Authors: Multiple
* * *
Once Jacob recovered from the shock, he
asked me to go with him that very second to his brother's house to read the
truth of what Darla had said. But tired from dealing with the living and the
dead, and with a monster headache beginning to pound the back of my skull, I
suggested Monday afternoon, holding firm when Jacob pressured me to do it
sooner.
The next day, I had other plans,
something much worse than necromancers; a standing date with Mark's parents.
There was no way I could deal with them both on the same day. One stressful
event at a time was my motto. Too bad my life to date hadn't bothered to
observe it.
After Jacob left, I crawled into bed, too
exhausted to even think of stopping at the grocery store or run any of my usual
Saturday errands. It didn't matter that the only food in the house was a half-gallon
of orange juice three days past its expiration. I needed rest more than food.
The emotions of the day weighed down on me, heavy enough to make my shoulders
ache.
I lay in bed, blankets pulled up to my
chin and stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. Usually, I found the
slate blue walls soothing and my rod iron canopy bed with its cascading gauze
curtains comforting, but now my overtired mind buzzed, replaying the morning's
events with particular emphasis on Darla. The appearance of a second ghost was
unsettling. The ability to see and interact with ghosts was a complication I
did not want. When it had just been Mark, I could pretend it was an isolated
case--after all, we had been in love-- but I couldn't do that anymore.
I had to face the truth. I could speak to
those who had passed on. While I wasn't exactly sure the impact the ability
would have on my life, after dealing with Darla, I had an inkling, and it
wasn't something that left me warm and fuzzy. More like freaked out and upset.
I didn’t want a life full of dead people.
Closing my eyes, I rolled onto my stomach
and tried to think happy thoughts. When I couldn't come up with any, I just lay
there, trying not to think at all. I was finally drifting off to sleep, when
icicles ran up and down my spine announcing the presence of an ethereal
visitor.
I shifted onto my back to find Mark
floating over me, a mischievous smile on his face. “Miss me?”
“I was almost asleep.” I kicked off the
covers and sat up. Trust Mark to always show up at the worst time and then
disappear before whatever he started was finished.
“Sorry. Bad timing on my part.” He
lowered himself on the bed. “Don't get up. Sleep, I can tell you need it.”
I rearranged the covers and fluffed my
pillow. My headache throbbed angrily, tightening its grip on my scalp. So far,
my day had sucked big time and the person to blame for it hovered in front of
me. “So how's Darla?”
“She's moved on.”
“To where?” I paused mid-fluff and looked
at Mark.
“Where your soul goes when you die.”
“And that would be...”
He shook his head. “I can't say.”
“Why not?” Done fluffing, I flopped back
on the pillow, pulling the covers up to my chin.
“Because I've never been there.”
I gave him a sharp look. “Why haven’t
you
moved on?” Was he going to linger in my life forever? Would I leave him
behind when I died?
Mark ignored me and reached to brush a
finger across my forehead. “Does your head hurt?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“You have a habit of furrowing your
forehead when you have a headache.” He continued to run his hand across my
forehead. “Does that help?”
“Yes.” I tilted my head back to give him
better access. At the cool touch of his phantom finger, my irritation began to
melt.
Mark looked at me for a moment. “You're
so beautiful.”
“I miss you,” I said, my voice soft. And
I did. He looked so adorable with his windswept hair and gray-blue eyes. It
hurt knowing I would never run my hands through his hair again. Not in this
lifetime.
He moved from my forehead to trace my
cheek. “I'm still here for you. I'll always be here for you.”
“I know, but I miss touching you. Feeling
your skin on mine.” I shivered and started to say something else, but Mark
shushed me with a cold draft across my lips.
“Sleep. You need to rest.”
“I want you here, in the flesh, not as a
cold breeze.” I wiped sudden tears from my eyes. “I can't do this all alone.
It's so hard.”
“Shh, it's okay Sofi. Don't cry.”
It was too late, tears already slipped
down my cheeks. I hiccoughed and pulled a tissue from the box on my nightstand.
“This isn't what I wanted.”
“Me either, but we can't change things.”
