by Natasha Hoar
“I told you, Kit went missing and is presumed dead.”
“But a wraith doesn’t haunt a place it’s not intimately connected to.”
Sylvia’s sudden scream was cut short as the door slammed shut with enough force to send a crack shivering along the wall beside the frame. Rachel leaped back, helmet ready to strike, her right hand raised and open behind it. “Give me your name—now!”
The wraith shivered into physical form from a pillar of writhing, choking smoke. Even as it took the shape of a tall, emaciated male, his “edges” blurred in and out, wisping and solidifying in random patterns. He didn’t fool Rachel, though. She knew this creature was as solid as she was, several times faster and able to tear her to pieces if he felt so inclined. He eyed her with irises that wavered between ash gray and slate blue, lank black hair hanging around his sharply angled face like a cowl. His clothes—
Were they shifting between modern and seventeenth century styling?
The wraith’s mouth opened, his jaw warping, dropping to midchest as a terrible scream ripped free from his throat. Rachel pushed her power toward her sigil but held back from engaging it fully. “I said, give me your name, wraith.”
A perplexed look flashed across the creature’s face. His mouth closed, opened, closed again. He squeezed his eyes shut, apparently struggling.
Rachel was equally speechless. What the hell was going on? Wraiths never gave up an opportunity to reveal their names or the reason they were raising Cain. There was even a bad-taste joke amongst the rescue mediums about them—How do you know you have a wraith on your hands? He’s the entity that bores you to death with his elaborate plans for mass destruction.
He had all the physical characteristics and the unmistakable feeling wraiths created in rescue mediums—that of ice constantly sliding beneath the thinnest possible layer of flesh. But the rest of his MO was missing. She was beginning to wonder if she’d somehow gotten mixed up with another entity, when he attacked.
The wraith raked at her face and chest, clawed hands warping to twice their original size. Rachel backed up, ducked, countered with the helmet. She landed a solid blow to his jaw before he snatched her improvised weapon and crushed it.
“That was a new helmet, shit-for-brains!”
He responded by lobbing the shards at her. Rachel threw herself through the sitting room door and behind the closest couch. She flinched as pieces of her helmet’s outer shell speared the foam and material protecting her head. Screw protocol. There was no time to determine who this bastard was and why he was hanging around. This wraith needed to go Home before he landed a “lucky” shot she couldn’t recover from.
But first, she needed to get him to back off a little. She reached into her jacket pocket and yanked out a bracelet more charm than chain. Every possible protective and anti-possession symbol she could find had been cast in silver and latched on to the bracelet, giving her a one-stop-shopping solution when she found herself dealing with an anomalous entity. She stood, lobbed the bracelet at him and then ducked just far enough that she was shielded but still able to see his reaction.
She’d expected howling, writhing or temporary poofing into a disgruntled mist. Instead she watched, flabbergasted, as the wraith held the bracelet and examined each charm in turn. Then, as though he—a godforsaken wraith—shouldn’t do otherwise, he glided past her as if she didn’t exist, and sat on a nearby armchair. His eyes took on a soft expression, like… Like what?
Rachel shook her head, utterly perplexed. No time for that, though. She silently eased around to the end of the couch, putting the bulk of the furniture between her and the wraith. She momentarily considered making a dive for the door. Every cell in her begged to be free of this monumental weirdness, but she couldn’t. Not yet.
Rachel eyed all of her escape options. The closest exit was a double-glazed window to her left that would take her a half second too long to throw open wide enough for her to dive out of. God only knew she was no action hero, so diving through real glass was not going to happen. Besides, from the short angle she was squatting at, she’d probably just splat against it. She was contemplating option two—vaulting over the couch and sprinting within the wraith’s most direct line of attack, toward the front door—when Sylvia’s head popped up outside the window. The woman eased the window open just a touch and motioned that she was ready to fling it open. Rachel nodded and raised a single finger. Wait.
Despite the wraith acting out of sorts, he was still, at his core, just a spirit. She had to be absolutely sure that this whole strange episode couldn’t be wrapped up in one neat slam-dunk maneuver. What better time to try than when the damn creature wasn’t expressly trying to kill her?
She slowly raised her right hand toward the wraith.
The power she had so efficiently gathered poured through her into the first segment of the sigil.
Then it stalled.
And the wraith noticed.
Rachel pushed the power frantically, her whole body shaking, but it would not move into the rest of the sigil. The wraith locked eyes with her, his jaw dropping open to release a hellish shriek. He stood and threw the charm bracelet so hard it lodged in the wall behind Rachel’s head. Panic-stricken in front of a target for the first time in her adult life, Rachel froze.
“Tell…tell me your name.”
“I don’t know!”
“Ms. Miller!”
Sylvia’s voice shook her feet free. Rachel threw herself to the left the moment the window slammed open. The wraith moved to intercept. She felt his fingertips scrape her ankle as she dived out the window. She landed awkwardly but managed to scramble to her feet, prepared to get off the property fast.
“It’s okay. He’s trapped.”
