by Nikki Sex
The ghost controlling my body, makes me leap to my feet. Eyes wide, reduced to an unwilling puppet, I hold out my arms, fingers extended. Magic creates a whirlwind, raising papers, plants, books, swirling them in a circle around me like an indoor tornado.
The energy is frightening, compelling, and convincing. If nothing else, this will persuade Elana I’m no hoax.
I fear being possessed by my demon, but being taken over by a powerful poltergeist rates right up there in the fear factor. Fully cognizant, but with Stacy at the helm, I’m powerless, utterly vulnerable, and at the mercy of a pissed off spirit.
Stacy could make me seek out her killer, and get even. Try explaining that to the police.
Ice cold with panic, something primal inside me screams.
I must control my fear! I’m wet-my-pants scared, which won’t do at all.
Clearly, I wasn’t out long, or Danvers and Abruzzo would’ve been in the room. My clients are still here, backed against the wall, looking more afraid that I am. Like cats with their eyes fixed on a ball of string, they stare at the magical merry-go-round of objects in shocked amazement.
Stacy’s here and she wants everyone to know it.
Well, I’d wanted to find her.
Even with a ghost pulling my strings as though I’m a puppet, the me that is me, somehow recovers from sheer terror. I manage to find that place where I’m detached from the circumstances. Reason, I’ve found over the years, is a far more agreeable companion than panic.
I’ll figure this out, I reassure myself.
Unfortunately, I have no influence over my demon. He’s discovered a new toy and is digging this shit way too damned deep. I can’t talk to him anyway. Not with an angry dead woman controlling my vocal cords and running the show.
“Stacy!” I send. “Stacy Pohlmann, stop this! You need to stop! Speak to me!”
No go. Nothing changes. I’m stuck here, standing within the center of an indoor office supply tornado, unable to move.
My fear, Stacy’s fury, my inner demon’s glee—all this swirling passion. Dammit to hell, I’m smarter than this. I’ve been around way too long to allow some angry poltergeist to take me down.
I close my eyes, focus on that quiet, calm place within me. Instinctively, I connect to my inner wolf. Together, we reach out to the Beast Lord.
Earth energy, pure and healing, floods my senses. The air instantly becomes cleaner, fresher—easier to draw into my lungs. I hadn’t even realized I was having trouble breathing.
“Jan?” Stafford’s sitting at his desk, working in the basement, beside our growing children. I see him look up, feel the weight of his gaze upon me. There’s surprise in his expression when he takes in the scene.
“Beast Lord,” I send, conscious of just how much I need the power of the King. Our bond feels so good. So right.
“I’m here.”
In less than a fingersnap, I’m filled with life. So much life! The energy of the Magic Lands surrounds me. The chilling influence the poltergeist has over me fractures. Her control falls away like a massive wall of ice falling from a glacier, vanishing under the ocean.
My fear disappears along with it.
As does every ounce of the poltergeist’s rage.
Stacy’s been dead for six years. It shocked her when I channeled the raw energy and magic of the living. Sidetracked, she loses focus, then lets me go. I see her leave my body in the form of soft, gray metaphysical smoke—a fog only otherworldly eyes can see.
My hands drop to my sides.
The circling objects fall to the carpet with various thuds and bangs. The papers float down slowly, fluttering to the floor in a quiet shuffle.
Inhaling deeply, I breathe in familiar scents. The musky wolf of my mate, the pine smell of forest. I hear the sleepy sound of bees, birds, and skittering animals in the undergrowth. Instantly warmed, I feel sunlight on my skin.
Stacy reforms into her young ghost with light olive skin, a curvy figure, flashing dark eyes, and a thick mane of long brown hair. Elana and her sister look very much alike.
“Hey, Stacy, thanks for showing up—and for leaving my body.” I send mind to mind.
“God, it was incredible! I’d forgotten how wondrous it is to be alive.”
“You have an adventure of your own ahead of you. I’ll take care of this. Any messages you want to pass on before you go?
“Harry knows how much I love him. I’ll always love him. I’m sorry I upset everyone. Tell my mother I’m at peace, and tell my sister she was right. Are you sure I shouldn’t stay?”
