Lost Souls

by Kelley Armstrong

  "Well, they'd probably be as useful as the rest of this stuff," Liv said, "considering you couldn't get any actual information on actual ghosts from your supposedly actual contacts. We're relying on folklore here. Which is like solving a mystery using techniques from a detective novel written by a twelve-year-old."

  "Maybe, but the twelve-year-old has to have gotten those techniques from somewhere."

  Liv turned the corner. "We call it 'imagination.'"

  "Not entirely. Even a child cannot create literature in a vacuum. It's influenced by her experience of the world. Her detective story would include nuggets of true detective work, from shows she'd seen, books she'd read..."

  "Because law and order in real life is just like on the TV show."

  "It's a fictional version based on reality. Which still means you can dig and strike truth." He waved the list of supplies. "That's why this is so long. I'm not saying it'll all work. But something in here will help. It must. And if all else fails? We have Matilda."

  TWENTY

  GABRIEL

  Ghosts.

  That was what Gabriel had found. He stood in the corner, his heart slamming against his ribs, the way it hadn't since he was a boy, in genuine terror for his life, fleeing one of Seanna's boyfriends after she blamed her son for money she'd stolen.

  True fear. Visceral and real and almost enough to send him flying from the room. Shame, too, because these ghosts here weren't the sort who could whisper compulsions in his ear and make him kill himself. No, these ones whispered to his psyche and made him doubt himself, made him feel as if everything he'd accomplished was no more substantial than the dust in this room. Blown away with a breath, all his old fears exposed.

  Where will I sleep?

  What will I eat?

  How will I live?

  Will I live?

  He was back in that room where he'd met the woman fifteen years ago. It was dark outside--it'd taken time to find the building, wandering through what he knew had to be the right neighborhood. Finally, he'd stopped trying to remember where it'd been and let his feet lead, and he'd wound up here.

  The building was no longer abandoned but seemed under reconstruction, another desperate effort to revive it. Yet what Gabriel saw was the original, half-ruined room, and a boy with a backpack, the memory as sharp as one of Olivia's visions.

  He watched the boy poking around. Calm. Determined. Resolute.

  Seanna has left. Ah, well. It was bound to happen sooner or later. No time to feel sorry for myself. Push on. Make the best of it.

  That's what he saw. Calm and fearless resolve. A child who had never been a child. Propelled into adulthood too fast and now pushed off the edge, sink or swim, and the look in his eyes said sinking was not an option.

  That's what he remembered. It was not, however, how he felt, and being here, all the rest came rushing back. The fear. The terror. The panic that he could not do this, that however tough and self-reliant he thought he was, this went too far. Seanna may have been the worst possible mother, but she'd provided stability. A source of shelter and normalcy, allowing him to attend school and pretend he was just a regular kid with a mother who put dinner on the table every night.

  Now she was gone, and he honestly thought he could carry on as he had? Go to school? Graduate? Get into college? Get into law school?

  Gabriel watched himself poking around the room, trying to decide if it was a suitable shelter for the night, acting calm and steady while feeling utterly lost.

  You will get there. You will.

  The boy turned and looked at him. And then what?

  The question startled Gabriel, and he pulled back.

  No, really. And then what? I get the degree and the career. I get the fancy condo and the fancy car and the stocks and bonds and investments. And then what?

  Security. That's what he would win. That's what Gabriel had always wanted. And he had it.

  Great. Makes us happy, I see.

  It made him secure. Comfortable. Comforted.

  Eating fast food dinners by yourself. Awesome.

  Was he implying Gabriel needed a lover? Gabriel snorted at the thought.

  Never said a lover. Just someone to eat that dinner with. Those things we call friends. You had that with Olivia. Liked it. Fucked it up. Keep fucking it up. Can't help fucking it up because Seanna didn't let us have friends growing up. So we never learned how.

  That was an excuse. Gabriel did not make excuses.

  Right. But it's not an excuse. It's fact. Accept it. Work past it. Like we did out here. Seanna left. We worked past it. Another obstacle to overcome. Not an excuse. Don't let it be an excuse. Remember what you said to that lady in here? You weren't lost. Don't get lost now.

