“Transferred?
” An icy hand clutched her throat. Shit. She’d totally screwed up. What would happen to her now? “Transferred to where? Purgatory?”
His laughter
diminished her little spurt of curiosity, shrank her into the leather until she felt as large as a hobnail. “There is no purgatory, my dear. Or heaven or hell. There is only the Afterlife.”
“What exactly is the Afterlife?”
Fingers tracing the animated characters racing over the clipboard, he offered her a sideways smile. “You’ll find out over time.”
Great. That was helpful
.
Out of thin air, a
musical interlude played. Jodie couldn’t place the melody, but it was lyrical and sweet, like harps in heaven.
“
Ah, look here.” He tapped an index finger on the neon characters, now immobile on the glowing clipboard. “The Board has found a job opening for you.”
She stared at the purple geometric figures, recognizing nothing
legible in the chicken scratch. “What kind of job?”
H
e rose and held out a hand. “Come. First we will review your lifetimes with the Council of the Elders. And then you will meet your trainer.”
~~~~
Luc Asante hated hanging around cemeteries. Of all the places his job took him—prisons, woods, abandoned hospitals, battlegrounds—only these mournful havens for the dead and the grieving made him long for his bleak room in the Halfway House. Even on a clear night like tonight, with no breeze, and a full moon illuminating the rows of headstones like books on a library shelf, his nerves frayed. Death was a constant reminder in a cemetery. And Luc needed no reminders about the Great Beyond.
Twin white lights bounced up the pitted dirt road, piercing the eerie blackness.
Oh, what fresh hell was this? The captain hated intruders. And if Luc didn’t bag the old sea dog tonight, his perfect record would be shot to hell. No way did he intend to return without the captain.
One out, one back
. Luc always got his man. Or woman. Or ghoul.
The vroom of a noisy exhaust system preceded
a rust-pitted sedan driving through the never-closed wrought iron gates. As the car drew closer, Luc caught a whiff of burning motor oil. The sedan’s paint color was sun-bleached adobe red, except for the primer passenger door. Only one human demographic would drive that kind of shitbox to a cemetery on a moonlit night. Kids. Had to be some dopey kids.
Why did teenagers consider cemeteries great
sites for consumption of ill-gotten booze, illegal smokes, and make-out parties? He wouldn’t be caught dead in one.
Hmmm…poor choice of words there. As a
living, breathing teenager, he wouldn’t be caught dead in one. These days, he didn’t have much of a choice. Still, he’d have to get rid of these interlopers.
The car passed his hiding place, and sure enough, a youn
g guy sat behind the wheel with a female passenger’s head leaning on his shoulder. Ah, young love. What a crock!
Enjoy it while you can, pal. Pretty soon she’ll be after you for the material crap you can give her. If she isn’t already…
The driver pulled to a stop at the edge of the south gate, near the cliff overlooking the water, and cut the engine. Heavy rock music thumped and wailed from the car’s interior. The couple locked in a shadowy embrace.
He snorted back a laugh.
Whatever these two planned for tonight was about to go vastly awry. Creeping out from behind the captain’s worn headstone, he floated toward them. By the time he reached the car, he’d transformed to mist. Not that the dopey teens noticed. The windows had fogged up so badly there was no way they’d ever feel the drop in temperature or see how clouds suddenly obscured the full moon.
Time to do the orb thing
. He hated throwing orbs, those small haloes of energy that danced through the air and sent paranormal investigators into orgasms of delight. And since his uninvited guests had more interesting tasks on their mind than stargazing, he’d have to direct a tremendous amount of focus into making his orb bright, bold, and menacing enough to scare the crap out of them. And the energy he expended on these two brainless twits would leave him with less fight for whatever else lay in store tonight. What if the captain proved too stubborn to come along quietly? Unless…
Maybe he should throw a series of orbs to resemble a police cruiser
appearing behind their car. Yes. A much better solution. That would scare them away and not draw attention to his actual presence.
