Soul Loss

by Amber Foxx

  His eyes had the Kubla Khan look, a bright but distant fire. No. What got into him? This wasn’t their plan. He was supposed to act empathetic.

  “Two women.” Jamie dropped the knife on the counter and walked to meet them. As he hugged them both at once, Mae hoped his other hand hadn’t squeezed Dahlia’s bottom the way he squeezed hers. Possessed by that trickster spirit, he went in and out of acting like it and acting like Jamie, and she wasn’t sure what the spirit might do. He hip-bumped each of them and then let them go. “Should be a feast.”

  Mae didn’t know what to say. Dahlia, expressionless, also said nothing.

  “What?” Jamie touched each of their mouths in turn with the pads of his long extended fingers, a strange yet sensual gesture. “Not worried, are you? We’ll be fine.” He grinned. “There’s enough of me to go around.”

  He resumed chopping, singing along with the music, occasionally waving the knife again like a conductor. Bits of onion flew from it.

  Dahlia’s eyes scanned the counter. She pointed to the pastries. “What are those?”

  “Samosas. Never had ’em? Curried peas and potatoes inside. Try one.”

  “That’s a lot of carbs in one food.” She hinted at a possible scrunching of her nose. “And what’s with all this dessert?” A freshly baked cake lay on a rack beside the samosas.

  “Sweetness, what else?” Jamie pressed a plate onto a block of tofu, squeezing water out. “It’s all organic.”

  “Still, the fat.”

  “Nothing wrong with a little fat. And Mae’s training for a triathlon. She needs food.”

  Dahlia examined Mae the same way she had after suspecting she might have been a mother, scanning her body critically. “Really?”

  Mae said, “Yeah. I did the run, bike, and swim back-to-back today.”

  Dahlia shook her head. “All that metabolism. It’ll age you. It’s better just to eat lightly, exercise lightly.” She picked up a plastic tub of cookies from the counter as if weighing it and put it back down. “We need to do some chicken breasts and steamed vegetables. And one glass of white wine.”

  “We can’t do chicken, honey,” Mae said. “Jamie’s vegan.”

  “Really? You’d think he’d be skinnier.”

  Jamie snort-laughed. Mae poured wine, handed Dahlia a glass, and sat at the table. Leaning against the counter, Dahlia poked Jamie in the side with one red-painted fingernail. “I bet your power animal is prey. Mine’s a predator. I eat meat.”

  Gasser let out a long, lonesome yowl from the confines of the spare room. Jamie inclined his head toward the sound. “That’s my power animal.”

  “A cat?” Dahlia recoiled. “I hate cats.”

  He put a hand to his heart. “Dunno what you’re missing.”

  She sniffed the wine and sipped. “Not bad. The food is wimpy, though. Vegan.” She sat opposite Mae and said quietly, “Eating meat can actually be spiritual. There’s a lot of power released in a death, you know, if you can catch it at just the right moment. That’s why the ancient people did animal sacrifices. Like when they kill chickens in voodoo. It’s not to please God. It’s to get the power.”

  Jamie slid the onions aside and began to chop garlic. Mae wished she could see his face to gauge his reaction. Perhaps Dahlia was trying to impress the supposed student researcher, but the information was bizarre. Mae asked, “Did Jill teach you that?”

  Dahlia lifted one thin shoulder an eighth of an inch and dropped it. The pause was filled by more of Gasser’s pitiful wails. “I’m not supposed to share what Jill teaches. You have to get into the circle.”

  “Jeezus.” Jamie roared out another laugh. “You have secret handshakes? Got the bloody recipe for Coca Cola?”

  “We keep things to ourselves because other people aren’t ready to practice the advanced skills. We protect them. So,” Dahlia paused, “you should respect it when Andrea doesn’t tell you.” She barely tasted her wine again. “Especially since you have secrets from her.”

  “Do I?”

  “Unless you told her you’re having a date with two women.”

  “Maybe I did. You tell Jill?”

  “Jill and I aren’t—”

  “Bet you are.” Jamie turned around. “Let’s see your tongue.”

  “What about my tongue?”

  “See if it’s gotten stuck to that frozen cunt. Like licking a sled runner.” Unlike Mae, Dahlia didn’t recoil at the offensive word, but almost smiled. Jamie said, “Maybe Jill wants to have a go at Andrea. Thinks it’ll get to me. Bloody stupid old witch.”

  The demi-smile faded. “Jill’s not an old witch.”

  “Yeah she is. Should’ve seen her a couple of years ago. You wouldn’t believe the change. Hair turned gray—slam.” He snapped his fingers. “Like an equatorial sunset.”