  The boy faded, and Gabriel stood there, thinking of what he'd said. Not the part about friendship. He knew that--the boy was a projection of his own mind and hardly going to tell Gabriel anything he didn't already know.

  What caught his attention was the mention of the lady. The reminder of why he was here--for the same reason he might return a client to the scene of the alleged crime. A trick for sparking across the severed wire of a mental connection. In Gabriel's gut, he knew there was a connection between Christina Moore's ghost and the woman he'd seen that night. He'd known that before and failed to pursue it. But now with the added wrinkle of the fake charity, his subconscious nudged him back to that connection.

  His subconscious?

  Or Gwynn?

  Gabriel twitched. It didn't matter. Wherever the nudge came from, it brought him here. Back to this place, and if he reached into his memories again, he could conjure up the woman, aided by the sight and smell of this room.

  He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, she stood there, a mental reconstruction, ready for examination. Peasant blouse and long skirt, rather than a sundress. White, though, if he wanted to make that link. White with pale blue flowers, if he wanted to make that distinction. Hair light brown, not blond. Long and flowing, though, like Christina Moore's. Also like another image he'd seen.

  His aunt had brought out her books for him to let Gabriel skim the entries on ghosts. He remembered making a note for Olivia about the preponderance of female ghosts described as "dressed in white with flowing hair." Those ghosts that had led men--and sometimes women--astray, quite literally, posing as lost women and luring unwary travelers deep into the wilderness. Sometimes seducing them. Sometimes killing them. Sometimes just leaving them to find their own way home.

  For what purpose?

  Therein lay the problem. In the cases of vengeance, one presumed the ghosts were driven by that insatiable need. In the cases of sex, perhaps that need was insatiable, too. But in the others, did the ghosts simply lead people astray for fun? Gabriel might say motivation didn't matter, but it did help. He seemed to have found it in that fake charity, but no ghost could set that up, and both Lambert and Angela Vogler picked Christina Moore out of a photo lineup, and there was no way the answer was "Christina Moore is alive and conning people" when she'd be in her seventies now.

  He examined again the woman he'd encountered here, all those years ago. She was clearly not Christina Moore. Yet her talk of being lost and getting back on track echoed what Christina had apparently told her victims, and it felt like more than randomly homogenous platitudes.

  He saw the woman, and he heard her words again, trying to lure him away. A similar woman trying to achieve a similar purpose.

  Find the connection.

  His phone vibrated, and he snatched it out, as he'd been doing all day, hoping to see Olivia's text. It was just another client seeking an update. He felt the urge to reply that it was ten p.m. on a Saturday night, but that never went over well. Best to just pretend he didn't get the text until Monday morning.

  As he closed his messages, his browser screen reappeared with its search on Pigsie.

  There's more here. Something you missed. You know there is.

  No, he did not know that. But something deep in his
brain did, and he'd pretend it was his subconscious and not Gwynn.

  Yet thinking of Gwynn--however much he'd rather not--did accomplish one thing: it sparked another connection. Another possibility. One that worked far better than the square pegs Gabriel had been jamming into this round hole.

  Gwynn. Legendary king of the Tylwyth Teg. King of the fae.

  Fae.

  When Patrick first brought him this case, Gabriel had proceeded with the presumption the culprit was fae, no matter how much Patrick swore otherwise. Then along came Christina Moore, seeming to shout that Patrick had been right all along.

  Not fae. Ghost.

  Or was she?

  Gabriel typed pigsie and fairy into his browser. This time, Google gently suggested he really meant pigsy, but it did not attempt to force his hand. His browser screen filled with those results, starting with a dictionary definition.

  Pixie. Otherwise known as pixy, pisky and, in some areas, pigsie.

  He continued typing in search terms until he found exactly what he was looking for. Again in the dictionary, no less.

  Pixie path: A route which bewilders and leads astray anyone who follows it.

  The term dated back to folklore. Fae lore. The idea that pixies would find travelers and get them lost. There was even a term for it. Pixie-led. To be confused. Bewildered. Literally, to be led astray by pixies.