Spreading his vapor
ous form thinly over the ground, he gathered atoms into static electricity bundles. Electrons skittered through him, and he flattened himself into a pool of negatively-charged plasma covering the dry dirt. When he’d amassed all the energy available in the nearby ground and air, he focused on creating two white lights the approximate size and luminescence of a car’s high beams.
Needing more electricity, he pulled at the car’s battery. His depletion of sine waves converted the blaring music into a continual static hiss.
If the teenagers noticed the change, they didn’t care. More likely they were too involved in each other, too intent on acting on their hormonal impulses, to wonder what happened to their favorite song on the radio. Their car rocked side-to-side in a rhythm Luc hadn’t forgotten from his own reckless youth. The good old days. Before he’d fallen for the wrong woman.
Smothering the bitter memories
, he focused his energies on balancing the two orbs with his mind, an inch or so beneath the car’s rear bumper. He then evoked a series of red and blue lights, which he aligned above his “headlights.” With his false image ready, he lifted the orbs into position directly behind the back windshield. For added effect, he moaned a quick, guttural
whoop-whoop
, which managed to sound remarkably official.
The girl’s head shot up
and swerved to the lights. “Shit! Cops!” she shrieked and struggled with the pink t-shirt currently wrapped around her neck.
The boy leaped into full alert status
, straightened in the driver’s seat, and quickly cranked the key in the ignition. The engine coughed, and then sputtered to life.
If Luc weren’t already dead, the car’s ensuing peel-out would have knocked him
flat and dragged him over the rocky incline into oblivion.
“Admirable work, young man
.” The lazy round vowels of post-Revolutionary Long Island thudded from behind him.
With his essence a
lready depleted, Luc amassed the last stores of his energy to transform vapor into human. If any real human had dared come close, they’d see nothing but mist. But to other entities of the Afterlife, he would appear as flesh and bone, wearing his favorite stonewashed jeans and black t-shirt. With a tired sigh, he turned toward this new visitor. “Captain,” he said with a solemn glare. “You know why I’m here.”
“Aye.”
Captain Edmund Fitzhume of the frigate,
Mary Grace,
nodded.
He wore his traditional cobalt blue frock coat with
dozens of brass buttons over a loose-fitting ivory shirt and tan breeches. In his hands, he crushed a cocked hat braided with gold.
Luc recited the details the Board had provided upon assigning him this bounty.
“Your first mate’s diary was discovered in an attic in Sag Harbor last year. In it, he wrote about the mutiny—a deathbed confession that has reinstated your once-sterling reputation. The details were made public, a book has reached the bestseller list and there’s talk about making your story into a movie. I’d say you’ve been fully exonerated of the shipwreck. And now it’s time for you to move on.”
“Aye,” the c
aptain repeated, twisting the hat’s brim between agitated fingers.
Wow
.
If only all the souls he wrangled up were this easy to convince. Experience, however, had taught him to tread carefully. The dead weren’t always what they seemed.
“Truth is,
” the captain said, “I am tired of this place. Tired of the scientists who come with their light meters and strange viewing tools. They trample my resting place and chase after floating bits of ectoplasmic dust like a hunter stalks a ten-point stag. And the youths are even worse. They sit and drink their ale and rum beneath my favorite tree there.” He pointed to a graceful elm, its leafy branches extended, nature’s canopy shading his headstone. “And then they tell tales of how I walk around with my head tucked under my arm.”
Luc bit back
a smile. No doubt a man like Captain Fitzhume, who’d lived his entire life with honor and dignity, despised those drunken tales as much as he did the blame he’d been mistakenly assigned when the
Mary Grace
hit the rocks off Fire Island and sank, killing ninety-seven of the one hundred souls aboard. If not for the found diary, would the captain’s soul have ever surrendered the fight to prove his innocence? Three hundred years. Nearly three hundred years the old sea dog had loitered here in this dismal place, waiting for justice.
