Haunted (11 page)

White-hot pain ripped through my arm. I screamed, as much in shock as pain. In three years I hadn’t suffered so much as the pang of a stubbed toe, and never expected to again, so when the blade lit my arm afire, I let out a scream to rock the rafters. But I didn’t let go. I lifted the sword by the blade, pain still throbbing down my arm.

Then all went dark.

“I think you were supposed to wait for me.”

The voice was male and so rich it sent chills down my spine. I looked around. I was sitting on the floor in Janah’s front hall, outside the white door.

In front of me stood a pair of legs, clad in tan trousers with an edge sharper than Janah’s blade. I followed the legs up to a green shirt, then up higher, to a pair of eyes the same emerald shade as the shirt. Those eyes were set in an olive-skinned face with a strong nose and full lips quivering with barely concealed mirth. Tousled black hair fell over his forehead.

The man reached down to pull me up. His grip was firm and warm, almost hot.

“Thanks for the rescue,” I said, “but I think I had things under control.”

The grin broke through. “So I saw.” He jerked his chin at the door. “Not what you expected, I suppose.”

“No kidding.” I glanced down at my hand. It looked fine, and the pain had stopped the moment I’d let go of the blade. “So that’s an angel?”

“By occupation, not by blood. She’s a ghost, like you. A witch as well…which is probably why she went easy on you.” He extended his hand. “Trsiel.”

I assumed that was an introduction, but it didn’t sound like any name—or word—I’d ever heard. Though I refrained from a rude “Huh?” my face must have said it for me.

“Tris-eye-el,” he said.

His phonetic pronunciation didn’t quite sound like what he’d said the first time, but it was as near to it as my tongue was getting.

“Bet you got asked to spell that one a lot,” I said.

He laughed. “I’m sure I would have…if I’d ever needed to. I’m not a ghost.”

“Oh?” I looked him over, trying to be discreet about it.

“Angel,” he said. “A full-blood.”

“Angel? No wings, huh?”

Another rich laugh. “Sorry to disappoint. But putting wings on an angel would be like hitching a horse to a motor car. Teleportation works much faster than fluttering.”

“True.” I glanced toward Janah’s door. “But teleportation doesn’t work for her, does it? Or is that because of the anti-magic barrier?”

“A bit of both. It doesn’t always work for full-bloods, either. There are places—” His faced darkened, but he shrugged it off. “Even full-bloods can be trapped. Like Zadkiel.”

I nodded. “The last one who went after the Nix.”

“Normally, he’d be here, helping you. That’s his job, to assist on the inaugural quests. But obviously he can’t, so I’ve been asked to step in. I’ll be helping you with anything that might be difficult for a non-angel, like talking to Janah.”

“So that’s her problem. Now that she’s an angel, she doesn’t like talking to us mere ghosts?”

“It’s not that. She picked up the demon blood in you. Her brain, it misfires, gets its connections crossed, especially when it comes to anything that reminds her of the Nix.”

“She sensed demon, and saw the enemy.”

He nodded. “She even does it to me now and then.”

I frowned.

“Because of the demon blood,” he said.

“I thought you said you were—”

“Demon, angel, all the same thing if you go back far enough, or cut deep enough. I wouldn’t advise saying that too loudly, though. Some don’t appreciate the reminder. When Janah sees you or me, she sees demon, which to her means the one demon she can’t forget: the Nix who put her in there. I can usually get through to her, though. Ready for a rematch?”

“Bring it on.”

San Francisco / 1927

THE NIX ROUSED HERSELF INSIDE JOLYNN’S CONSCIOUSNESS
, struggling to stay alert as the woman droned on about her life. The subject, as dull as it was, wasn’t the only cause of the Nix’s lethargy. She was growing weak—a concept so repugnant that she fairly spit each time she thought of it. Once she’d sipped chaos like fine wine; now it was like water. Too long without it, and she weakened.

She was too particular in her choice of partners. Yet she still refused to lower her standards. Selecting the wrong partner was like quenching her thirst with sewer water.

