muttered, “what am I doing here and where am I supposed to be going?”

Without so much as a hitch in their gait, the four wraiths closest to me lifted their translucent arms and pointed at the northwest staircase.

“And what’s up there?” I asked.

An image popped into my head. A winged angel. Whether the wraiths had put it there or I’d made the mental jump on my own, I don’t know, but I nodded thanks and headed for the staircase.

The staircase ended at a landing with three doors and another, narrower set of stairs spiraling up. As I stepped toward the nearest door, a passing wraith-clerk pointed up.

“Thanks,” I said.

I climbed the next staircase, found three more doors and another, still narrower staircase. Again, a wraith showed me the way. Again, the way was up. Two more landings. Two more sets of doors and a staircase. Two more helpful wraiths. I knew I’d reached the angel’s aerie when I had only a single choice: a white door.

Beyond that door was an angel. A real angel. I’d never met one before. In the ghost world, angels were rarely discussed, and then only in tones half-derisive, half-reverent, as if we supernaturals wanted to mock them, but weren’t sure we dared.

Angels are the earthly messengers of the Fates and their ilk. Every now and then we’d hear of an angel being dispatched to fix some problem on earth. Never knew what the problem was—probably some tear-jerking misfortune straight out of a
Touched by an Angel
episode. The angels went down and flitted about, spreading peace, joy, and goodwill like fairy dust, realigned the cosmos before commercial break, and winged back up to their clouds to await the next quasi-catastrophe.

Why the Fates would dispatch an angel to catch that murdering bitch of a demi-demon was beyond me. Like sending a butterfly after a hawk. The Nix had done exactly what I’d have expected, chewed the angel up and spit her out in pieces. But, as the Fates admitted, they’d had no idea how to handle the Nix. When she’d escaped, their first reaction, understandably, had been to send their divine messengers after her.

As I reached out to knock on the door, a jolt of energy zapped through me. When I caught my balance, I looked down at my hand and flexed it. No pain…just surprise. A mental shock.

I cautiously extended my fingers toward the door again, braced for the jolt. Instead, a wave of some indefinable emotion filled me, amorphous but distinctly negative. A magical boundary. Instead of physically repelling me, it triggered a subconscious voice that said, “You don’t want to go in there.”

But I
did
want to. I had to.

So, pushing past the sensation, I knocked. For a split second, all went dark. Before I could even think “Oh shit,” the darkness evaporated. The door was gone. The foyer was gone. Instead I stood in yet another white room. This one, though, appeared to have been built of brick, then plastered and whitewashed, the pattern of the brick just barely showing through. The floor also looked brick, but darker and patterned. In the middle was a large reed mat surrounded by several high-backed wooden chairs, a few tables, and a carved sofa piled with embroidered pillows.

A window covered the far wall. Beyond it was a desert dotted with boxy pyramids. An illusion, I assumed, but a nice one nonetheless. If the people who ran that psych hospital had given such thought to their patients’ surroundings, I doubt the haunters would have found them such easy pickings.

“Hello?” I called.

No one answered.

As I turned to look for a door, something moved at the base of the window. I peered around the divan. On the other side, huddled by the window, sat a woman, her back to me. A flowing, silvery robe swallowed her tiny form. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. Bird-thin wrists poked out of the loose sleeves. Dark hair tumbled over her back, the ends kissing the floor. No wings that I could see, but that billowing gown could have hidden wings and a set of carry-on luggage. One thing was for certain—I sure wouldn’t have sent this fragile little thing after a Nix.

“Janah?” I said softly.

She didn’t move. I slid across the room, moving slowly so I didn’t startle her.

“Janah?”

She lifted her head and turned. Huge brown eyes locked on mine. Those eyes were so devoid of thought or emotion that I instinctively yanked my gaze away, as if they could suck what they lacked from me.

I crouched to her level, staying a few yards away.

“Janah, my name is Eve. I won’t hurt you. I only came to ask—”

She sprang. A mountain-lion screech ripped through the room. Before I could move—before I could even
think
to move—she was on me. I pitched back, head whacking against the floor. Janah wrapped both hands in my long hair, vaulted to her feet, and swung me against a grouping of urns. Pottery shattered and I sailed clear over the divan.

“Div farzand,”
Janah snarled.

She charged. I lunged to my feet and spun out of her reach. When I cast a binding spell, it didn’t even slow her down. I leapt onto the divan and bounded across the cushions, then jumped onto the table. As she charged me, I tried to blind her. Either that didn’t work on angels or she was indeed blinded…and didn’t give a damn.

I swung around for a sidekick, but a mental barricade stopped my foot in mid-flight. Kicking a mad angel? My moral code may be a little thin, but that broke it on two counts.

I jumped across to an end table and looked around for a door. There wasn’t one. The only way out of this gilded cage was the window, and I knew that was an illusion. Here, walls were walls. Even ghosts can’t walk through them.

As I leapfrogged back onto the coffee table, I recited the incantation to take me home. It didn’t work. Tried another one. Didn’t work, either. Whatever mojo the Fates had going in this angel’s cell, it was obviously designed to keep her in. All things considered, that didn’t seem like such a bad idea. If only I weren’t in here with her.

“Yâflan dâdvari!”
she spat at me.

“Yeah? Right back at you, you crazy bitch.”

She stopped and went completely still. Then she stepped back, lifted her arms and face to the ceiling in supplication, and began an incantation.

“Hey, I didn’t mean it,” I said, stepping to the edge of the table. “If you’re calling the Fates, that’s fine. They sent me.”

Something shimmered in Janah’s raised hands, slowly materializing from the ether. It looked like a piece of metal at least four feet long and so shiny it seemed to glow. Etched along the side were inscriptions in an alphabet that looked vaguely familiar.

As the object solidified, a burnished handle appeared on one end. Janah gripped it, fingers closing around the handle, eyes shutting, lips parting, as if sliding into a glove of the softest leather. She raised the object over her head—the pointed shaft of the biggest goddamned sword I’d ever seen.

“Holy shit!”

The words were still whooshing from my lips as that sword cleaved through the table legs like they were sticks of warm butter. As my perch crumbled, I managed to scamper onto a chair. When I dove over the back of it, the sword sheered toward my knees. I hit the floor. The tip of the blade jabbed through the upholstery, within an inch of my shoulder.

Janah leapt onto the chair and plunged the sword down at me. Ghost or no ghost, I got the hell out of the way. Doesn’t matter how invulnerable you think you are, facing off against a psychotic angel with a four-foot samurai sword is not the time to test that theory.

I scampered across the room, casting spells as I ran. None of them worked.

“Demon-spawn!” Janah shouted.

Couldn’t argue with that.

“Infidel!”

Debatable, but sure, I’ll give you that one, too.

“Satan’s whore!”

Okay, now
that
was uncalled for. I spun and kicked. This time, my conscience stood down and let my foot fly. I caught Janah in the wrist. She gasped. The sword flew from her hand and clattered to the floor. We both dove after it. As Janah’s fingers touched the handle, I smacked it out of her reach, then twisted and grabbed the blade.