Anger bounced over Luc’s synapses,
charging his nerve endings into frenzied fireflies illuminating the dark night in sporadic flashes. How many years of penance would
he
have to perform? For Daphne’s sins? But he couldn’t lay all the blame at Daphne’s feet anymore. He had to share some responsibility for what had happened to him, for his untimely death. Because he’d been stupid enough to marry the greedy, selfish bitch. When everyone had warned him against taking the plunge, he’d dived in, heedless of the consequences.
Shaking off the memories and
inherent rage, he studied the captain through jaded eyes. “Does that mean you’ll come along peacefully?”
“Aye.” The agreement came stronger now.
“Terrific,” Luc said. “If you’ll follow me—”
The captain’s gloved hand clamped his shoulder.
“One thing, laddie, before we go.”
A s
pider of suspicion skittered down his spine. He should’ve known. None of the souls ever went away easily. The temptations of Earth kept them bound to old lives, old habits, old passions. Such a shame. He sighed. “Yes?”
The c
aptain glanced at his hat, must have realized he’d pretty much destroyed it, and brushed a hand over the brim in a pitiful effort to repair the damage. “What happens now?”
“You’ll move on.”
“To where?”
He shrugged
, struggling to keep the bitterness from his tone. “I don’t know.”
The captain’s bushy brows became one straight
sooty caterpillar over his beady eyes. “You’ve never been?”
“
No.”
“Why not?”
“I died before I was supposed to.” Even after all this time, the words tasted like acid on his tongue. “Now I’m stuck wrangling up guys like you until my reservation is confirmed.”
“Well, then, I’d best not keep you from your duties. Lead on, sir.” With a sweep of his hat, the captain bowed.
Chapter 2
Once again, the sounds and images of this place stunned Jodie into mute submission. When Sherman, the odd little spirit guide, led her into a vast auditorium, she paused at the entrance to gain her bearings. Behind her, the quiet yet frenetic activity of the Welcome Area served as a constant reminder that she was, in fact,
dead
.
But everything seemed so real, so
life-like
. If not for Sherman and the weird purple bath towel she wore—a getup she’d never wear on Earth—she might have thought she was dreaming of a vacation in a glorious five-star hotel. Even this new room, where she stood on the edge of the doorway looking over a space that could easily seat a thousand people, resembled a Broadway theater without an audience. Strangely, the room held only a lone golden leather club chair. The chair faced the stage—or what Jodie considered a stage—a raised platform in the front of the massive room.
The Council of Elders
, a line of twelve men and women garbed in gauzy white togas, with gold hoops in their lobes, stood. Their faces, though lineless, held the wisdom of the ages. The Elders faced the empty audience area, silent but waiting, as if, one by one, each would step up to deliver a speech.
Sherman tugged Jodie’s arm. “Come along, my dear. It isn’t good to keep the Elders waiting.”
On leaden feet, she took a tentative step, then another. But Sherman, apparently impatient with her hesitancy, gripped her elbow and tugged, dragging her at a much rapid pace to the front of the room. As she neared, the council members floated forward.
Okay
, a
little freaky to have people moving without the use of legs and feet—even though they have legs and feet!
Jodie struggled to come to grips with this place, but her head spun, and her legs trembled.
“Come to us, Jodie Rosalind Devlin,” they spoke in unison, a jury of the peerless. “Learn from us.”
She stopped. Good God, what would they do to her? Would she be punished for ruining so many futures in one blinding stroke of self-pity? Terror drove her to her knees, but Sherman grasped her elbow even tighter and pulled her upright. Despite his grip, she stumbled, the skirt of the toga she wore twisted around her unsteady feet.
“Have no fear, my dear,” he whispered
urgently. “The Council is not here to judge you in any way. They are the wisest souls in the Afterlife. Their presence is meant to soothe you, not alarm you. Place your trust in the one who pulls strongest for you.”
