Lost Souls

by Kelley Armstrong

  "A command to do something? We compel you to not do things, primarily not to question. Like when you were a boy--I'd talk to you in Cainsville, but when you returned as a young man, you didn't realize I was the same guy you'd spoken to as a child. It's compulsion working in tandem with basic human psychology. It would make no logical sense for me to be the same guy. You decided I must be a relative, which explained the resemblance."

  "That's how the Cainsville elders use compulsion. Are you telling me that's the only way it can be used?"

  "Well, no..."

  Gabriel nodded at the next table. "That young woman there. Could you compel her to leave with you?"

  "Oh, that doesn't take compulsion."

  "Given that she's sitting with another woman, with whom she appears deeply enamored, I wouldn't be so quick to presume that. Let's say she finds you completely unappealing. Could you make her leave with you?"

  "No. It's not mind control. If it were, the Cw^n Annwn wouldn't have been working with that CIA shrink."

  "Then how about the woman to your right? She has been casting her gaze your way. Yet she appears intelligent enough not to walk out of here with a stranger. Could you compel her to leave with you?"

  "If I wanted, sure, but I wouldn't. Nor would any self-respecting fae. Now, if I got pulled over by a cop who thought I was cute, would I use compulsion to get out of a ticket? Of course. I'd be crazy not to."

  "The key, then, is susceptibility, as it is in all forms of brainwashing. The recipient must be open to it. For Mr. Lambert, one can postulate a basic need to confess. He experienced something inexplicable, and rationally, he knows he shouldn't admit to it, but he wants to. He needs the psychological validation of others, telling him he hasn't lost his mind. Add in picking up a young woman, motivated by something other than paternal concern. He felt guilty and subconsciously compelled to tell his wife."

  Patrick rolled his eyes. "Humans. Their warped sense of morality never fails to amaze me."

  "There's nothing warped about it. If he is involved in a committed and exclusive relationship, he should not be picking up hitchhikers in hopes of sexual favors. I have little patience with most ethical codes, but that is the violation of a relationship contract rather than a moral one."

  "So, by that token, you fear that if you successfully seduced someone who is in a relationship, she would eventually do the same to you. I disagree. You might be the one she wants, and she needs only a sign that you'd reciprocate--"

  "Yes, I'm quite certain every man or woman who has seduced someone has told themselves exactly that. She isn't prone to romantic betrayal; he's just special. And while I hope that is another hypothetical, I suspect it is not, and I would tell you to look at the parties involved and realize it would be futile, and even the attempt would be wrong and disrespectful."

  "So you admit--"

  "We can see, then, that Lambert would be susceptible to fae compulsion."

  "She's not fae. She's a ghost."

  Before Gabriel could answer, his phone rang.

  "It's Olivia," he said. "I'll need to take this."

  "Just as long as you don't bill me for it."

  "Given that she's almost certainly calling in regards to your case, yes, I will. But I will include it as part of your fifteen minutes, which are almost up."

  "Generous."

  "You haven't seen my bill yet."

  Gabriel answered the phone.

  "It's me," Olivia said. "My butt needed a break from the bitch seat, so I've been doing research on the case, and I found something you failed to mention. The current circumstances of several of those who met our hitchhiking ghost."

  When Gabriel didn't answer, she said, "You haven't dug into the others, have you?"

  "I haven't had a chance. I've been focused on Mr. Lambert."

  "Ah, this will be fun, then. Where are you?"

  He told her.

  "Ooh, perfect. Got time for an interview? It'll be quick."

  He paused, and she said, "Oh, come on. Humor me." And he couldn't resist that. This sounded like the Olivia he knew, the one he'd driven into hiding.

  "All right," he said. "I have a client meeting at two, but I'm free until then."

  Patrick cleared his throat. Gabriel said, "One moment," to Olivia and muted the phone before telling Patrick, "I need to follow up on something related to your case," and rising from his seat.

  Of course the bocan protested, but Gabriel made it out of the cafe before a group of incoming students logjammed the exit.

  "I'm heading for my car," he told Olivia. "Presumably, I'll need it."