I shake my head, give her a smile of regret. “Even I feel the pull of the doorway. It’s your time,” I say gently. “You know it.”
I remember being a ghost. Those few times I took my last breath, my heart stopped, and I left my body. Before I was brought back to life, I’d shed my interest in this worldly plane. Problems that had absorbed me, were no longer my concern. Unexpectedly feeling at peace, another life had been calling.
Stacy’s brows furrow. “Yes.”
A bright gateway to another realm opens. I feel Stacy’s attraction to leaving, the pull the portal has on her.
“What will you do?” I ask.
“Exactly as you wish.”
The ghost flies closer to the next realm. “I feel terrible. I hate to leave them, especially like this.”
“Then wait a moment.”
I look at Stacy’s husband, her sister, then her mother. “Listen, Stacy has to leave now. I have messages from her to pass on, but first she wants to say goodbye.”
Her loved ones look stunned, astonished, teary. Harry nods.
“Go ahead,” I tell her.
Stacy flies to and then through her sister, brushing her hands over her shoulders, her ghostly lips brushing her sibling’s cheek. She does the same to her mother, giving moving, loving farewells.
Everywhere she touches, she leaves a trace of pure energy. It feels like Heaven’s Mana.
When she comes to her husband, as if he sees her—he reaches out. Hot tears roll down his face. Their loving embrace makes my own eyes swim. A soft, fine upsurge of magic flows from them on contact. So soft, so gentle. The delicate power caresses my skin, raising fine hairs, making my demon purr.
It’s beautiful beyond description.
What the fuck kind of magic is this?
Harry Pohlmann blinks back his tears, his kind face a picture of grief and misery. He knows it’s time. He needs to finally let go of his soulmate.
“I wish I could come with you,” he says, his voice soft. Heartfelt.
“I wish I could stay.”
“I love you so much.”
“I know, as I love you.”
Harry isn’t psychic, he has no ability to communicate with ghosts. Still, I see by his face, he hears Stacy’s last words to him. Their connection is through some other magical power.
Maybe it’s love.
I shut my eyes as the doorway closes behind her, thrilled with the bountiful energy she leaves behind. My demon vibrates with pleasure. I move to the sofa, sit down heavily. Take a few moments for myself.
The room is profoundly charged with Stacy’s magic, as well as sadness and joy. Quite a combination.
Buzzed, but exhausted, I ask my guests to sit down with me. Even Elana, her hostility on hold, drops onto a sofa. They openly discuss their astonishment at the whirlwind display, how they each felt Stacy’s last touches, and so on.
Thinking of my next client, I tidy up the office detritus that litters the floor, while letting them chatter. Occasionally I answer their questions and clarify what happened. When the place looks normal once more, I sit down and gently as possible, pass on Stacy’s messages to Harry, her mom, and her sister.
“What did Stacy mean when she said you were right?” Joan asks her daughter.
Elana’s expression is a combination of vindication and vengeance. “I knew it! I knew it!” She inhales deeply, exhales in a huff, spins toward her ex-brother-in-law. “Y
our new bitch of a wife killed my sister!”
Chapter 42.
I escort my shell-shocked guests out of my office, past Abruzzo and Danvers who both shoot me quizzical looks. In my hurry, I nearly drag them to the elevator, press the button, then apologize for hustling them out.
While I fully appreciate my clients are traumatized, I have two more appointments today. Already, I’m running late for my next one.
The truth will set you free, they say. Unfortunately, this truth hits hard.
Harry Pohlmann had married Stacy, the love of his life and soulmate.
Janice Pohlmann, his wife’s best friend, killed her and made it look like a mugging gone wrong.
Two years later, Janice became Harry’s new wife. Now, the scheming killer and misguided widower have children together.
When the bitch murdered Harry’s wife, she stole her engagement and wedding rings. Stacy says she kept them, but why? Memorabilia? Trophies? Symbols of triumph? Perhaps she couldn’t bear to discard such valuable symbols of love? Creepy and somehow worse, does Janice secretly wear them, pretending to be Harry’s “only” one?
