by Natasha Hoar
“So rescue mediums have a little ‘Wolverine’ healing factor in them?”
“I wish!” She laughed, then grimaced. “No, we just knit together a bit faster than the general populace.” She dropped her eyes for a moment to his hand on the coverlet, her gaze lingering on the drip inserted deeply in his bruised flesh. “So, have you…”
“Spoken to my sister? Yeah. They let her in for a brief visit this morning, before marching her off to the police station.” His expression sobered, and his eyes darkened. There was a distinct drop in temperature in the air around them. “She’s admitted an extremely elaborate plot to the police, starting with hiring a guy to drive and dump the Eldorado at the reserve while she forcibly confined me to the house, using my lack of strength due to my ‘long-standing illness’ against me. She followed that up by shuffling me around from room to room, and even the garage, so the police wouldn’t find me whenever they came over.”
“How did she manage to hide you during the investigation?”
His gaze dropped to his hands, which clenched and unclenched rhythmically. “I don’t remember much of the initial transformation. The books say I would have faded away to almost nothing, something with the consistency of a paper doll. Either way, I would have been easy to move, made no sound and been unable to fight back. That would have lasted a few weeks, max. The cops would have stopped making regular visits by the time I slipped into full wraith form. Then she wouldn’t have had to worry about hiding a body, just exorcising a spirit.”
She eyed him carefully, needing to ask, “How much do you remember from your time as a wraith?”
“Everything.” The word exploded out from between his lips, full of pain and bitter disappointment. “It’s one long memory of confusion, endlessly snatching at memories that should have been there, while trying to reach out to Sylvia. Not remembering who she was eventually, but that she was important for my survival. Not remembering why that was, or what survival even meant after a while. I remember people coming in, trying to ‘exorcise’ me. The ones that came close… God, whatever they did, it hurt like hell.” His gaze softened a little, eyes becoming glossy from the barest hint of tears. He sucked in a shuddering breath. “I remember you coming in. That bracelet you threw at me, it helped.”
Something jumped with in her chest, just a little. “Oh?”
“Mmm. The only way I can explain it is that it made me focus. It was the first time the human part of me came to the forefront, just for a moment. What were all those symbols?”
“Protective and banishing talismans. I was hoping it would make you ‘poof’ away, so I could get out in one piece.”
“Oh yeah?” A grin hinted at the corner of his mouth. “The first thing you should know about me is that I don’t tend to follow rules too well.”
“Duly noted.” She chuckled wryly. “You owe me a new bracelet, by the way.”
“And a new helmet.” He flinched. “Sorry about that.”
“Heh, I don’t think I took that half as badly as Reagan did.”
Kit snorted in disgust, the humor bleeding out of his expression instantly. “The doctor said he’ll survive. Unfortunately.”
“Kit, what else did Sylvia say about last night?”
“She said she told the police she called you and a few other ‘ghost busters’ over to make a show of exorcising the house because potential home buyers had heard me knock something over where I was lying in one of her hidey holes in the basement. She’d accidently responded with the explanation that the house was rumored to be a little haunted. The icing on the cake is that she told the police that after your initial visit to the house you suspected she was hiding someone in the basement and walked in on Reagan trying to assault her when she wouldn’t let him in on the plot. Then you somehow managed to get past them as they struggled and rescue me while they were scrapping. She even took the blame for stabbing him with the helmet pieces.”
“That’s one hell of a story to try to pull off.” Rachel swallowed. The police had let her be for the moment. She had assumed it was her superintendent friend who had requested they give her some space. She was glad she’d know the right story to go with when they eventually remembered to take down her version of events.
“Sylvia’s one hell of an actress when she wants to be.”
“But why confess all of this to you? And why take the blame?”
“Because Sylvia’s a survivor,” he replied bitterly. “In her mind she’s hoping I’ll see her as a victim too. Someone so sick, she couldn’t control her impulses. She’s hoping I’ll find it in me to forgive her, so she’ll have someone to come home to when she gets out of jail. I am—and always was—nothing but a backup plan to her.” The chill in the room suddenly deepened. Kit’s skin began to lose its healthy glow, turning ashen. Before he could slide any further into an uncontrolled wraith-shift, Rachel reached out and grasped his hand.
“Deep breath, Kit. I can’t bring the Eldorado in here.”
He did as he was told, releasing his breath in a haggard rush. The color slowly seeped back into his face and the room warmed. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this,” he murmured.
“It’ll take practice, but you’ll do fine.” She patted his hand.
“I need help.”
His expression was so earnest, so sweet, that it broke her heart. “Kit, I’m not trained—”
“Just hear me out.” This time he scooped up her hand. “When I started to show symptoms, I researched everything I could about ghosts. I had to. My grandfather died before I was born, and he’d assumed the rodach gene had died with him, so he left only the barest bones behind for his heirs to learn from. Even my dad only knew a fraction of what he should have, and he only mentioned our heritage in passing, thinking it wasn’t worth scaring us over if the condition was truly extinct in our line. In my research I kept coming across references—small but pointed references—to the Order of Rescue Mediums. I know—” he gave her hand a small squeeze, “—you’re not trained to handle my kind. No one is. But you’re technically the most qualified individual around by virtue of your knowledge of all types of spirits, including wraiths. Plus, you’re connected to me. Not in a weird, sexual manner,” he hastily added. “But once a woman brings a rodach-wraith back from the brink, her voice is the clearest one to the wraith in the event of a forgetting.”