  "Mmm, actually no. Not as long as you're okay walking about a half mile."

  "Of course."

  "Head east then, and tell me about Lambert."

  EIGHT

  GABRIEL

  Gabriel was deep enough in conversation with Olivia to pay little attention to his surroundings. She directed him, and he walked as they discussed Lambert.

  "That sounds like fae compulsion," she said, and he caught the emphasis.

  "But you have doubts?" he said.

  "I'm reserving judgment at the moment. For reasons."

  "Which are?"

  "Reasons. Unlike our architect friend, I'm not under any compulsion to share thoughts that may make me sound like an idiot. I need more data and your unbiased opinion."

  "My opinions are always unbiased."

  "Impossible. As soon as people voice an opinion, they're guaranteed to influence our own, depending on our opinion of their competence. And given your opinion of anyone else's competence, I'm keeping my mouth shut."

  "I respect your opinions, Olivia."

  Silence. He felt it stretch and grow heavy with the weight of the unspoken. The weight of that moment when she'd told him about Gwynn.

  "No, Olivia. I'm sorry. You seem to believe this, but it isn't true. In fact, I'm beginning to suspect none of it is true. I understand that you've been in a difficult place, your world turned upside down, and it's easy to get confused--"

  "Are you suggesting I'm imagining the visions?"

  "Not entirely. I think you've been in a susceptible state, and these creatures--fae, what have you--are taking advantage of that."

  "You have a point, though," he said quickly. "The fact that I'm predisposed to trust your opinion would bias me in favor of your conclusion. So you don't think this is fae, then? Patrick insists we're dealing with a ghost."

  "Have you reached the mausoleum yet?"

  "Maus..." He trailed off as he looked around to realize he was not cutting through a park, but a cemetery. He glanced over his shoulder. "I see one about fifty feet back. It appears to be the only structure on this particular path."

  "You walk too fast. You know that?" Forced lightness in her voice. "Okay, back up and make a right--no, that'd be a left now--at the mausoleum."

  She continued to direct him. When she told him to stop, he knew what he'd see. He said nothing, though, letting her play this out.

  "Okay, turn left," she said. "Take three steps."

  "If I take three, I'll ruin my loafer and possibly break my toes bashing into a headstone."

  "Three normal-person steps, Gabriel. Headstone. Read it."

  "Generous of heart, constant of faith--"

  "Blah, blah, blah," she said, and he had to smile at that. "Read the important part."

  "One could argue that the inscription left by the family is the important--"

  "Yeah, yeah. You're just playing with me now."

  "Tanya Elizabeth Gross," he said. "She's one of those who reported seeing the woman in white."

  "Got your notes handy?"

  "Of course." He pulled them up on his phone as Olivia said, "Check the date."

  Tanya Gross had died two days after she reported picking up the woman in white.

  Forty-eight hours.

  He opened his mouth to tell Olivia that. Then he stopped. She wasn't the only one who feared looking foolish by jumping to conclusions.


  "And the others?" he said. "You mentioned several."

  "Slight exaggeration. Seven people have reported seeing the woman in white over the past couple of years. Two are dead. Both died two days later. I'm sending you the obits. Tell me if you see another commonality."

  He opened the clippings and skimmed them. "Suicide." Not that either obituary said that outright, but he recognized the language. "Died suddenly" for Tanya Gross and "Unexpected passing" for Blair Cohen.

  "Yep. I've confirmed that. Tanya took a swan dive off an office building, and Blair put a gun to his temple."

  "Both forty-eight hours after they reported seeing the woman in white."

  He told her about Lambert's frenzied vacation planning. Which he apparently had forty-eight hours to do.

  "Yeah," she said. "That wasn't a sale. He was rationalizing a compulsion."

  "It would seem so, but compelled to plan a trip? That seems odd."

  "The trip is the solution to a problem. His wife is pissed off. He's trying to placate her."

  "To undo the damage caused by the report he was compelled to make? That seems labyrinthine."

  "Yeah, I'm lost, too."

  Lost.

  That chill prickled down his neck.

  A moment passed. Then, "Gabriel? You still there?"

  "Of course."