Stacy’s ghost revealed where her rings are hidden. Harry can retrieve them any time.
A unique, matching set, cast in rose gold, the bridal ring set is easy to identify. Harry bought the rings during a trip to South Africa when visiting his paternal relatives. When he finds her stolen jewelry, will it be enough for an arrest and conviction?
Homicide detectives look for means, motive, and opportunity. Unfortunately, this formula can work in more than one way. If Harry’s alibi is weak, the police might try to convict him.
Talk about an ethical dilemma.
Should Harry show his hand to his wife? If he does, might he end up dead, too, leaving his kids fatherless. But does he want the mother of his preschool age children locked up in prison? Should Harry divorce his wife without telling her why? What about his kids? How will they feel knowing their mom killed her rival? Sooner or later, they’ll find out.
Understandably furious, Elana may take this sister-killer development into her own hands—preferably with said hands rope-tight around Janice’s throat. If I were Pohlmann’s wife, I’d avoid dark, isolated streets.
Sheesh.
Stacy’s passed on—I’ve done my part. The next steps are up to them. While not happy to know about the killer living in their midst, my customers are satisfied with the services provided. Even the once angry skeptic won’t be asking for a refund.
Unfortunately, speaking with a loved one’s spirit doesn’t necessarily mean an end to conflict. Life’s lose ends rarely conclude all tied in a neat little bow. Like ships passing in the night, I may never know what happens. That kind of mind-fuck is all part of my job.
I’m just thankful the new Mrs. Pohlmann isn’t my problem to solve. I have problems of my own.
When I return from my trip to the elevator, I spot an elderly gentleman who courteously stands to acknowledge my arrival. I scan the area, noticing no sign of haunting spirits. He’s apparently ghost-less and alone.
Hmm. Well, but so was Mr. Pohlmann and Mr. Pohlmann’s powerful poltergeist. (try saying that five times really fast!)
“Miss St. John? I’m Noah Greenfield,” he says, with a distinctly Australian accent. “Call me Noah, if you’re comfortable using my first name.” He flashes a wry smile.
Smiling, I gently clasp his frail hand. “Sure, Noah. I’m Jan. It’s nice to meet you. Sorry I’m running late.”
I see an old man with thinning white hair, age spots freckling across his lined forehead, and surprisingly alert brown eyes. I’m five-four, my newest client is perhaps an inch shorter than I am. He’s also ill, and suffering. My wolf and my demon both sense he’s very near death.
Licking my lips, I roll the energy of a human psychic over my tongue. His high-voltage power has the distinct flavor of clove, camphor, and cinnamon. His magic smells like Tiger Balm and tastes like apple pie. I’ve never known anything like it.
If he were young, and I were single, I’d fuck him silly.
Even mated, such thoughts are normal when it comes to energy. It’s a demon thing—I don’t take these errant ideas seriously. If I did, I’d constantly be ashamed of myself.
“I don’t mind waiting,” he says. “When you’re young, you gotta hurry. Gotta get on with your life. Once you’re my age, there’s no reason to rush.”
“Please, come into my office.”
Mr. Greenfield slowly follows me inside, declining my offer of drinks.
“That policeman bloke brought me a scotch and water—single malt. Good fella. For the money I’m paying, I suppose they can afford the best.”
I laugh and agree, secretly impressed that he got Danvers to part with the Glen Breton. We settle down, seated across from each other, one on each sofa.
The report I read on Mr. Greenfield was straightforward. Born in Melbourne in 1921, became a POW in Changi, Singapore during World War II. Given the Victoria Cross for bravery under fire—an inspiring story of selflessness. Married with three children—two living, one dead, he traveled the world designing and building bridges.
This week, Mr. Noah Greenfield is turning ninety-six years old. He told Danvers he’s looking for a girl. At his age, it must be a specific woman—not one for the night. Still, I never underestimate a man’s best friend. Just because this gentleman’s long ago retired, doesn’t mean his best friend between his legs has.
I broach the subject cautiously. “I understand you’re searching for someone?”