This time she’d waited longer than usual, probably because her last partner had been such a disappointment. That’s why she’d taken a chance with Jolynn. No smarter than her last partner—perhaps even stupider—with the vacuous self-absorption that sometimes afflicted young women with not enough going on behind their pretty faces. Yet Jolynn lacked more than common intelligence—she had an empty head, and an empty soul to match. The Creator, perhaps realizing the defect, had given her to a minister and his wife, as if hoping they’d supply what she lacked.

Jolynn’s missing soul had proved to be a moral blank slate. Her parents inscribed goodness on it, and she became good. She married a good man, a doctor many years her senior, and followed him into the wilds of Africa, bringing medicine to the afflicted. But when she contracted malaria, her husband sent her home to recuperate, not with her aging parents, but in a California sanitarium. Freed from the watchful eyes of parents and husbands, the truth about Jolynn’s soul became clear. It was indeed a slate, and could be erased just as easily as it had been written.

Jolynn had never returned to Africa. She found a job, took a lover, and fell into a crowd that valued a good martini over a good deed. But, after five years, she was growing bored. When the Nix had been looking for potential partners, she’d stumbled on Jolynn and, seeing what the woman was contemplating doing to ease her boredom, the Nix had offered her help.

Now Jolynn sat on the porch behind her apartment, mentally prattling on about what she was going to wear to the party that weekend, who she hoped would be there, and so on, the trivialities streaming from her empty head like bubbles. The Nix felt herself drifting with those bubbles, becoming weightless with weakness and tedium, fluttering—

“Can we do it after the party?” Jolynn asked. She didn’t speak the question, just thought it, directing it at the Nix, who’d taken up residence inside her.

The Nix roused herself with a shake. “Yes, that should give us time to plan. How do you want to kill them?”

A pout. “I thought you were going to tell me that.”

“I could…and I will, if you’d like, but you’ll derive more satisfaction from it if the method has some meaning to you.”

From the mental silence, the Nix knew she was talking over Jolynn’s head…again. She bit back a snarl of frustration.
Patience,
she told herself.
Take her hand and show her the way, and she will reward you for it.

“We’ll work on an idea together,” the Nix said. “It might help me plan if I knew why you want to kill them. They’ve been your friends for years. Why now?”

Jolynn brightened. “Because now you’re here to help me.”

“No, I mean why
them.
What have they done to you?”

“Done to me?”

“Never mind,” the Nix said. “Let’s just—”

“No, I should have a reason. It’s only right.” She squinted up at the bright sky. “Ummm, they’ve been sleeping with my man, and I’m jealous.”

“Of course you are. That must have come as a horrible shock.”

“Oh no, I’ve known about it for years. I don’t mind—heck, I introduced him to them.” She paused. “But it’s a good
excuse,
don’t you think?”

Jolynn sat in her friends’ tiny kitchenette, sipping hot milk and chatting about the party. Earlier that evening, Jolynn had introduced her lover to a pretty blond nurse, and Nellie and Dot hadn’t been pleased about it. Jolynn didn’t understand the fuss. There was more than enough of Bradley and his money to go around. When Jolynn introduced him to a little tomato that he liked, more of that largesse came her way.

Maybe that’s what Nellie and Dot were in a snit about—that they hadn’t found someone for him first. Whatever the reason, they were mad. Not mad enough to argue, but, as the Nix whispered, the situation might be useful, if things came to that. As Jolynn sipped hot milk and listened to Dot and Nellie chatter about the party, the Nix whispered ideas in her ear.

“…not just jealousy,” the Nix said. “It has to be more than that. They’re angry because…because of something about the nurse. She has…syphilis. That’s it. They heard a rumor that she has syphilis.”

“They did?” Jolynn nearly sloshed milk onto her lap.

“Why didn’t they tell me? That’s horrible. If she has syphilis, she could give it to Bradley—”

“She doesn’t have syphilis. But that’s what we’ll say, if things go wrong. Naturally, they’d be furious with you for exposing them. You tried to tell them it was just a rumor, but they accused you of being careless, thoughtless. You tried to leave, but they wouldn’t let you.”