  "There's something else you should see. Turn right."

  "If it's Cohen's grave, I don't think that's necessary."

  "He's not buried here. It's... No, you're right. It isn't necessary, and you're supposed to be working. I'll just send you--"

  "I don't have to leave for another thirty minutes. Turn right, you said?"

  A pause, and Gabriel could sense he was losing her.

  A little late for that.

  He pushed aside Gwynn's voice. What Gabriel meant was Olivia's good mood was fading, as something must have reminded her that they weren't where they'd been. That things had changed.

  "I'm walking right," he said. "I'm almost back at the main path."

  Silence.

  "Olivia?"

  He heard her inhale, and he braced for her to find an excuse and cut the call short.

  Tell her about the memory. The woman in the abandoned building.

  No. Sharing something like that opened him up to pity. Sympathy. A reminder of the boy he'd been, the part of his life he wished Olivia didn't know. He preferred to have materialized whole cloth in his present form. Arrogant. Self-centered. Insensitive. No excuses. That felt better. Felt safer.

  "Look, you're busy," she said. "And I'm just goofing around, killing time while Ricky talks shop with Don. I shouldn't make you entertain me."

  "You aren't."

  Uncomfortable silence because that was just an excuse, taking blame on herself rather than putting it where it belonged.

  I don't want to do this, Gabriel. It's not safe.

  "I remembered something that might--" he began, but she was talking at the same time, saying, "Are you back at the mausoleum yet?"

  "I just passed it."

  Another laugh, strained now. "Of course you did. Go back there and turn left."

  She continued with her directions, leading him into an older part of the cemetery. When she told him to stop, he stood in front of an elaborate tombstone, with an angel perched on top.

  "Christina Anne Moore," he read, without being prompted, and then the dates: 1947-1967.

  "If this is one of the early victims, she'd have been one of the very first," he said. "My research had the first report of the hitchhiking ghost in the late sixties."

  "Nineteen sixty-eight," Olivia said. "I'm sending you an article now."

  She did, and he opened it to see a photograph of a young woman with long blond hair. The headline read "Roadside Tragedy Claims Young Cellist."

  Gabriel skimmed the article. In 1967, twenty-year-old Christina Moore had been hitchhiking home from Chicago after attending a music festival. She'd been dropped off along a regional highway. As she walked, both night and a summer shower fell, visibility falling with them. A pickup truck veering onto the shoulder had struck Christina Moore with enough force to send her flying twenty feet into a field.

  "She wasn't found for days," Olivia said. "The guy said he thought he hit a deer. A deer wearing a white sundress, apparently. But that aside, does it sound familiar?"

  "It does."

  "So, good reason to think she's not fae?"

  "Yes, it appears Patrick was right. We have a ghost."

  NINE

  PATRICK

  Gabriel was in a cemetery. Could it get any more perfect than that? Patrick only regretted that he hadn't foreseen this in time to prep the scene. But it would have been impossible to foresee it...when he still wasn't sure what Gabriel was doing here.

  As Patrick followed Gabriel--at a proper distance, of course--he tried to figure out what Liv was up to. That was still Liv on the phone. Patrick could tell, not only by the length of the call but by his son's very gait, no longer chewing up sidewalks as if they were obstacles separating him from a goal. He was practically strolling, purposeful stride slowed to a brisk walk, his shoulders relaxed, cell phone at his ear.

  As they'd left the rush of the streets, Patrick worried he'd be spotted, so he'd circled around, presuming Gabriel was just cutting through the cemetery. He wasn't. Patrick lost him then, and he'd been wandering when he'd caught the rumble of his son's deep voice.

  Patrick arrived just in time to see Gabriel on the move again, heading out from a row of tombstones, looking less relaxed now, almost anxious. One might think he'd seen something in the graveyard that upset him, but only Liv could cause that particular look, the one that reminded Patrick of a man hanging from a cliff, thinking he'd found a good handhold and then feeling the edge crumble under his fingers.

  Patrick circled around and tried to figure out which gravestone Gabriel had been looking at, but Gabriel's worry seemed to pulse through the air, shattering his concentration. Which was vexing. It wasn't as if Patrick had never had a son before. He'd left enough children in his wake to populate a small city.