“True enough. It’s a long story, but I’ll cut it down.”
He leans forward, resting boney elbows on even bonier knees. The shadows under his rheumy gaze appear dark as bruises. My demon adores his taste. The man’s suffering severe pain, but if he can ignore it, I can.
“Take your time,” I say. Leaning back on the couch, I study him, liking his lined face, his rough, gallant manners—and his fascinating psychic energy.
Noah smiles. “In 1909, Lilly Cavanagh was born in the Midwestern state of Iowa. Her mother was a housewife, while her father had opened a Ford motorcar dealership, and made his fortune selling Henry Ford’s Model T. The little girl was smart as a whip, she also seemed to know things nobody could know. Lilly knew things before they took place. When her friends and family asked her how she knew, she said she’d been talking to an angel.” He tilts his head, studies me for my reaction.
I shrug. “I speak with ghosts. An angel isn’t that much of a leap.”
“Good on ya.” Pleased, he nods and carries on, “Lilly’s granddad spent time with her, he wrote down everything she said and published it in a book. I found out about her on my seventieth birthday, when her brother sent me a copy of that book.”
My brow furrows. “You knew her brother?”
Noah grins. “Never met him.”
“Then why did he send you a copy of the book?”
“Lilly asked him to.”
“Yeah?”
“She made him promise on her sixth birthday. Two days later, she disappeared.”
“She disappeared?”
A tingle of energy runs up my spine. A psychic child goes missing in 1916. Where did she go? How did she disappear? Who or what took her? The story reminds me of Hawk, the star of my frequent Native American dream. Is this girl one of the faces I’ve seen in my sleep?
“Lilly vanished into thin air, she was never found,” he agrees. “Out in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from nothing, and this little girl can’t be found. It’s a mystery no one’s ever solved.”
I frown, following the story. Paranormals would never take a child, not even a human witch. A vamp would suffer an eternity of pain for turning one, while only a moonstruck wolf would bite one. The poor kid must be dead, probably stolen by a pervert, abused, then murdered.
“So that’s why you’re here? You want me to find this little girl’s ghost?” I ask with a soft, sad sigh. “Is that what you’re hoping for?”
He grins. “I’m not hoping—I know you’re going to find her. The book says you’ll bring her to me on my death bed and I’m not long for this world. We’re supposed to be together. Next incarnation, we will be. That’s what she promised.”
He pulls a small leather-bound volume from his pocket. The title? Talking to an Angel, of course. Opening it, he shows me a photo of the little girl on the introductory page.
My heart kicks inside my chest.
The image is black and white, but I can tell Lilly had white-blonde hair and penetrating eyes. Her cherub-like face has the unformed, innocent features of youth, but there’s something about her.
Looking away, I stare blankly at the wall.
I know that face.
The weight of Harry’s intense gaze catches my attention. “You recognize her, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen her in my dreams,” I reply honestly, turning back to him. “But she’s more than a century old. Lord only knows where she is now. I’ll call to her. If she’s on this earthly plane, she may hear me. After so many years, it’s more likely she’s moved on to a better place.”
“No.” Noah shakes his head. “You’re going to find her. When you do, bring her to see me. I’m on day leave from St. John’s Hospice. I’m a resident. Going to spend the rest of my life there.” He chuckles. “St. John’s Hospice, Ms. St. John. Auspicious, isn’t it? Meant to be. You won’t forget where I am.” He frowns. “Better hurry, though. My doctor doesn’t expect I’ll live much longer.”
I try to maintain a composed expression, but fail as my brows pull together in a frown. I’m not surprised he’s near death. He looks like he has one foot in the grave already. Yet his absolute certainty about Lilly gives me pause. The kid’s long gone. I haven’t a clue how to locate her spirit. How do I explain to a man who’s dying that I can’t do the impossible?
Noah Greenfield shoots me a sly, superior smile like he knows things I can’t even begin to guess. He slowly, painfully pushes slowly to his feet, shuffles toward the exit. “I’ll be seeing you,” he calls over his shoulder.
Bemused, I stand up, but he’s already half out the door. “Wait. That’s it? We’re done?”