“Wait, you can forget who you are again?” Rachel felt sick to her stomach.
“If I get upset enough within the year after the first change, yes. At least that’s what the legends say. And besides, you and I aren’t, well…” He struggled with the words.
“Strictly human?”
“Yeah.”
“No, I guess we’re not.” She smiled. “How much do you know about the supernatural community, Kit?”
“Nothing. I mean, I saw references to them in my research, but who the hell knows what’s fact and fiction, right?” He laughed but sobered suddenly. “Please, God, tell me real vampires don’t sparkle.”
Rachel burst out laughing, winced and laughed some more. “They definitely don’t sparkle. Although I do know several who are partial to glitter,” she said between shared tears of mirth and pain. “All right,” she said finally, her giggles subsiding. “I’ll teach you what I know about the supernaturals and help you figure out techniques to stabilize your wraith form. But you need to keep the info about supernaturals, and the true extent of the aggressive entity population, strictly between us. Humans still kind of think they’re the only ruling sentient race. And if people knew how many nasty dead folk were really hanging around…” She shivered.
“How many are there, exactly?” he asked quietly.
“Enough to keep me working the equivalent of a nine-to-five job, but not so many that we need a second resident rescue medium in this region. Yet.”
“Yet?”
She rolled her shoulders. “Aggressive entities are on the rise.”
“Excuse me?”
“It happens du
ring periods of large-scale aggression. The Crusades, the Burning Times, the World Wars—those sorts of events tend to encourage a higher than normal stubborn-dead tally. We’re not living in a particularly happy-go-lucky time period right now, so there’s a worldwide surge in nasties.” She shrugged.
“How close are we to needing to call in the cavalry?”
She paused. Discussing this topic outside of the Order wasn’t something she did very often. Her job was none of the supernatural community’s concern, and she’d been told on more than one occasion that, as the city’s resident rescue medium, it was best not to let that stance change. She wasn’t sure how she felt about suddenly sharing every detail of her work with a stranger. She was going to need a little bit of time to get used to the idea. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.” She patted his hand and flashed him a confident smile.
“Uh-huh. So how haven’t people noticed this recent rise in ghostly activity?”
“Mostly because Hollywood has everyone trained to assume these spirits are rattling their chains in places they rarely do in reality.”
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“It will. Eventually.” Kit eyed her cautiously for a moment. “Say no more.” He raised his hands in surrender. “One more thing.”
“Mmm?”
“Do you have a spare room I could use? My house burnt down.”
“Don’t push it, mister.”
“I’m serious! I’m a really good houseguest. I’m neat, quiet, well-mannered—”
“Uh-huh.”
“—and of course I’ll pay rent. Plus, you’d have the Eldorado to use to get to clients.”
“I have a motorbike.”
“A motorbike?”
“A nice little red-and-black 1000cc Honda, thank you.”
“Where do you stash your shotgun filled with rock salt rounds? Or your jugs of holy water?”
Rachel shook her head wryly and eased back onto her feet. “I’m a rescue medium, smart-ass. Not a ghost hunter.”
“What? You can’t be both?” Pure mischief twinkled in his eyes as Rachel pulled her hand away and waved at him. “Wait! Come back! What about strategically placed iron pokers? Or a firearm stash? Or a piece of chalk to draw devils traps? Do you at least have one of those on hand when you go out on jobs?”
She turned, walked two steps and pulled the curtain closed behind her.
“Sourpuss.” The grin in Kit’s voice was hard to miss and utterly infectious.
“I’ll remember that when I’m teaching you to ‘wax on, wax off,’ mister.”
There was a suitably sassy follow up reply, but she didn’t quite hear it.
What was it her mother told trainees? As a rescue medium, there was little use in praying for a peaceful life—it would simply avoid you at all costs.
Amen to that.
It’s hell on earth being a rescue medium. Rachel Miller returns to help more of the “stubborn dead” in the next title of the Lost Souls series, coming soon! In the meantime, check out more great Urban Fantasy from Carina Press.
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Raised by the leader of the Vampire Nation, Rowan Summerwaite is a supercharged hunter with the power to slay any vampire who violates the age-old treaty. A recent string of murders has her at odds with Las Vegas’s new Scion, the arrogant and powerful Clive Stewart. Though her dealings with Clive are adversarial, Rowan is intensely aware of her attraction to him—but she can’t let it distract her from her duty…
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About the Author
Born in South Africa, Natasha moved to Canada in her twenties and settled just outside of Vancouver, British Columbia. This meant she was surrounded by an abundance of amazing natural beauty, interesting people from around the world and a fair bit of rain (which, oddly enough, she rather enjoys). She’s always up for a good adventure, especially if it involves “stumbling upon” movie or TV shoots, hunting for G1 My Little Ponies at local thrift shops, meandering through book and toy stores, or looking into paranormal phenomena.
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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9310-0
Copyright © 2012 by Natasha Hoar
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