Ghost Talkers (33 page)

“That seems … why?”

“I told you. It's my one good deed.”

“But why you? Why not a medium?”

Reginald frowned, and the line between his brows seemed at odds with his usually careless ease. Lady Penfold cut in. “Ben is quite unstable. Helen and I believe that using the body of someone with whom he has shared experiences will help him.”

“And we did grow up together.”

A scrap of memory from when she had channelled Ben turned her stomach. He had loathed this man. No common memory was going to override that, surely. “But—surely there is someone else who—”

“Whom he liked?” The corner of Reginald's mouth turned up in a sardonic smile. “Yes. As the younger, poorer child, I had to take what attention was offered. Ben wanted little to do with me, but we had to maintain good relations, didn't we? Under those circumstances, I found it better to pretend that I didn't know how he felt.”

Ginger stared at Reginald, mouth slightly agape. He could not mean … Ben had said he didn't have a sensitive bone in his body. She tried to stretch out of her body to see his aura, but her circle flexed their collective will, holding her firmly inside her skin.

Reginald's eyes unfocused a little, and he sighed. “Our maternal grandmother fled Germany with her family when her father was almost burned at the stake for being a medium. Acknowledgment of the Sight was not encouraged. So.

“I will not pretend I am anyone that you should like to associate with, but I was fond of Ben, despite everything, and if this helps him to rest…” He spread his hands and turned his head to look at Ginger's right shoulder, where a cool breeze lingered. “Shall we get to it, old man?”

The breeze stirred Ginger's hair, rushing past her with a sigh. She stiffened on the bed, and tightened her grip on Mr. Haden and Edna. The fabric of Reginald's lapel lifted for a moment. A strand of his blond hair blew free of its pomade. With a grunt, he staggered and dropped to his knees.

Lady Penfold sprang from the bed. “Oh, dear—”

“Sorry. That was a little more melodramatic that I would have liked.” Ben raised Reginald's head. He smiled, lopsided and full of dimples. “You keep telling me that I don't need to worry about you, and then winding up in hospital.”

“Only once.”

“Twice. But who's counting?” He winked, and pushed up to stand. It was Reginald's body, but the posture was Ben's. His shoulders sat at a slight angle, as though he would lean against a wall if it were offered.

“Apparently
you're
counting.” Ginger fought to breathe. “Is it really gentlemanly to keep score?”

Ben cocked his head and looked at her sideways, through lashes that were too light to be his. “Only when you owe a debt.”

“And do you? I didn't think you were the type to let a debt go unpaid.”

He took three familiar steps, then sat on the bed at her side. “I owe
you
a debt.”

“Ben … darling. Please. You owe me nothing.” She tried to reach for him, but Edna held her hand. Ginger closed her eyes, clenching her jaw against tears. “Please, please believe that you have more than fulfilled your duty. You have no unfinished business.”

His hand brushed a tear from her cheek. With her eyes shut, she could imagine that the weight shifting on the bed really did belong to Ben. “But I do.”

She gave a desperate laugh. “Finding your murderer, stopping a traitor, and uncovering a plot by the Germans isn't enough? And don't you dare say that your duty is to keep me safe. Because I refuse to accept being haunted just so we can keep having the same argument.”

He chuckled. “No. It has become abundantly clear to me over the past several … however long it's been … not only that you are resourceful, but that your circle is a force to be reckoned with. I mean, Lady—your aunt alone is more protection than I could ever have been.”

“Ben—” She opened her eyes to look at Reginald's form and reminded herself that her love was not here. But his eyes—she had not noticed that they had the same eyes. Or perhaps it was merely the steadiness of his gaze and the way he watched her with his head canted a little to the side.

“I am sorry that I doubted your abilities.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she thought she might tear in two. “I shall miss you. So very much.”

“Just remember that you've promised to grow old.”

“People will quake before me as I brandish my cane at them.”

“They will quake even before that.” His dimples flashed again. “And then you will charm them. Or maybe you'll charm them first. Probably you'll do both, just to keep people on their toes.”

