Sex and the Single Vampire (10 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. How could I enjoy myself without knowing you and that darling man have worked out your differences? No,” she said, settling down on the bed with the cat in her lap. “I’ll just stay with you until everything is set right; then you can send me on.”

“But, but …”

It was no use. I tried for an hour to get her to agree to a Release (assuming I could do it), but she remained adamant that she couldn’t leave until she saw me happy. I explained three more times that my happiness was not tied up with Christian, but she countered every excellent point I made with criticism of my wardrobe, my hair, and everything else from my attitude toward men to the color of my socks.

By eight o’clock I was exhausted, worn out from lack of sleep and the energy needed not only to Summon Esme, but most draining, to listen to all of her advice.

I gathered up my jammies, told her I was taking a bath, and used the bathroom as a quiet zone, somewhere I could relax and not worry that my eyebrows or underwear or choice of sleeping apparel would be cause for comment.

It lasted all of two minutes.

“What a cozy little scene this is,” she said, drifting in through the closed door. “I always did like this room; it has the best view of the park. The room proper, that is, not the WC. Dear, a word of advice—women who do not have large bosoms should never hunch their shoulders forward. It minimizes, and you want to maximize.”

I sank my minimized bosom below the water and considered continuing on until my head was under as well, but if I drowned in the tub, no doubt my spirit would be trapped with Esme’s, and the thought of eternity with her raised goose bumps on my arms.

“Esme, I’m taking a bath,” I said finally, water lapping at my chin. I waved my sponge around. “See? Water. Bubbles. Tub. Me.”

“Oh, don’t mind me, dear; I’ll just make myself comfortable over here. Now, what shall we talk about? Oooh, is this your cosmetics bag? Now, cosmetics I know. Just let me look at what you have. I can advise you as to what colors will look good with your skin tone and … erm … eyes.”

Just what I needed, a motherly ghost.

“No, no, this shade of eyeliner is all wrong for you. Well, it might be fine for the dark eye, but it’s much too harsh for your white eye.”

“It’s not white; it’s silver. Or gray, if you prefer. The doctor said my left eye is actually just an extremely light version of gray, while the right is ordinary brown.”

Esme looked up from where she was poking through my cosmetics case. “Allie, dear, your eyes are anything but ordinary.”

“Well, the left one is a bit spooky, but the right—”

“Has color variations that just aren’t human.”

I dropped my chin into the water and made a face into the bubbles, where she couldn’t see it. While I’d heard
comments like that all my life, it didn’t make them hurt any less.

“Oh, my, now I’ve hurt your feelings. That was unkind of me, Allie; please accept my apology.”

I lifted my chin so I could speak. “Esme, you’re standing in my legs. While I know you don’t feel anything, you’re making me lose all feeling in my toes.”

“I won’t move until you tell me you forgive me for that unkind comment.”

“I forgive you. Believe me, I’ve heard worse.”

She stepped through the edge of the tub and patted my head, making my vision go squirrelly for a minute. “Don’t listen to anything unkind that people tell you. It just shows they’re jealous. And ignorant. That’s what caused me to say that cruel thing, I’m ashamed to say. Why don’t you tell me about your eyes, and then I’ll understand.”

I had to give her credit; she was truly sorry she’d said what she did. It was hard to stay hurt when she felt so bad about it. I explained about the heterochromia irides, and tried to leave it at that, but she prodded and pushed until I spilled how hard it was to grow up so obviously different from anyone else.

“But that just makes you unique, dear! You should celebrate your differences, not hide them!”

“Easy for you to say; it doesn’t make people skittish when they see your eyes coming.”

She smiled and winked. “Now that isn’t in the least bit true.”

I laughed at her mischievous face and reached for the towel as I got out of the tub. “Oh, trust me, I’ve heard tales about the ghost of room one-fourteen. I know you like to pop out at couples when they are arguing, and you have a tendency to rearrange towels.”

She made a little moue. “Girls these days have no idea how to properly fold a towel.”

Eventually I managed to impress Esme with the fact that I needed to sleep, and she faded off into the nothingness that I gathered was a ghost’s state of sleep. Before she dissolved away, I begged her to not bother the maid when she came in later to clean the room. She fussed about that for a bit, but in the end promised that she would make no untoward appearances.

