Ghost Phoenix (2 page)

“The doctor, and my sister, Joanna,” Greta said. “And the herald just came in from his office.”

“Thank you.”

Dismissed, Greta sat back down in her corner.

Richard set his hand on the doorknob. Over the edge now, and this was more dangerous than any wave.

“Please, do not to react to her sickly appearance,” Marshal whispered. “She still cares about that.”

“You mean she's as vain as ever.”

“If she were still that vain, she wouldn't let herself fade,” Marshal said, his jaw clenched.

Richard opened the door to the bedchamber.

Decay hit him as if it were a palpable force. The smell of sickness was overlaid by perfumed scents meant to mask it. It took him back to his father's deathbed, so many years ago, when King Edward IV had wasted away in his bed as drinking and other misuses brought him low.

Richard fought the urge to gag and glanced over at Marshal, now standing at his side. The old warrior's only sign of distress was his hands clasped behind his back, white-knuckled.

“Enough.” Richard strode to the curtains in the darkened room, threw them open and pushed up the window to let in fresh air and sunshine.

“Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?”

Of the trio in the room, Richard identified Jason FitzHugh, the Queen's long-time herald, and the lady-in-waiting, Joanna, given her resemblance to Greta.

That meant the man accosting him must be the doctor.

“I'm letting air and life into the room, which is more than you're doing,” Richard said.

“Are you insane? The risk of infection is too high.” The doctor rushed toward the windows.

Richard stepped forward and barred the way. “Risk is exactly what the Queen needs.”

“And what makes you an expert? For all I can see, you're not even a member of the Court.”

“You sound like a hater, Doctor.”

Marshal cleared his throat. “Richard, this is Doctor Samnee. Doctor, this is Prince Richard, Edward's brother.”

“I see,” Doctor Samnee said.

Richard studied him. This short, middle-aged man with a small mustache and curly hair hardly seemed to carry enough dignity for the Queen's Court. Of course, Richard wasn't one to talk about proper court appearance. Besides, it was the doctor's medical advice that was at issue.

“Why did you give those orders, Doctor, and shut the Queen away from life?”

“Fresh air could expose her, in her weakened state, to all manner of illness.”

“Yet dead and decayed air could expose her, in her weakened state, to death.”

Marshal coughed again, covering his mouth with his hand. No, not a cough. A laugh. At least Richard had improved Marshal's mood.

“You've no right to overrule my treatment,” Samnee said.

“I've every right. Now that my brother is dead, I am the Queen's heir.” Richard tilted his head and glared at the doctor. “You forget your place.”

“And you finally remember yours, Richard,” the Queen whispered, her voice muffled by the curtains around her bed.

The Queen's words were barely audible, yet still carried a rebuke. All was not lost yet, Richard thought, if she possessed the energy to chide him. He strode to the bed and pushed aside the opulent curtains to reveal the occupant.

Only years of practice in courtly manners kept his face from showing the shock of seeing her like this.

None of his Queen's beauty remained. Her sallow cheeks, the sick yellow tint to her skin, and stringy muscles that covered bone made her look like a corpse. Her silk bedclothes seemed a grotesque joke, beauty covering death.

Their immortality relied on the desire to live. Thought became deed. No disease could destroy them, and very few injuries were immune to their psychic healing abilities. Doctors and their precautions be damned—the only way the Queen could die was if she wanted to die.

“How could you let yourself become this?”

“How could you stay away from me so long?” Her eyes gleamed, full of anger. She raised a skeletal finger to him and pointed. “And with these clothes and with your hair bleached? This isn't you.”

Richard bit his tongue and waited a few seconds before replying, lest he let loose his horror at what remained of the most vital person he'd ever known. “Ah, I see you're not too far gone yet if you criticize me. But you didn't answer my question.”

“We are not required to answer your question,” said the Queen, using the royal “we”. Another good sign, he hoped. She must live. What could be so wrong?