  He could say Gabriel was different because Gabriel was Gwynn, and with Matilda, they represented Cainsville's best hope of survival. Patrick admittedly wasn't eager to abandon the town. He'd made a place for himself there. A home. He might affect the glamour of a young man, but in fae terms, he was entering his twilight years and, like humans of that life stage, he could not overestimate the appeal of a home, a safe place to rest both body and mind. At the thought of finding a new refuge, his entire being screeched, "I'm too old for this shit."

  Yet it was more than that. More than worry that Gwynn wouldn't win his Matilda, and Cainsville would crumble. Gwynn didn't need to win Matilda. Cainsville and the Tylwyth Teg needed to convince her to choose them over the Cw^n Annwn. Having Gwynn for her lover only helped cement her ties to their side.

  So why fret about Gabriel and his relationship with Liv? Because Liv made Gabriel happy, and Patrick wanted his son to be happy. A simple thing for a human father. For fae? Nearly unfathomable. They sired children to spread their blood, infiltrating the ranks, so to speak. Like human populations dealing with invaders. Survival by biological assimilation.

  So it had been with the scores of children Patrick sired. But with Gabriel, Patrick couldn't just sow his seed and waltz off. Gabriel was Gwynn. Gabriel had to be kept close and nurtured.

  Which Patrick had completely and utterly failed at.

  It wasn't even guilt that drew him to his son now. Not entirely. There was more, but he wouldn't waste time on self-analysis. Leave psychotherapy to humans. It was enough for Patrick to acknowledge there was more.

  Now, where was his son? Patrick had been following him, and then Gabriel had walked behind a mausoleum and, poof, vanished like a ghost. Which was impossible. First, Patrick wasn't certain there were such things as ghosts. Second, Gabriel didn't vanish even in a crowd. So where had--?

  Patrick spotted him. Gabriel had veered of
f course and stood in front of yet another gravestone, cell phone still at his ear. He was relaxed now, that tightness gone from his profile. He'd recaptured Liv. Well, recaptured her attention, which was step one.

  While Gabriel was stationary and distracted, Patrick had a chance to stage his story. To bring a ghost to life. He just had to figure out how to do that. So...

  Gabriel is in a cemetery. A cemetery. The stage is prepped and waiting. You're a writer. Here's your setting. Give me a scene.

  The harder he thought, though, the more his muse whined about the unsatisfactory conditions. It was broad daylight. There were people milling about. Gabriel wasn't near anything Patrick could hide behind.

  Honestly, what was he supposed to do? Sneak up behind him and make ghost noises?

  Patrick needed time. He needed props. He needed a cloudy night and a bitter wind whispering through treetops.

  And now Gabriel was on the move again. Of course he was, damn him. Patrick set out at a jog, watching and assessing. When he realized Gabriel was heading out of the cemetery, Patrick let out a curse. Then he saw that his son's trajectory put him in line with the mausoleum.

  Yes!

  Patrick raced behind the building and shed his glamour. First, of course, he made sure no one was watching, his natural form being somewhat more...noticeable than other fae's.

  Glamour gone, he pressed against the ivy-covered side of the mausoleum. Then he reached up. In fae form, he was taller than his human self, with longer and thinner limbs. He leaped and caught the edge of the roof. Then he scuttled onto it and pressed down again, letting himself meld with the vines and moss as he wriggled across to the far side. He got there just as Gabriel started passing underneath.

  Patrick made ghost noises. Well, what a real ghost might sound like, sibilant whispers rather than the moaning and clamoring of the fictional variety. His son slowed. Then he stopped directly under the roofline.

  Patrick leaned out as far as he dared and added words to his whispers. Key words, like "help" and "please."

  Gabriel stayed still. Listening intently.

  "Help," Patrick whispered. "Please. I need--"

  "Yes, that's an excellent idea," Gabriel said into the phone. "I'll do that right now." He resumed walking and shifted his cell to his other ear. "That's fine. Have a safe trip. Give me a call when you stop for the night, and I'll let you know what I've found."