Jodie’s gaze scanned the six male and six female spirits
. How was she supposed to place her trust in these people who frightened her? She’d never liked strangers, had always avoided them in an effort to minimize the staring and the questions about her scars. A long-ingrained reflex, she tucked her hands into the folds of her garment, hiding them from sight.
On the next breath,
her gaze locked on a woman whose deep sapphire eyes mirrored sympathy, kindness, and maternal compassion. Her hands dropped to her sides again as she simply stared at the woman’s ethereal beauty.
As if reading her unspoken request, the spirit nodded. “I am honored you have chosen me,
Jodie,” she said in a voice warm and soft as a spring breeze.
Jodie blinked. Was that what she’d done? Chosen this lovely woman, simply by taking a moment to appreciate her beauty?
The woman’s eyes locked on Jodie’s. In their wondrous depths, stars glittered, a galaxy of love. For a moment or two, Jodie lost herself: senses numbed, her mind slowed to a halt, and nothing
mattered but the velvet blue of the woman’s eyes. When she finally tore her gaze away and refocused on the auditorium, she and the feminine spirit stood alone in the room. All the others, including Sherman, had disappeared.
Oh, God. I am definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
Shudders racked her, making her flesh twitch.
A rustle filled her ears, and
invisible arms encircled her in a blanketing embrace. “Do not be afraid, dear one,” the spirit said. “Sit.”
Sit? How could she? What if this woman meant to punish her for destroying all those beautiful lives? Her children and grandchildren who would now never b
e? Thanks to her stupidity and weakness. What would happen if she ran right now? Just took off screaming through the doors? Did she dare?
“There is no reason to run,” the spirit replied. “You will come to no harm with me. Can you feel me holding you?”
Those unseen arms clasped her shaking shoulders, soothing her nerves and easing her fears. A sense of peace enveloped her, as if she were an infant cradled against her mother’s breast. Relaxing, she sank into the leather of the club chair on a long hiss of air.
“We shall review three of your past lives,” the spirit said, “ending with your most recent journey on
Earth. Some of what you see may upset you, but remember. These are shades of people you once knew and memories of what has occurred. All these events and connections shaped who you are. We examine them now so you may learn from them. An ingrained knowledge of your past, buried deep within your heart, will mold who you will be in your next incarnation. I will stay with you throughout the process to shield you and protect you, as well as to answer all your questions. Before we begin, is there anything you wish to ask me?”
“Yes
. What should I call you?”
“Serenity will do,” the spirit replied. “
Are you ready to continue?”
“I…” Jodie swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “I guess.”
“Do not fear.” Serenity ran a loving hand over Jodie’s hair. “Remember I am with you. Close your eyes.”
When she complied,
colors streaked like fireworks across her mind. Within the blink of an eye, the vivid hues sharpened, forming the shape of a dark-haired woman with snapping blue eyes.
Goodwife Greta Hamburg lived with her husband,
Erick, in New Amsterdam in the New World. Jodie knew everything about Greta. Because centuries ago, Jodie
was
Greta. And now, as she watched Greta’s life unfold, the memories flooded through her. How Greta had always considered her married life happy and peaceful. Until the Salem hysteria crept into their peaceful village, clawing for more victims.
Eventually, Greta would go to the stake, declaring her innocence. And
while the flames ate painfully through her flesh, the last sight her dying eyes would behold was her beloved husband. Erick, silent and accusatory, stood beside the black-frocked minister, Proctor Verhoeven, who’d convinced the villagers of her guilt in practicing the Black Arts.
As Greta, every inch of Jodie’s singed flesh sizzled in an endless suffering tattoo until her heart could no longer stand the pain and she gave herself over to the numbness of death. Once Greta perished, the screen grew fuzzy.
When the blur once again cleared to crisp edges, she saw a red-faced babe, squalling in a woman’s arms, and knew the child was Christine Anne Grainger. The squalid, overheated room in an eighteenth-century cabin came to life.
Jodie Devlin no longer sat in the chair, a spectator. Jodie Devlin no longer existed.