He sat on the bed, next to her. With her so tiny, there was plenty of room. “You chide me for leaving. And yet you'd give up and leave them without a Queen.”

“You could lead our court. You're my heir, as you just said.”

“I'd lead them into the waves, perhaps.” He smiled. “Is that why you insisted I return, then? To assure yourself the Court could continue without you?” He shook his head. “I'm no replacement for you. No one is. You'll simply have to live.”

She blinked and looked past him. Richard glanced over his shoulder and saw Marshal standing directly behind him. The others had moved to the opposite side of the room, giving them relative privacy.

“His manners lack, as always, but his words speak the truth, Eleanor,” Marshal said.

“You wound us, William,” she said.

“Truth often wounds. And I fear you may be too far gone for any words to have effect,” Marshal answered.

“Perhaps you are right. It is time for an end to it all.” The weakness in her voice scared Richard more than her skeletal appearance.

“If you want me to witness your death, I refuse, as you should refuse to waste away like this.” Richard stood. “This is your choice. Change it.”

She turned her head away from him. In a low whisper, she said, “I have tried. God's eyes, Richard, I've tried. I cannot shake this damned melancholy. Nothing seems worth it any longer.”

This was not right. Not natural. If the Queen said she tried to stay alive, she should be. What could make her so prone to melancholy now when she never had been in the past? Marshal was nearly as old, and his Queen was sick, but he wasn't ill.

I'm missing some pieces of the puzzle.

Richard knelt by the side of the bed and took the Queen's hand, holding it lightly between his palms. “What can I do to help you? Provide a target for your wrath?”

The sides of her mouth twitched. A smile? “Perhaps immortality is a myth. Perhaps this is the end of my natural lifespan.”

“There's nothing natural about you, Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

At that, she did smile. There. She was in there somewhere. What was shackling her to this bed?

“I ask again, why am I here?”

“To help me. To continue Edward's work.”

“I want to help you, but I'm not Edward. I'll not do as he did.”

“That I know well.” And there was a hint of her old command in her voice. “Once, long ago, there was one gifted with the ability to heal not only herself but others. Alas, she died young. Such healers are lacking in the modern world. Edward wanted to create one for me. He died in the attempt.”

Edward must have been half mad out of his mind with worry and fear for the Queen.

“Did you really order Edward to capture a pregnant woman in the hope her unborn baby could heal you?”

She closed her eyes. “That was your brother's scheme, not mine. But he tried so hard to serve me.”

“So all is forgiven if he did it in your service?”

“He stayed. Unlike you.”

“You know why I left.”

“And now you are back. Will you serve me again?”

“If you wish me to prostrate myself and ask forgiveness, I won't.” Never. He had been right on the matter; she had been wrong. Later events proved it. “But if you ask of me a task that I can accomplish, that's another matter.”

“Disrespectful boy,” she whispered.

“Totally. The same as always.”

“I remember. I remember too many things.” She turned her head from him again and closed her eyes.

Those things had troubled her not until recently. This mood of hers wasn't right. “What's this task?”

“I need you to chase a legend for me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I'm listening.”

“Good.” She looked past him. “Marshal, I feel like I am sinking into this bed. Prop me up on the pillows. Richard and I have much to discuss.”

With one hand, Marshal lifted his Queen up and held her against him while he re-arranged her pillows. As he settled her in a sitting position, he kissed her forehead.

“You are always beautiful, Eleanor,” he said.

“And you were always a smooth courtier.” The Queen took his hand and kissed it. Richard swallowed a lump in his throat and looked away. When the Queen died, he suspected Marshal would lose his will to live as well and follow her.

He would lose them both.

Richard took a chair from the other side of the room and sat at her bedside.

“Stay, William. The rest of you, leave us,” the Queen commanded.

“This exertion is unwise,” Doctor Samnee said. “And the window should be closed.”

“Leave us,” Richard repeated.

Joanna, the doctor and FitzHugh filed out. FitzHugh gave a smile of encouragement as he slipped out the door.