“I'm sorry. So sorry. If I had just gone
slower.” I buried my face in my pillow to contain my sobbing.
“You couldn't have known. It was an
accident, a sheer accident.”
“But you're trapped with me. Stuck in
limbo.”
“We don't know that.”
“Then why are you a ghost?” I rolled over
to look at him. “What if you never move on?” He could be stuck here forever,
all because of me.
“I don't know. Sofia, calm down. We just
have to take it one thing at a time. Now sleep. We can talk later.” With that
he faded away, leaving me alone to cry myself to sleep, the tissue box clutched
against my chest my only comfort.
Chapter
Three
Sunday dawned bright and cheerful. The
light invaded my bedroom through the window over my bed, and, despite the
canopy, burned my retinas when I opened my eyes. I glared at the perfect blue
sky with its puffy clouds and resisted the urge to stick out my tongue. Rain
and dark thunderclouds would better suit my mood today. Seeing Mark's parents
always made me grumpy.
I stopped by for a visit every few weeks.
During the trial, my lawyer had thought it would generate public good will to
try and reconcile with them. Of course, Mark had popped in on the first
meeting, and I'd been serving as a medium ever since. I hated doing it, but my
sense of obligation wouldn't let me stop. I’d taken their son from them and the
least I could do is let them talk to his spirit. It was as close as I could get
to bringing him back. At the same time, it was also one of the more unpleasant
events of my life at the moment.
Groaning, I rolled out of bed and
stumbled into the bathroom. A splash of water on my face, a vigorous brushing
of my teeth, and a comb through my hair made me presentable. I shuffled back to
my bedroom and began the arduous process of deciding what to wear. I always
dressed up for Mark's parents, the same way defendants dress to impress the
jury. The comparison wasn't too far off the mark. It had been Mark's wealthy
and influential parents who made sure the prosecutor charged me with
manslaughter.
Yeah, that just made our visits extra
special fun.
Pawing through my closet, I came up with
a tailored white skirt that just reached my knees and a pale blue silk blouse.
I tried it on and decided it made me look too elegant, gold digger elegant. And
that had been Mark's parents' biggest concern about me, that I was a cheap
floozy taking their son-with-a-trust-fund for a ride. The peach summer dress
with the little spaghetti straps wasn't any better, and, with a sigh of
frustration, I realized I would be wearing the black dress pants and
white-on-white pinstriped blouse for the third time in a row. I really needed
to make some time for shopping.
The outfit settled, I downed a couple of
aspirin and a glass of slightly sour O.J. before heading out the door. I must
not have been watching where I was going as, next thing I knew, I collided with
someone who smelled distinctly of jasmine incense.
I back-peddled until I felt the wall
behind me. “Sorry, I didn't see you there.”
A large hand cupped my elbow and a deep
voice with a Scottish lilt said, “That's all right. No harm done, lass. I
should've been paying attention.”
At the sound of his accent, I took a
second look. Aside from the brown eyes, he had a round face with plump cheeks I
bet his female relatives loved to pinch. He towered over me and I judged him to
be six three or so, with a head full of wavy brown curls, which was a strange
contrast to the complete lack of eyebrows. Instead of the usual guy unibrow I
was used to seeing on men, there was bright red skin with a few ragged hairs
poking through, like he'd over-waxed or maybe even burned off his brows. He
also had a bit of a belly on him, but, even with the extra weight, he was good
looking in a rugged foreign accent kind of way. At least, he would be once his
eyebrows grew back.
Noticing my appraisal, he smiled down at
me, raising his nonexistent eyebrows as if he knew what I was thinking. “I'm
Malcolm, your new neighbor.” The brogue in his voice came through loud and
clear now. Definitely not from around Boston.
“Oh, hi. I'm Sofia.” We shook hands. I
tried to feel something from him, but caught nothing more than a faint tingle.
“I've heard of you. You're the...”
“Psychic,” I finished for him. My shoulders
stiffened, and I wondered what his interest was.
“Psychic? Really? I heard you were an
antique dealer.” His grip tightened on my hand and he studied me with an
intense gaze.