Rachel stopped midscramble. The wraith glowered at her from inside the house, but there was a pained edge to his expression. Her gaze dropped from his face to the window sill—there, painted over to match the rest of the sill, was a carved sigil shaped like two inverted crescents lying on top of each other with a small circle tucked beneath them, used to hold spirits inside a building. Rachel’s blood felt instantly chilled.
“Who put the Pandora’s box in place?”
“I did. I didn’t want that thing getting out.” Sylvia ran her fingertips over the carved sigil, a measure of pride in her gaze.
Rachel looked up at the window, but the wraith was gone. She straightened slowly. “That sigil is hard-core spirit mojo. What aren’t you telling me, Sylvia?”
“What do you mean?”
The innocent flair that cloyed at those four words set Rachel’s nerves on end. “Either you tell me everything about you, your brother—”
“Or what? You’ll walk?” Sylvia’s pretty face took on a nasty sneer. “You engaged that wraith, Ms. Miller. Your Order’s rules state that once you engage an aggressive spirit, you have to get rid of it. If not, you’re booted from the club for good. And rumor has it your mommy runs that little society, so I’m fairly sure you’re not keen to have those ties severed.”
“Did the chaplain also tell you that while he was being wheeled into the ambulance?”
Sylvia stepped in so close, her hot, cherry-lip-gloss-tainted breath fanned over Rachel’s face. “I am a survivor, Ms. Miller. I do what it takes to keep my skin intact.”
“Your skin or your expensive wardrobe?”
“Sending this wraith Home is a limited time offer, Rachel.” She curled her lip around the name before spinning on her heel and walking away. “Ticktock, ghost buster.”
Chapter Three
“Piss off, Janus.” Rachel glowered at the mafia boss. “I don’t have time for your crap.”
Janus Ostara fell smoothly into line beside her, his long, lean legs eating up the Vancouver sidewalk effortlessly. “You know, for someone who is supposed to be a sensitive professional, you have quite a dirty mouth on you.”
“Oh dear, however will you survive with such compromised sensibilities?” She rolled her eyes, shifting he
r brand-new helmet to her hand on the side he was walking on. She’d had to take a very stealthy ride from Sylvia’s home back into the city. Her budget might not have had wiggle room for another new helmet, but it had even less for the fine the cops would have slapped her with if they’d caught her riding bareheaded. Never mind the cost of lost opportunities if she’d fallen off her bike and cracked her head open—after all, she couldn’t eject testy spirits if she had to deal with a massive concussion or other brain injuries.
These were the days when giving up rescue mediumship and getting a steady, predictable job as a secretary started to look pretty damn good.
“I hear you have a wraith problem.”
“Why am I not surprised?” While having a ruthless stranglehold on the nonhuman crime community in and around the city of Vancouver, Janus also had ears out on every supernatural being, and any event potentially involving a supernatural, from Whistler through Vancouver, up into Kelowna, and the length of Vancouver Island. The only reason he hadn’t extended his network over the border into Bellingham was because he’d had his ass handed to him by a rival fae mob boss. At least that was the rumor.
“You didn’t return my call. That was rude.”
If she’d been in a better mood, she might have taken the edge in his voice a little more seriously. “You phone every week, wanting to ‘entertain’ me, Janus. Every week—” she bolted across a busy street, not caring if he kept up, “—I tell you, ‘no, thank you.’ I just thought I’d save us both a phone call.”
“I’ve told you—when I want something, I’m persistent.”
“And I’ve told you that I’m not interested in joining an organized crime syndicate, even if humans aren’t directly affected by it.”
“Oh, Rachel.” She didn’t pick up the shift in his tone fast enough that time. He’d grabbed her arm, spun her and had her against a wall before she could gather her breath. He leaned in, his powerful, denim-and leather-clad body pressing close, trapping without expressly touching her. Cinnamon-colored eyes, tapered ever so slightly at their edges, took in her every move, expression and breath. This close, she could pick up the almost invisible glow that lingered across the copper-touched skin of the higher fae hierarchies.
“Let me go, Janus. I told you I’m busy.”
His response was a tender brush of a fingertip across her lips. “Poor rescue mediums. Your abilities are just strong enough that you can’t be classed as true humans, but not quite breathtaking enough to class you as true supernaturals. A mystery breed, adrift in an uneasy sea. All you have is each other and that Order.” His finger dropped away, and he scooped up her free hand, running his thumb across her knuckles. “What would you do if you ever lost their support, their protection?”
Rachel swallowed hard, forcing her breath to slow, commanding her heart to ease its pounding. “I’ve told you before, that’s not going to happen.”
“You’re sure?” He lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles, never taking his gaze from her. “I don’t think you’re the type of person who could live amongst the ignorant masses. Especially after what I saw that night you brought me back from the brink. I think you’d rather be with—”
Her cell phone began to ring. She pulled her hand free, grasped her phone and immediately raised it to her ear. “Mother?”
“Rachel…is everything all right?”
“Just having a polite conversation with Janus.”
Janus raised an eyebrow, sighed heavily and lifted himself away from her. She didn’t hesitate, darting around him and walking away without a second glance.
“Tell Clarissa I send my regards.” His voice carried over the mêlée of city sounds. Rachel ignored him.