  Gabriel tapped Olivia's number.

  I have the answer. Well, no, not exactly--there are still missing pieces--but I have an answer. One that you'll like. One you'll want to pursue.

  We are officially back on the case.

  It took four rings. Gabriel was ready to hang up and call back, in case she was temporarily delayed from answering. Then the click that signaled the line had connected, but it took another three long seconds for her to answer, and even then, it was a tentative, "Hello?"

  "It's me. Where are you?"

  Another pause. "Am I supposed to be somewhere?"

  "No, no. I have something to discuss, and I was wondering if you were in town."

  "I'm..." Pause. "At home."

  "All right. I'll come there."

  "No," she said quickly. Then, "It's late."

  "It's ten o'clock."

  "Here it is. But it's midnight Atlantic time, and I'm still adjusting."

  No, she was making excuses. Why...? Yes. There was one scenario where Olivia would be reluctant to have him visit late in the evening.

  "Ricky's there," he said. And presumably spending the night.

  "Uh...ye--"

  "No, wait, I saw him earlier, and he said he was working for Don tonight. Did that change?"

  Pause. Pause. Pause.

  "He had Saint's business," she said. "I'm just really tired. Is it something we can discuss on the phone? Or tomorrow?"

  "No, it's fine."

  His words came out clipped, and she said, "I'm not trying to blow you off, Gabriel. It's just--"

  "You're tired. We can discuss it another time."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Monday will be sufficient. I'll see you then."

  "Gabriel, wait. We can--"

  "It's nothing. I'll see you Monday."

  He disconnected before she could protest. Then he closed his eyes. When he opened them, the boy stood there, backpack on his shoulder as he shook his head.

  Well, that went well.

  Gabriel turned his phone off.

  You feel rejected. Even the tiniest thing like that, and you take offense and reject her before she can hurt you. Call her back. Text her. Say tomorrow will be fine. Invite her to breakfast.

  Gabriel pocketed his phone. He would see Olivia on Monday. He could tell her about the pixies then. He wouldn't interrupt her weekend any further.

  The boy sighed. Gabriel dismissed him and strode to the door.

  TWENTY-ONE

  PATRICK

  Patrick watched Liv exhale as she hung up the phone.

  "Well, that went well," he said, backing up to perch on a headstone.

  She glared at him.

  "Could you have made it less obvious that you were blowing him off?" he said.

  "I couldn't concentrate with you flailing over there."

  "Flailing? I was trying to signal directions."

  "Directions for an incoming plane, it looked like."

  She walked to the headstone and knelt in front of it. "I should call him back, shouldn't I? Tell him the truth. Maybe he'd like to come out. Join this fiasco of a seance. Couldn't hurt."

  "Oh, yes it could. Imagine how that call goes. Hey, Gabriel, I'm in the cemetery, trying to summon a ghost. Wanna play? No, Gabriel does not want to play ghostbuster. Nor will he want you playing ghostbuster. Did you tell Ricky what you're doing?"

  She shook her head.

  "Rule of thumb?" Patrick continued. "If you think it's too dangerous to tell Ricky, don't even think of telling Gabriel. I'll handle any fallout from this. I'll tell him I offered to help only if you let him enjoy his Saturday night in peace."

  She straightened. "This isn't working anyway. I should call Gabriel back and ask if he wants to meet up. See what he had to say."

  "No and no. We've been at it barely an hour. And it's ten o'clock. Hardly the witching hour."

  Her finger brushed the phone in her pocket.

  "No," he said. "Now come over here and--"

  A pale figure slipped between two tall monuments.

  "Did you see that?" he said.

  Liv sighed and slumped to the ground, leaning against Christina Moore's gravestone.

  "I'm serious." Patrick pointed. "Didn't you see her?"

  "Nope. Not this time. Not the last two either."

  "I saw something before, not a figure." Okay, lied about seeing something might be more accurate. He had to keep her attention somehow, not unlike a small child who wanders off after five minutes of playing catch. The problem was that Liv wasn't a small child, meaning by the third time, she'd caught on. Just when he'd actually spotted something.