I kicked myself mentally as I tried to
pull my hand away, but Malcolm just held tighter, smiling down at me. “Yes,
that's right I'm an antique dealer.” I dropped my shields and tried to read him
again, but hit a brick wall. Malcolm had stronger shields than the CIA and
their phalanx of psychic defense specialists. Strange.
He peered at my face, studying me. “A
psychic antique dealer. Interesting.”
“How so?”
“I'm a druid.”
“A druid? I didn't know there were any
druids in the Boston area.” I examined him closely for signs of 'druidness'.
I'd never met a druid before. They usually stayed close to Stonehenge once they
made their final vows. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn't see anything
other than an aura in a rich leaf green shot through with gold around him.
“I'm the only one as far as I know. We're
thinking of starting a new grove here.”
“Oh. That's great,” I said not sure of
what to say. Congratulations seemed too effusive. “Welcome to the building. If
you'll excuse me, I have to get going.”
“Of course.” He released me. “Perhaps
when you have more time, we could get together for coffee. The order would
welcome a psychic.”
Any interest I had in coffee evaporated.
Anyone would welcome a psychic into their group. I never lacked for
invitations, most of which were delivered with a persistence that made used car
salesmen look good. Until I had warded my apartment, I had a steady stream of
unsolicited visitors pestering me to join up with various groups. Now it
appeared my neighbor would be one of them. I tried not to be disappointed.
Malcolm must have sensed my waning
interest as he said, “I can see this isn't the first time you've heard that.”
I shrugged, noncommittal. “Good psychics
are hard to find.”
“Yes, they are.” An awkward silence fell
between us. I didn't want to say anything to encourage him, and Malcolm seemed
slightly embarrassed, as evidenced by the tinge of red in his cheeks.
He finally cleared his throat. “Well,
I'll let you go. You've got a busy day ahead of you.”
I narrowed my eyes at Malcolm. What did
he know of my schedule? I let it go as I was already running late. “Okay.
Thanks,” I said with a polite smile.
He stepped aside to make room for me to
pass. “My offer for coffee stands. I'm new here and could use a friend. I
promise to skip the marketing pitch on why I think you should become a Druid.”
“I'll think about it," I said,
brushing past him. Again, I dropped my shields and probed as unobtrusively as
possible. Who was this guy? What did he want from me? Nothing but blunt silence
met my efforts. He was still locked up tight. Tighter than even I knew how to
shield. Maybe he'd done something really stupid with the eyebrows and just
didn't want me to know. As a teenager, I'd once used hair removal cream,
thinking it would be easier than tweezing. I'd ended up with a chemical burn
and eyebrows that looked like anorexic caterpillars.
“Fair enough. Just let me know when,” he
called after me.
I acknowledged the invitation with a wave
of my hand as I exited the building. I doubted I'd be taking him up on his
offer anytime soon. Any coffee we shared would come with strings I didn't want
to tangle with. Still, I felt a flash of regret at the lost opportunity. The
Druids had extensive libraries on paranormal phenomena, and their training was
certainly the most academic of all the magical groups. Malcolm might know
something about why I could see ghosts, but I didn't dare open up to him
without knowing him better.
* * *
Dread rolled in my stomach, heavy as a
bowling ball, the closer I got to Mark's parents' house. It wouldn't be so bad
if his mother wasn't a Dryad. They were temperamental creatures given to fits
of childish rage and they took their grudges to extremes. The large, twisted
oak outside their house never missed an opportunity to hit me with acorns,
twigs, and whatever else it could lay its gnarled branches on. To my face,
Celia was polite with a side of frigid, but her oak never held back. Visiting
Mark's parents was kind of like running a passive-aggressive, codependent
gauntlet.
Trying not to dwell on the ordeal ahead
of me, I cranked up the radio, blaring some cheerful pop music by a group
called the Diaphanous Sidhe, whatever that meant. The music, full of soaring
flutes and heavy bass, swirled through me and I willed my mind to go blank.
Things were easier the less I thought. Blanking out had been the key to survival
the first few months after the accident. That and a big bottle of narcotic
painkillers.
God, I missed those pills. They had been
the only upside to my cracked ribs.