Marshal took a seat on the other side of the bed, watching over the Queen.

“So, what legend must I chase?” Richard asked.

She drank a glass of water Marshal handed to her. “Tell me, Richard, what do you know of Rasputin, the Mad Monk?”

“The one said to have brought down the Russian royal family? Very little.”

“You're about to find out more.” She handed the glass back to Marshal. “Oh, and how do you feel about working with a woman who can become a ghost?”

“Even more intrigued.”

Chapter Two

The wheels of the plane touched down on the runway at LaGuardia. A day in the air after taking off from Athens, and now it was almost done, almost time to deliver the item.
Deliver.
That's what her grandfather called it. Everyone else, including the legal authorities, called it smuggling.

Marian preferred
smuggling
. Call it what it was instead of pretending.

When Marian had first started working for the family firm, she'd stupidly thought it was fun. The adventure of evading authorities, the rush when she used her phantom ability, and the praise of her grandfather and father made it all worthwhile.

But in the last few years, there had been too many close calls, too many hours of uncertainty that set her nerves on edge. Now, all she wanted was for the jobs to be over.

The best part was coming home, like now.

The plane taxied to the gate. Most of those around her pulled out their phones to contact those waiting at the other end of this flight. For her, that had to wait. Only after she successfully snuck the little ivory elephant carving past customs could she consider her work over.

All she had to do was duck into a bathroom before customs, go phantom, phase through the walls and hand off Tantor—it was too cute to not give a nickname—to whomever her grandfather sent to wait on the other side of the customs gate.

She hoped it would be Dad. That would be perfect. He'd pamper her with dinner, and pampering was desperately needed after this marathon trip. She'd spent weeks looking for Tantor for their client, traipsing around the hills and dirt-encrusted ruins of Greece.

Worth it, however. Little Tantor would bring in a cool million. Grandfather was probably salivating over the money already.

Once Tantor was delivered to the other side, she'd phase back through the walls to the bathroom before anyone knew she was even gone and navigate customs perfectly legally, like any other passenger. Aside from the over-long and complicated forms and the risk of death by boredom, that was the easy part.

Marian waited over fifteen minutes for the plane to clear out enough to grab her carry-on from the overhead bin. Grandfather was a damn cheapskate. She smuggled for him, and he made her fly coach back to New York every time. She could have used the extra pillows.

Marian tapped her front pocket to reassure herself Tantor was still there. She hoped most people would assume she was checking for her phone.

She shuffled behind the other passengers disembarking and wiped moisture from her palm on her jacket sleeve. Sweat already drenched her back.

I hate this.

But she couldn't quit. It was the family business. Everyone, extended cousins and all, depended on her to keep the family firm flush with money. She was the only one in the current generation of Doyles to have the phantom ability that had supported the family for over two centuries.

Quit and she'd let everyone down. Maybe she'd even be exiled or shunned. It might be worth it. They took no risks. She was the one who sweated out all the trips through customs, terrified that this would be the time she would be caught, or worse, have her phantom ability exposed.

“Miss Doyle!”

She blinked and raised her head. Damn, she'd spent too much time staring at the floor, or she would have noticed people in front of her before this. She focused on the person wearing a uniform, calling her name. Flight crew? No, it was a TSA agent.

Oh, hell.

“Yes?”
Swallow the fear, swallow the panic.
She could do this. There had to be a way out.

“Please follow me, ma'am. The customs officers need to speak to you.”

“I don't understand. Speak to me about what?”

Maybe if she stared at him long enough, he would vanish as if he were a figment of her imagination. Two other uniformed officers came up to her from behind.

Not figments.

“Follow us, ma'am,” said the first one.

She did, wishing she could go phantom and disappear through the floor. Better yet, float up and out through the ceiling and ride the air until she landed near the cabs that would take her home.

And then what? They knew her name, probably her address and her place of work. Unless she wanted to be a fugitive, she had no choice but to go with them.

To say nothing of what would happen if she went ghost on them. Never let anyone see her do it, that was the family rule, and the airport had to be full of cameras.