  Patrick headed that way. "It was a pale figure. A woman, I think."

  "Wait..."

  He stopped and smiled. See, that wasn't so difficult.

  "Wait," she said again. "I see her, too. A pale figure in the darkness, walking 'in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright--'"

  "You know Byron. Wonderful. But you know what? I actually knew him. Partied with him a few times."

  "Why am I not surprised?"

  "Oh, but I bet I know things about him that would surprise you."

  "Not unless they prove Byron wasn't a total dick."

  Patrick thought. Thought some more.

  "Yeah," Liv said. "Figured as much. If you want to impress me, tell me you knew Mary Shelley."

  "Yes! I did know Mary. In fact, I was there on that fateful night when Byron proposed they all write ghost stories, and the monster of Frankenstein was born, an entire genre of fiction arising from the pen of a young woman--"

  "Wait, did you see that?"

  He gave her a hard look. "If you aren't interested, just say so."

  "I am interested--if it's true, which I doubt." She got to her feet. "But I saw a figure over there. Among the taller statues."

  "Pale figure of a woman? Like the one I told you-- Where are you going?"

  She waved him to silence and took off at a slow lope toward the larger monuments. He hurried to follow. If he'd told her not to bring Gabriel into this, he was responsible for keeping her safe.

  Patrick remembered the last time Liv fell into a vision trance at his instigation. He'd been a little less concerned than Gabriel liked, perhaps made a comment that had been...unwise given his son's agitated state.

  Gabriel had hit him. Not a shove or a smack, but a fist out of nowhere, knocking him to the floor. And Patrick had been impressed, both by the skill of the strike and the sheer balls of it, no trepidation in hitting a fae, no fear of repercussions.

  Fae preyed on trepidation an
d fear, and once they scented it, they lost all respect. So Patrick had been pleased. Not that he could admit that. He'd warned Gabriel against ever doing it again, and fully expected--and hoped--his son would ignore that with other fae.

  Right now, though, Patrick remembered that blow and hurried to catch up with Liv. She was pulling away fast as she slipped between headstones. Once she reached the large ones, he lost sight of her for a second and broke into a run, whispering, "Liv!"

  She reappeared on the other side of an angel and motioned for him to be quiet. She gestured emphatically at a spot out of his sight. Then she hunkered down and began creeping forward.

  A figure passed between headstones. A young woman with long blond hair, wearing a pale dress. Liv crouched behind a large family monument, watching the figure as it slipped through a stand of trees, moving into an older section, more park-like, with towering trees.

  Patrick snuck up beside Liv.

  "You saw her, right?" Liv whispered.

  He nodded. Liv started out. He tried to grab her back, but she was already on the move, sneaking between the large family markers, headed for that wooded area. She got a few steps and then paused, her head tilting, as if listening to something.

  As Patrick drew up beside her, he frowned, gesturing to ask what she heard. She pointed to her feet and made a stomping motion. He arched his brows.

  "Footsteps," she mouthed.

  When he listened, he heard the patter of footsteps coming from the direction the young woman had gone. Liv seemed to be waiting for him to make some connection, but he only shrugged. She mouthed, "Ghost?" He still didn't get it. She threw up her hands and started forward again. He stayed right behind her now, moving from one hiding place to another and--

  "Woooo," a girl's voice said.

  Patrick may have jumped. Liv did not. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked in the direction of the voice.

  "Woooo." The spine-tingling sound floated over on the night breeze. Or it was spine-tingling to him. If Liv's eyes narrowed any more, she'd be walking blind.

  "Woooo--"

  "Gotcha!" a guy said.

  A girl shrieked, and someone else said, "That was the lamest ghost noise ever, Em. Seriously. Woooo? Please tell me you're already loaded."

  "Not yet," the girl said. "Someone pass the bottle, and I'll get started."

  "Shhh," another girl said. "I heard someone out here earlier. We need to keep it down."

  "Beth's right. Wouldn't want to spook the spooks."