Ginger could not raise her hands to wipe her eyes, but the tears streaming down her cheeks seemed almost a relief. She did not want Ben to go, but she could not keep him. Ginger swallowed and leaned on her training with the Spirit Corps in order to be able to speak at all. “Have you any final messages?”

“Thank Reg for me. Tell him I'm sorry I was a blighter to him.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

She tried to smile for him. “Is there anything else?”

“Apparently I owe you a kiss.” Ben took a breath and looked as nervous as he had when he proposed. “May I?”

She nodded, words completely beyond her power. Ben leaned forward, and Ginger closed her eyes to meet him. Unfamiliar cologne clung to him. The contours of his lips were new, but the warmth and passion that came through them broke her heart with familiarity.

His breath was rough, and tears dampened his cheek where it pressed against hers. “I love you very much, Ginger Stuyvesant.”

“I love you too.”

He pulled back, and she opened her eyes as his hands cradled her face. Ben gave a tentative smile, dimple flashing for a brief moment, and then he tilted his head to the side. “Oh.
That's
the light. It's—”

Reginald slumped on the bed, sliding off of it and landing on the floor with a thump.

Lady Penfold dropped the handkerchief that she had been blotting her eyes with and knelt by him. “Are you all right, Captain?”

His eyes blinked open, still red from Ben's tears. Ginger expected him to complain about being on the floor, but he brought his hands up over his eyes, and his breath shuddered in his chest.

“I'm fine.” His voice was hoarse, and he wiped fiercely at his eyes before shoving himself to his feet. Reginald tugged at his uniform, all familiar traces of physicality gone. “Good deed is done.”

The tears continued to stream down his cheeks, and his hands shook as he ducked out of the circle. He would not remember what they had talked about while Ben had had control of his body.

Ginger cleared her throat, but her own voice shook. “Ben wanted me to thank you. He said he was sorry he was such a blighter to you.”

Reginald stopped at the door, his back still to them. He grabbed his hat from the dresser. “If he'd really meant it, he wouldn't have given me a glimpse of—” Glancing over his shoulder at Ginger, his face was stricken. “He loved you very much. You have my sincere condolences for your loss.”

And then he was gone.

And Ben was gone.

But Ginger was not alone. Her circle rose from their chairs, still linked, and wrapped her in their embrace as she wept.

S
EPTEMBER
1916

Ginger waited at the checkpoint as the guard considered her papers. The loose end of the turban wrapped around his helmet flapped in the early autumn breeze. Another guard watched, his rifle held in a casually ready position. Her aunt's car idled behind her, in case she needed to be taken back to Le Havre. She kept her soul in her skin and tried to rely on watching the guard's face to guess his response.

He grunted and folded the papers to hand back to her. “All in order, Cpl. Stuyvesant. First time to Graveside?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She took her documents and stared past the checkpoint to the bunker built into a French hillside. “But I was at Potter's Field in Le Havre.”

“Well, then you know what you're getting into more than I do, I suspect.” He turned and gestured to the bunker. “Just down the steps and turn right to go to the command centre. The left will take you to Potter's Field.”

She nodded and walked to the bunker door. It opened onto a steep stair lined with hastily poured concrete. As she went down, the air chilled quickly. Now that they were no longer trying to hide the fact that the Spirit Corps existed, the intelligence department had opted for safety as the first consideration. They had buried the mediums deep in the earth, far from the front lines. They hadn't been able to move the nexus, but with Ginger's ghost army, Helen had devised a system whereby volunteer ghosts redirected the incoming souls.

At the bottom of the stairs, Ginger glanced to the left, but the long hallway to Potter's Field curved away under the earth. She wasn't back on duty yet. Taking a breath of the cold, earthy air, Ginger turned to her right. She passed other young women moving with purpose through the narrow halls.

Rough timbers supported the ceiling, with bare bulbs suspended from them. Green doors stood at intervals along the corridors, and everywhere she walked, pockets of uncanny cold air brushed against her, whispering. At an intersection, Ginger paused and got directions from a young West Indian soldier who pointed her to the brigadier-general's office.

She swallowed and stared at the door, then raised her hand to knock.

“Enter!”