The Nix continued to plot. Such an imagination. She was so clever. Jolynn shivered, counting her lucky stars that the Nix had chosen her. As a child, Jolynn had always wanted an imaginary friend, but she’d never been lucky enough to find one. She’d always thought, if she did, she’d name her Victoria.

“I’m going to call you Victoria,” she announced.

The Nix stopped whispering. “What?”

“I’m going to call you Victoria.” She paused. “Unless you’d prefer Vicky, but I don’t really like Vicky.”

“Victoria is fine,” the Nix said. “Now, we—Wait, they’re talking to you.”

Jolynn popped out of her reverie and smiled at her friends.

“Hmmm?” she said.

“That dress Rachel was wearing,” Dot said. “That’s the same one you wore to Buzz’s party last month, wasn’t it?”

“Probably the
exact
same dress I wore. I did donate it to charity.”

Dot snickered.

“Oh, and speaking of cast-offs,” Nellie said. “Did you notice Millie’s handbag?”

Dot arched her brows. “Was that a handbag? I thought she was carrying…”

Jolynn tuned out again and stifled a yawn.

“Can I kill them yet?” she asked the Nix. “I’m getting awful sleepy.”

“Yes. That’s the perfect excuse,” the Nix—Victoria—said. “Yawn again, but don’t hide it. When they notice, tell them you should be leaving, and get up.”

“What? Leave? But I haven’t killed them!”

A sigh fluttered through Jolynn’s mind. Victoria explained the plan again. She was so clever. They were going to be best friends. Yes, siree, friends for life. Jolynn shivered, barely able to suppress her grin.

“Good,” Victoria said. “Now follow that with a yawn.”

Jolynn yawned, and lifted her hand to cover it, but missed.

“Oh, my,” she said, wide-eyed. “Excuse me.”

“I think someone’s getting sleepy,” Dot said with a smile. “Do you want to stay here tonight, hon?”

“Oh, please, if I could.”

Jolynn lifted her handbag from the chair. She peeked inside. The shiny metal of the gun winked. She winked back.

“Oh, wasn’t that fun,” Jolynn said as she rummaged through the kitchen cupboards. “Did you see the look in their eyes?” She pouted. “Too bad we couldn’t let them scream.”

“Not with people sleeping in the apartment overhead. The gunshot was loud enough, even through the pillow.”

“You’re right. And Nellie did kind of shriek. That was nice.” She lifted two knives from the drawer. “The boning knife or the cleaver?”

“You’ll probably need both.”

“Good idea. Oh, and what about a saw? I think Dot keeps a saw in the closet. One of those little ones, for cutting metal and stuff?”

“A hacksaw.”

“That’s it. Should I get that, too?”

“If you can find it.”

Jolynn found the hacksaw right where she remembered seeing it, in the closet with some other tools. With the hacksaw and boning knife in one hand, and the cleaver in the other, she headed for the bathroom, where Dot was waiting in the tub.

This was going to be
such
fun.

Two trunks. That was all that remained of the luggage from that morning’s train from San Francisco. Two black trunks with silver handles. They looked brand-new, not the sort of thing you’d expect someone to abandon at the train station…unless they had a good reason.

The moment Samuel saw those big trunks, he knew someone was up to no good. Damn things were big enough to fit two, maybe three, crates of bootleg hooch. The owner probably saw a few uniforms milling about, got cold feet, and ran. The Southern Pacific railway didn’t hold with bootleggers. As a baggage-checker it was Samuel’s job to, well, check the baggage. And if there were as many bottles in these trunks as he suspected, no one would miss one.

He marched over to the trunks. The minute he got within a foot of them, he reeled back, hand shooting up to cover his nose. Goddamn! If that was hooch, he didn’t want even a sip of it. Smelled like something curled up and died in there. He was surprised the baggage-handlers in San Francisco hadn’t noticed. Maybe it hadn’t smelled that bad before spending a half-day in a baggage car, baking in the August heat.