It was Tantor that needed to disappear, not her, and before they searched her.

“Just what is the problem?” she asked again. “Do you need to see my papers? I know there are some items in my luggage that need documentation. I have everything in order.”

“That will be up to customs, ma'am,” the officer said. “We are ordered to deliver you to them.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'm sure they'll explain it, ma'am.”

Somehow all the
ma'am
s made it much worse. “Can I use the bathroom first? It was a long flight and I really need to stop there.”

“Orders are to take you directly to their office,” he said. “Sorry.”

They kept hustling her along, one person ahead and one person behind her. Customs knew something. Someone must have tipped them off about what she was carrying. It was the only explanation that made sense. Maybe the tip came from someone who also wanted the carving? No, they would want it to get through customs, not to be confiscated. Unless someone paid off one of the agents. Bribing agents was the usual way to smuggle antiquities into the States. Doyle Antiquities never did that.

They had her.

The TSA agents led her to the customs area and handed her off to the customs officers, who in turn led her from the public area to a windowless room with a chair and table so ugly and nondescript they could only be government issue.

The lead officer was an older African American man. The faint hope she might know him from previous, perfectly legal trips through LaGuardia's customs inspections faded. Maybe someone familiar would make no difference anyway, though it would help her frame of mind to talk to someone she knew.

The two younger officers at his elbows reflected their superior's grim look. No sympathy there.

“Do I need a lawyer? I don't understand what I'm doing here.”

“No, ma'am, you will not need a lawyer unless you are charged with something. Just stay calm, ma'am. Most of the time, this comes to nothing.”

“It's hard to stay calm when I wasn't even allowed to use the bathroom after an international flight, sir. It was a very long flight.”

He frowned and pointed to the female officer. “Pat her down, then escort her to the bathroom.”

“Thank you.” Marian closed her eyes and took a deep breath, not just in relief but also for concentration. She needed for them not to find Tantor during the pat down, and the only way to ensure that was to make it vanish.

She focused on the carving nestled in her pocket, only a thin layer of lining separating it from her skin. She pictured it fading into nothingness.

She opened her eyes and held that thought.

The officer asked her to raise her arms above her head. Marian stared straight ahead as the woman patted down her waist and pocket. The agent's hands passed through little Tantor.

Success!

“Put your arms down.”

Marian did. She remained silent, holding her concentration.

“Nothing,” the female officer reported.

“Then get her to the bathroom and come straight back.”

Marian followed the woman and thanked God it was a short walk. Tantor would become solid in a few minutes. She wished the effect was permanent, but temporary was the best she could do.

Molecular manipulation was damned complicated, as Great-Aunt Eunice had said many times while drilling Marian full of lessons in how to use the ability. The most important rule was to always know its limits.

One slip in her concentration now and the carving could merge with the molecules of her pants or even her leg.

Just a few more steps.

The officer came with her into the bathroom and directed her to a stall. As soon as Marian closed the door, she silently counted back from ten to one, until Tantor was solid again. She took him out and stroked his little tusks. So pretty, and those tiny eyes almost looked real.

So little to cause all this fuss. Tantor belonged in a museum. The one consolation she'd had when acquiring the tiny elephant was knowing that he'd at least be appreciated by someone instead of being buried in a ruin. But now she'd have to hide him away again.

And she had to stash him in a way that didn't attract attention from her guard and a in a place where she might be able to retrieve him after this was over.

Look as if she were behaving normally. That was the key. After she used the bathroom for its intended purpose, she slipped the carving into her hand. Where? Where could she put it? Not here. The only good place was the toilet and that might ruin it. No, not Tantor!

She turned him intangible again, easier this time because she was holding him. She held the elephant on the side of her body opposite the agent and then used her back to block the agent's view as she washed her hands, the carving clutched tight in her palm.

“What's taking so long?” the agent asked.

“Doctors recommend scrubbing at least forty seconds to eliminate germs,” she said.