She
was Christine Anne Grainger. Born June 3, 1761.
In 1
778, barely two months after Christine had received word of her intended’s death at the hands of the British, a house fire erupted suddenly in the middle of the night. The flames devoured her parents and physically scarred the lovely young Christine. Watching Christine die alone and penniless ten years later hollowed Jodie, as if carving her heart from her chest.
And then
came her most recent life. Once again, she was the young Jodie, naïve and sheltered, bouncing from strange country to strange country with her UNESCO parents. Every incident, still emblazoned on her mind from current memory, roared to the surface of her consciousness. She relived that horrible day in the little village of Castelan, outside San Salvador. The oppressive jungle heat drew sweat from her pores. A helicopter’s blades
thwopp-thwopped
overhead. And then…chaos.
H
er mother’s voice echoed from her memory.
Hurry, Jack, hurry!
She saw her father struggle
to start the sputtering Jeep and felt relief when the engine coughed and turned over. A lurch later, her bottom jostled over rutted roads as they hurried to escape the violence breaking out around them. Soldiers streamed from the jungle, their eyes black and their expressions soulless.
Screams echoed in her head, and the young Jodie covered her eyes with her hands. Sparks blazed from the dense foliage, glowing between the spaces in her fingers. At the same time,
rickety-rickety
sounds erupted. Gunfire! Before she could scream a warning, her parents’ bullet-riddled bodies jerked and danced on the impact of the semi-automatic artillery. The Jeep’s engine, punctured in a dozen places, hissed like a time bomb before exploding. Shrapnel rained on her with the sting of ten thousand bees.
T
eenaged Jodie Devlin woke in a third world hospital, alone and in excruciating pain. Survival came from a dozen agonizing skin grafts the doctors inflicted to repair the second and third-degree burns marring her arms and legs.
Her heart bled
when the consulate representative informed her of her parents’ deaths. Breath left her lungs when she relived her harried flight to New York, a place she’d never known except from photographs. She spent time with all the foster families again: from the kind old doctor friend of Daddy’s and his much younger, possessive wife, to the grieving couple who had hoped to replace their dead daughter with a live, scarred one. She saw again the children who’d taunted her, heard their insults, endured their slaps and pinches.
A newspaper
she’d seen long ago blared the headline,
Scandal Rocks Amity-For-All
, and in smaller print,
Charity May Be Linked to Bloody Coup in San Salvador.
She’d never read the details of the article, though she’d wanted to. Her then-foster parents refused to allow her to “dwell on the past.” After all, hadn’t she experienced that bloody coup first-hand? Wasn’t that enough? Now, however, the newspaper article became a blip on her brain, there for a heartbeat, then gone.
Incidents whizzed through her memory.
Every move, every disappointment, every disastrous attempt to find love and happiness, stole another piece of Jodie’s heart, like splinters of the True Cross. Once again, life became a chore, each day harder to survive—until she met Gabe. Dear, sweet, shy Gabe with his sweet, shy courtship. All their precious moments flew by too fast. Until they reached the humiliating moment he told her he needed to find the perfect woman. And then time slowed.
Knowing now what she hadn’t suspected then, she saw the evening through different eyes
. Now, she noticed the grin he couldn’t erase, counted how many times—fourteen—he fumbled in his breast pocket where he no doubt hid an engagement ring. She watched the shocked expression pop onto his face when she stormed out of the restaurant because he said he wanted a perfect woman in his life. No. Not
a
perfect woman, as she’d heard that night.
The
perfect woman.
Before she could analyze the difference, she o
nce again sat behind the wheel of her battered old Corolla, floored the gas pedal, careened into the liquor store’s parking lot, purchased the liter of Grey Goose, and roared home, tears blurring her vision through all ten miles.
An icy chill
encased her soul while her bathtub filled. She shuddered.
“Do not be afraid, Jodie,” Serenity whispered. “I am with you. We’re almost done.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“I don’t think I can bear to see this.”