I took a deep breath as recommended by
the court appointed social worker who had been assigned to me during the trial.
Pills were not the answer. Or so she had said. She'd probably never tried any.
To distract myself, I attempted to sing
along to whatever the Diaphanous Sidhe were wailing about. Something about
fairies and oral sex with multiple partners. A bit too explicit for my tastes.
I switched stations and found one featuring artists from the fifties, back
before the Sidhe and everything else came out of the closet. Back when all we
had were humans. Plain old humans. The good old days some would say. Some
people would’ve rather not helped the Sidhe combat the human virus that
almost wiped them out and forced them to reveal themselves.
At the same time, some of the Sidhe
weren’t happy about going public, even if it saved their lives. Me, personally,
I liked the diversity, but, on the other hand, having an irate oak tree spit
acorns at me was an unanticipated negative.
Mark had kept his mother a secret for a
long time, which I understood. Dryads had a reputation of having unsavory appetites
for humans. There were so many prejudices and half-truths about the non-humans,
you had to be careful who you shared your secrets with.
Fifty years since the Great Coming Out
and we still didn't have a good handle on who was or wasn't dangerous. Dryads
didn't eat humans, but they were bitchier than a pmsing cheerleading squad. But
most humans didn’t know that and believed the myths, which fed a strong
anti-Sidhe movement complete with protests and riots. That was the problem with
so much diversity, it made room for a lot of friction.
I turned into the meandering driveway
leading to the historical white colonial Mark's parent's lived in, and eyed the
oak on the front lawn, sizing up my opponent. Over the past few months I had
tried every parking spot I could think of, hoping to somehow be out of range.
Damned if the thing didn't get me every time. Today, I took the direct approach
and parked right under it.
Bring it on, bitch.
The second I turned off the engine, the
tree deluged my car with leaves, twigs, and the ever present acorns. Some of
the acorns hit the windshield so hard, it sounded like gun shots ricocheting
off the glass. I rested my head on the steering wheel and waited for it to
stop. Once things seemed to quiet down, I opened my door, but knew better than
to get out. Sure enough, another tempest of debris rained down on my car.
Again, I waited for things to calm down.
Hoping I had out-waited it, I got out of
the car, shut the door, and trotted to the porch steps. Behind me, the branches
of the oak tree rattled, I think in annoyance, as all it could muster to throw
at me were some mildewed leaves, which fell short of their mark. For once, it
would appear I had outsmarted the tree. I couldn't keep from grinning at the
thought.
Mark's mother opened the door before I
could knock, an insincere smile on her petite, china doll face. With her raven
hair and smooth skin, she looked about twelve-years-old. In reality, she was
probably more like two hundred. Oak trees lived for a long time. “Hello, dear.
So lovely to see you.”
“Celia.” I inclined my head in greeting
and said nothing more. I refused to exchange pleasantries and act as if we
liked each other when we both knew that, if she didn't need me to contact her
son's ghost, her oak would do more than throw organic missiles at me. Dryads
with a grudge could be dangerous. A Dryad once imprisoned her adulterous
husband inside her tree alive. They said you could hear him screaming on
windless nights...three hundred years later. Add vindictive to the list of
Dryad character traits. Magic coupled with a bad temper was never a good
combination.
“Have you taken a second job, dear?”
Celia asked as I crossed the threshold into the marble floored foyer.
I gave her a puzzled look. “No. Why?”
“Every time you're here you wear black
pants and white shirt, like a waiter. I wondered if money was tight, that's
all.” She shut the door behind me.
I kept my voice neutral, but already the
tension crept up my shoulders to sit heavy on the back of my neck. “No, this
outfit is just comfortable.”
She laughed and smoothed an imaginary
wrinkle out of her black sheath dress. As usual her outfit was impeccable.
Probably new and definitely designer. Worse, she had a better figure than I
did. There wasn't an extra ounce of body fat on her tiny frame and, while I
didn't know the exact number, I did know I had more than a few ounces of pudge.
“I see. I guess I'm showing my age. In my day, a woman wouldn't be caught dead
wearing the same dress twice at a social function.”