The agent snorted.
Now or never.

Marian pushed the intangible carving into the sink. Her hand went phantom, invisible now save where it was framed by water drops. With Tantor still in her hand, she sunk it and her hand into the concrete wall beyond the sink.

The agent took a step closer. “What are you doing, ma'am?”

“Someone spilled a soda on my arm on the plane. It's sticky.”

“Or you could be dropping something down the drain.”

“After that pat down you gave me? I don't think so.” Marian made a show of scrubbing her arm, half of her staring at the agent, the other half of her concentration on her phantom arm and Tantor. There. The density of the wall changed, and she knew it had to be an air pocket.

She dropped Tantor into it and pulled her hand out. She held it up, water dripping, to show the agent.

“See?”

“Don't get smart.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Marian dried off her hands with the hand dryer. Of course now she had to come back at some point and search for Tantor, and she wasn't sure exactly where the little elephant was.

Their client was going to be very angry if she couldn't get it back. There would go a million-dollar payday. And her grandfather was going to be incredibly pissed.

Let him. She held her head up. Next time, let her grandfather risk being arrested. She had done the best she could. Tantor wasn't lost. He was just buried again, hopefully temporarily.

“Thank you,” she said to the customs officer. “I feel much better now.”

Marian cut the last slices of the rapidly melting ice-cream cake. The party was almost over. Soon, she could get this confrontation with her grandfather over and done.

Yesterday at customs had been a nightmare that lasted hours, despite hiding Tantor from their prying eyes. Clearly, the officers had believed she had the little elephant and took forever to conclude she didn't have it.

When she went back to the public restroom to retrieve Tantor after the questioning was over, she hadn't been able to find him. She'd hidden him too fast, and she hadn't dared linger too long in there, not after they finally cleared her to leave. Poor little elephant.

Maybe on the next trip she could duck into the bathroom and try again. Grandfather had wanted to send her back to LaGuardia immediately to roam around as a phantom.

It was a good idea. But at that point, she was so tired of his complaining and criticizing, that she'd refused. He had no idea of the real risks she took with all those cameras around.

The only thing that had ended his angry tirade was her father's assertion that her arrest would have meant extremely bad publicity, possibly even accessory criminal charges, for Doyle Antiquities.

That shut Grandfather up. So far, all he'd done today was glare at her. He probably was thinking of ways to butter her up so she'd head out to the airport, do the ghost thing, and come back with their million-dollar payday.

Maybe she'd do it. But not today. And if she did, she just might anonymously donate it to a museum. Besides, if she'd been caught, she would have missed her new nephew's baptism party.

She would never let down Jen. Her sister was the only one in her family she could relax with, the only one who cared about Marian the person, not Marian with the gift for smuggling million-dollar items. She liked her brother-in-law too. She expected she'd like the little guy at some point but all her godson James did so far was cry and sleep, so that was hard to tell right now.

But even crying, James was still definitely preferable to Grandfather.

She washed off the pastry knife in the sink as her brother-in-law rushed in to get the last slices to distribute to the guests gathered in the backyard. Scott looked harried, his eyes tired like only the eyes of a parent of a newborn could be. He barely mumbled thanks, added the slices to a tray and slipped back out. Laughter wafted in from the backyard as Marian slumped against the refrigerator, her job nearly finished. Hiding in the kitchen allowed her to plan her speech to Grandfather.

She was done with this. Over, finished. Screw their guilt trip. Her father had plenty of legitimate clients. Let those support the family firm. She couldn't go on like this.

Marian pulled at a drawer to get out the last of the plastic silverware. It jammed. She tugged the drawer harder and that accomplished nothing except making herself angry. Dammit.

She looked down at her hand and concentrated until it was translucent. She stuck her arm up to her elbow through the jammed drawer and closed her eyes. Usually, she could do this to her hand without thinking, but her mind was stressed and jumbled today. How stupid would it be to screw up something as simple as un-sticking a drawer? She'd never hear the end of it.