Ginger opened the door on a meeting in progress. Brigadier-General Davies looked over his glasses and nodded a greeting. “Miss Stu—Cpl. Stuyvesant, your timing is excellent. We were just discussing poltergeist training.” He gestured to his right. “There's a seat by Sgt. Patel.”

Sgt. Patel sat next to Capt. Lethbridge-Stewart. Across the table from them, Capt. Keatley had his usual sheaf of papers. Capt. Axtell leaned back in his chair, twirling a cigarette between his fingers. His hair had returned to its usual blond. It turned out that the brigadier-general had sent him to investigate the Baker Street trench because a leak was stemming from there. He thought it might have been Ben.

And beside him, Helen—Capt. Jackson—slid a paper across the table to Ginger's seat.

Before sitting, Ginger hesitated for a moment. “I—I haven't officially been returned to duty.”

“Eh? What?” The brigadier-general pushed his chair back and stood. “My dear gir—my dear woman, if you are still recovering, you should have sent word you could not attend. We would have understood, of course.”

She shook her head, aware that her uniform was too loose, despite the efforts of her aunt's chef. “No—it's not that. It's just that I need to be formally reinstated. Do I have permission to return to active duty?”

“Of course—that's why I asked you to come today. We need your expertise.”

“I meant as a medium.”

“Ah. That's up to your superior officer.” The brigadier-general turned to Helen. “Well, Capt. Jackson?”

Helen tilted her head, and her gaze went distant. Ginger swallowed as the other woman read her soul. “I really am much better.”

“You have lied to me before about your health.”

Ginger blushed and ducked her head. “Yes.”

“Will you again?”

“Probably.” She looked back up and unexpectedly met Axtell's gaze. His genial mask had slipped, and his fatigue was clear from his features. “I think we all do, just to keep going.”

Axtell nodded, then gave a huge laugh, slapping his knee as the mask slipped back into place. “That's true enough. If you wanted every soldier to be honest about their health, we'd all be home.”

Capt. Jackson nodded at the chair. “Well then, sit down. We have work to do.”

Ginger let out a sigh of relief and sank into the chair next to Sgt. Patel. He leaned over and whispered, “I am very glad you are better. Indeed, I am.”

“Likewise.” Ginger pulled Capt. Jackson's report closer and listened to the conversation about how to work with their volunteer ghost army. The Great War was far from over, and duty called.

She had unfinished business. They all did.

 

Acknowledgments

You know you're in good shape when John Scalzi writes your opening line for you. I was telling him about
Ghost Talkers,
which originally opened with a dinner party in London, and he explained that I was stupid—although he said it more kindly than that—and told me what my actual opening line was. So please offer him thanks that you didn't waste time reading about a dinner party.

Thank you to all the people who helped me with historical facts when I was in the early throes of this book: Scott Lynch, David Hogg, Sally Smith, Greg Vose, Norin, John Pitzel, CD Covington, Fric, Chuck Rothman, Val French, Tom Evans, and Robert Killheffer. They know terrifying amounts about WWI and helped me settle on the Battle of the Somme and Delville Wood. The mistakes are mine, but there are fewer of them than there would have been without these folks.

Thanks to Michael Livingston for pointing out that J. R. R. Tolkien was actually at the Battle of the Somme. Yes, really. And also for being willing to teach me how to speak in Middle English for the audiobook. (For the record, I'll note that Narrator Mary haaaaaaates Writer Mary. Middle English? Really? Who thought that was a good idea?)

Thanks to Tobias Buckell, who made an incredibly good suggestion while visiting for a mini writers' retreat. If you're a writer, you know that moment when you're beating your head against a wall and you say, “I wish someone else would just write this for me.”

Toby said, “Why don't you ask Dave?”

He had collaborated with David Klecha before, and, man … was he right. My first efforts at planning the assault on the Germans were pretty shabby. I needed to learn so much about military tactics in order to stage that correctly. So I just e-mailed Dave, since he's a combat vet, and asked him if he would write the scene for me. We chatted through my rough outline and he handled all the battle stuff. Then I went back through and adjusted the language to match my own style. Although he's really, really good, so I didn't have to adjust much.