“Is he harassing you?” Her mother’s voice was stern, bordering on irate. “Mystery breed” she might be, but as head of the Order, Clarissa Bellway had enough sway amongst the ruling classes of the secretive supernaturals that she could get Janus’s butt kicked in if she asked nicely. “No, he’s just constantly on the hunt for a rescue medium to complete his collection of criminals.”
“Sweetheart, we both know it’s a little more than that. He’s been trying to court you—”
“I have a wraith who doesn’t know its name, Mother.” The words exploded out of Rachel’s mouth.
Clarissa went quiet for a moment. Rachel ducked into the entranceway of a building, shielding herself from the gusting spring wind. As the noise around her dropped, she could pick up the sweet sound of children’s voices around her mother. She smiled, her heart full of sudden longing for the Order House, always bustling with the sounds of trainees of every age and background. She eyed the gray Vancouver skies and wished, not for the first time, that she was feeling the California sunshine kissing her skin, instead of tiny, biting raindrops.
“You’re sure it’s a wraith?” Clarissa asked finally.
“I’m sure. Physical characteristics and levels of agitation are exact.”
“And he wouldn’t tell you his name?”
“No, he told me he didn’t know it. The way he lashed out, it wasn’t purposeful either. It was more like a resident spirit trying to chase out an intruder. If you count trying to spear me with pieces of my bike helmet as an act of ‘chasing.’” She shifted her new helmet on her hip. “One more thing—he caught my charm bracelet and sat down to look it over.”
The stunned silence was almost palpable. “As though—”
“—he was alive. Yup.”
Rachel heard a muted creak as her mother sat down, most likely on the old leather settee in the house’s main sitting room. She almost missed Clarissa’s whispered word, “Rodach.”
“Pardon?”
“A rodach—a line of men able to shift between human and wraith forms, while maintaining full human consciousness at all times. The most common source legend says that the ability stemmed from a curse placed on the males of a particular Highland clan after their courage failed them during a critical battle.”
“The sins of the fathers passed down?”
“Exactly. They tend to develop their abilities in their twenties. However, if they aren’t coached through the transition correctly, they become mindless wraiths. They’re extinct, though. The last recorded rodach died in the seventeenth century.” There was another small punch of silence, and Rachel could imagine her mother’s hand hovering over her mouth. “Did you engage it?”
Rachel’s heart sank. “Yes.”
“Dear God.” Another creak, followed by the click-click of pacing heels on hardwood. “Rachel, if this is a rodach, there are only two ways out of this—recover the creature’s memory before it succeeds in killing someone, or put him out.”
The blood drained from her face. “Put him out? But—”
“I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“I can’t be held responsible for this, Mother! I didn’t know this was a supposedly extinct—”
“Rachel Anne Miller.” Clarissa’s voice cut through her panic like a sabre. “When we engage a spirit instead of taking every possible opportunity to avoid it, we acknowledge to ourselves and the Universe that we are capable of bringing peace to that tormented soul. You walked into the wraith’s space and engaged it. That’s all that matters.”
Rachel clutched her helmet painfully, tears welling in her eyes. To put a spirit out meant utilizing a barbaric ritual in which the stubborn entity was literally ripped to pieces, its energy returned to the collective Universal Source like figurative lamb chops. But that was only half of the horror she’d have to live with if she failed. If it were a case of failing to safely eject a run-of-the-mill wraith, she’d simply be told to find another occupation outside of the Order. However, for allowing the situation to escalate to the point where putting the spirit out was the only option, Rachel would suffer “erasure”—having her abilities bound, her sigil removed and her face branded before being shunned by the collective Order. Starting with her mother.
“You said the rodach men could shift between human a
nd wraith. That means he’s still alive. Putting him out would constitute human murder, as well.”
“Yes.” Clarissa hesitated. “But we’re only concerned with the wraith form he’s trapped in. Rescue mediums can only be concerned with the spirit portion of the world.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a wavering breath. “How do I make it remember?”
“The rodach men would create a token, something precious to them that they put a small piece of their soul into. This would not only anchor the untested wraith form to one location, but it would help bring the human mind to the forefront of the wraith’s consciousness during that first transition. They’re only able to shift at will between forms once the human portion of the mind is fully in charge. Find the rodach’s token, and you should be able to save the man inside the wraith.”
Rachel opened her eyes, staring up toward heaven. “I’ll do my best.”
“Rachel—” Clarissa’s voice dripped with pain, “—there’s something else.”
“What?”
“An untested rodach is considered an extreme threat by the Order. You have forty-eight hours to help him regain his memory. After that, if you’ve failed, I’ll be forced to send in a team to put him out. Once they’re done, they’ll bring you in for erasure.”
“Nothing like a little bit of pressure to get the job done.”
“Get to it, honey. Clock’s running.”
Chapter Four
“Here’s the thing about broken children.” Mr. Grey dropped the manila folder labeled Sylvia Elkeles on the table top, leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “You can’t fix them. You can try, though. What good parent doesn’t at least want to attempt a solid resuscitation of their child’s conscience? But no matter what you do, you’re not going to fix it. Once a child is that type of broken…”