Six hours later I was heading out the door to meet with the hermit. The SIP office had been reticent to give me her name and number (at least I knew it was a woman now), but promised to pass along my information. Ten minutes after I’d hung up, the hermit called and made an appointment to meet me at the British Library.

“I thought the whole purpose of a hermit was that they shut themselves away from everyone, not gallivanted around one of the most popular research libraries in the world,” I told the then-quiet room. It didn’t answer back.

The British Library is now housed in a huge building at St. Pancras, more than fourteen floors of books, manuscripts, periodicals, and other literary items. I had arranged to meet the hermit in the John Ritblat Gallery (which contains, amongst other things, the Magna Carta), as I didn’t have a reader’s card and couldn’t access the reading rooms.

I wandered through the gallery looking at the missals and Leonardo da Vinci’s notebook, and was about to join a demonstration of what a scribe’s workshop was like when a middle-aged woman in a tweed skirt and jacket approached me.

“Allegra Telford? I’m Phillippa. I spoke with you this morning.”

“Oh, hi. You must be the—” I stopped. I supposed it wasn’t entirely appropriate to call a woman wearing a tweed suit and expensively coiffed blond hair a hermit.

“I’m a hermit, yes,” she nodded, then waved toward an
exit. “Why don’t we go into the restaurant and have a cup of tea? We can talk about your problem there.”

I followed her through the piazza to a well-lit restaurant. We collected two little pots of tea, and seated ourselves in an out-of-the-way corner table.

“Phillippa, you’ll have to forgive me, but I’ve never met an honest-to-God hermit before. What … uh … what exactly does a hermit do? If you’re not comfortable being here, around so many people, I’d be happy to go somewhere a little quieter.”

She looked around the room. “No, this is fine. I spend many hours at the library. Oh, I see what you want to know—why am I a hermit when I don’t hide myself away in a dank cave?”

I nodded.

“In my case, the hermit status applies on a metaphysical level only. I spend most of my time mentally cloistered, doing research. I do sometimes take on apprentices, and even more rarely offer my services to penitents such as yourself who seek to gain greater knowledge.”

I gnawed on my lip a bit. “I see. You’re kind of a mental hermit?”

She grimaced and sipped at her tea. “For lack of a better term, I will accept that. Now what is the problem you’re having with Releasing spirits?”

I explained what had happened the day before with the cat.

“I tried every variation I could think of, but none of it worked. I thought perhaps there might be something different about English ghosts, and that’s why I couldn’t send the cat on.”

“Hmmm.” The hermit poured more tea into her cup. “You warded yourself before you spoke the words of Release, yes?”

I nodded. “Left hand, right eye.”

“Just so. And the ginseng? It was ground by a stone mortar and pestle? No metal touched it?”

“Ground it myself.”

“You haven’t been raising demons lately, have you? I’ve found that even the weakest of demons can wreak havoc on ginseng.”

“I didn’t know that, but no, I haven’t raised any demons, ever. I’m really not interested in the dark arts, just the Summoning side of things.”

“Hmm. Very bizarre. Now, if it were a human spirit, I would say it had some unfinished business, but a cat … surely a cat cannot refuse to be Released. What do you know of the cat’s owner, the one who died in the fire? Perhaps the cat is bound to her, and that is keeping it from transferring.”

“The ghost is a woman. She refuses to leave, too. She told me she’s not leaving me until she sees me happy with a … well, with a certain man. It’s not going to happen, so I have no idea how I’m going to convince her to move on.”

The hermit set her cup down carefully. “You didn’t tell me you’d Summoned a human spirit.”

“Oh. Sorry. I did, last night … er … early this morning.”

“And does the cat seem to be bound to her?”

I thought about Esme kissing that poor cat’s head. “Oh, definitely. She calls him her woogie Woogums. I think that just about says it all.”

“Indeed!” The hermit looked horrified. “Well, then, that is your answer. The human spirit has bound the cat’s spirit to hers. If she refuses to leave, the cat will not be able to be sent on.”

“But I tried to Release the cat before I Summoned the other ghost.”

She shrugged and adjusted the string of pearls she wore over a blush-pink blouse. “It is still bound.”

I took notes on some suggestions she had that might help in future Releases, then looked up when she asked, “Tell me about this spirit refusing to be Released.”

I sighed heavily. “Oh, Esme. She’s—Oh, my God! What are you doing here?”

I stared in horror at the translucent image of a woman in a ratty old bathrobe with fat gray curls, holding a three-legged cat. “Good afternoon, Allie. You called?”

“Go away!”
I hissed, waving my hands through her in an attempt to dissipate her ghostly form as I peered around us to see how many people were witnessing a completely unplanned spectral visitation. I was thankful no one was looking in our corner of the room, but it would be only a matter of a few seconds before someone noticed that the third person at our table was floating approximately six inches above the chair.

Esme looked mildly insulted at both my words and my actions.

“You didn’t seal the ghost to her room?” the hermit asked in quiet surprise.

“Are we having tea? What a lovely idea. It’s been ever so long since I enjoyed a good cuppa. How do you do? I’m Esme Cartwright, Allie’s friend. I see you are a Summoner, as well.”

“Seal her? I grounded her, if that’s what you mean. Esme, go away! Fade! Dissolve! Make yourself invisible! Someone is going to see you!” I had my head in my hands now, peering out over the top of my glasses to see if anyone was looking toward us.

“You have to seal a spirit to a physical location,” Phillippa lectured, eyeing both Esme and the cat with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “That keeps them bound to one
location. Otherwise, as the Summoner, you have the power to bring the spirit to you simply by invoking their name.”

“Oh, God, I didn’t know! Esme, will you
please
disappear!”

“Mmm, Earl Grey, I always did enjoy a nice cup of Earl Grey. Who is your companion, Allie?”

The crash of crockery hitting the hard stone floor and a loud, feminine shriek indicated that someone had at last looked our way.

“Her name is Phillippa and she’s a hermit and please, please, please fade away, Esme. You’re about to get me into a very sticky situation.”

“Well, as you asked me so nicely …” She faded away until there was only a faint shimmering of the air where she’d been.

“Oh, thank God she’s gone,” I moaned, banging my forehead against the palms of my hand, sending out the only kind of mental push I used—one to muddle the memory of Esme in the mind of the woman who was hysterically telling her friends what she’d seen. She quieted down immediately.

“I’m not gone, dear; I’m still here safe and sound. Do you want me to rematerialize?” Esme’s voice might have been disembodied, but it could still be heard loud and clear.

“No!” I shrieked, then lowered my voice and hissed through my teeth, “Just stay the way you are, and don’t move. Phillippa, what am I going to do? How do I get you-know-who back to our room? I can’t have her coming with me—I have things to do this afternoon, and she’s likely to—” I waved my hands around to indicate a person’s form.

“I won’t be any trouble, dear.”

“No,” I said firmly to the shimmering air, then turned back to the hermit. She opened her mouth to speak.

“It’s been so long since Mr. Woogums and I have been anywhere,” the chair intoned mournfully.

“Another time, Esme.”

The hermit waited a moment to see if there would be a reply, then tapped her fingers against the teapot. “Do you have any keepers on you?”

“Keepers?” I looked down at my sweater and jeans. The sweater was the most feminine thing I had, worn because I had a nasty suspicion that Christian was going to make an appearance at Joy’s tea. The sun set shortly after five o’clock, so it wasn’t out of the question that he’d pop in. I didn’t relish the comparison that could be made between frumpy little me, the statuesque and obviously pregnant, very feminine Joy, and the petite, pretty beauty of Roxy. All of which goes to explain—at more length than anyone probably cared to know—why I was at that moment wearing a cream, pink, and gray sweater in a rose trellis design, with little yarn bobbles accenting each of the rose stems. “Um. I don’t think I have any keepers. I’d know, wouldn’t I?”

The hermit sighed. “A keeper is a talisman, something you inscribe with the power to bind an unsealed spirit. It is a way for you to contain the spirit and move it without its becoming visible.”

“My name is Esme Cartwright,” the chair said indignantly, trembling a little. “I am not an it.”

“Ah. I must have missed the class on keepers. What do I need to make one? Some sort of a bottle or something with a lid?”

The hermit shook her head. “No, any object will do. The spirit doesn’t go inside the keeper; it becomes part of it, bound to it until you release the spirit from it.”