  “What?” Dahlia almost failed to restrain her face, then relaxed her forehead and jaw. “That’s ridiculous. It takes years.”

  “Nah. When you do bad magic, it sucks the juice out of you. Makes you old. She’s younger than she looks. You probably think she looks great for fifty-something, but she’s thirty-seven.”

  A shadow of fear passed through Dahlia’s eyes, and the light went out over the stove. The music, full of ecstasy and urgency, got louder, as loud as it had been before Mae turned it down.

  “I hate that music,” Dahlia said. “It sounds like some bunch of people going to war or something.”

  “Nah. Carmina Burana. Great stuff.”

  Gasser let loose another dismal cry. “Mae, do me a favor, love.” Jamie stopped chopping, unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off and tossed it to her. “Take this up to him so he can smell me and cozy up on it. He’s in the guest room and it’s all strange to him in there with the new furniture.”

  As she rose, Mae caught a worried glance from Dahlia. Jamie, scarred shoulders and belly revealed, was conducting the music with the knife again. Mae turned the volume back down.

  At the top of the stairs, she found Gasser shoving his paw under the door. She had to nudge him back in with her shin, and then sat with him and spread Jamie’s shirt on the floor. Gasser circled on it and lay down like a fur pudding, indifferent to Mae’s petting.

  Jamie had done some deep healing on Cara, but his own cat hadn’t shown much progress. His control of his skills as a healer was as uneven as his control of his emotions. Mae closed Gasser in the guest room and went to Jamie’s bedroom to get him another shirt. As she started downstairs, the music changed. Blues Ridge. Jamie was on track with at least part of the plan.

  In the living room Dahlia sat on the edge of a basket chair, arms locked straight and crossed, leaning on her thighs. The odd posture made her look like a bird of prey on a limb, scouting for little animals to attack. The four speakers around the ceiling poured out Harold’s husky voice. Jamie danced backwards, playing air guitar and singing high harmonies.

  “Like this better?” he asked.

  The model arranged herself into a more normal posture. “It’s all right.”

  One of the speakers hissed and stopped working. It had to be Dahlia’s electrical effects. Things turned on for Jamie, they didn’t break.

  Mae offered Jamie the new shirt. “Shouldn’t you be cooking?”

  “Nah. Think you should.” Dropping onto the cushion-littered bench, he sprawled out and tossed the shirt over the back. “Bring us our drinks, would you, love?”

  Stifling annoyance, Mae fetched the drinks. She couldn’t see how this obnoxious spirit helped Jamie. The way he had called it in struck her as the spiritual equivalent of dialing a wrong number.

  He took the bottle and locked his gaze with Mae’s. The black hot coals of his eyes were remote yet intimate. “Y’know Harold Petersen called Heather—my assistant on the Spirit World Fair thing. He’s agreed to sing some old country hymns.”

  This wasn’t news, but Jamie was in line with the plan again. Getting Dahlia to think about her father should open the one soft spot in her energy field a healer could reach
. “That’s exciting.” Mae handed Dahlia her wine “You like Blues Ridge?”

  Dahlia shook her hair. “It’s old fart music.”

  “Nah, it’s ageless.” Jamie did his usual—chugging his beer too fast and belching—but without the customary apology. “Y’know, I saw Harold’s ex on the train yesterday coming from Albuquerque. She’d just flown in, said she’s catching all his shows here. Can you imagine wanting to see your ex that bad? She kept checking these tweets from Jill, though. Think that’s really why she’s here. Fucking New Age groupie.”

  Mae hesitated to go take over the cooking. Jamie, or the spirit, was lying. Naomi wasn’t in town already. Jamie hadn’t even been to Albuquerque the previous day.

  Dahlia gave him a guarded look over her glass. “You know his ex-wife?”

  “Yeah. Met her when I played in Asheville. She was an angel.” Another speaker hissed and fell silent. “Had no idea her drumming thing had anything to do with Jill or I might not have liked her so much. Y’know she’s actually happy that her daughter is studying with Jill here? In that stupid cult? Thinks it’ll heal her or something. Not bloody likely. If they’re all like Jill, they probably deflowered Lily with their drumsticks.” He twirled his beer bottle on the coffee table and snort-laughed. “Deflowered Lily. Good one. Y’know her, in the drum circle? Lily Petersen?”

  Dahlia put her drink down and stood, her words tight through her teeth. “Why are you talking about these people?”

  Afraid that Jamie’s possessing spirit might drive Dahlia away, Mae put an arm around the girl’s shoulders and guided her into the kitchen. “Honey, he’s just name-dropping because Harold Petersen’s a celebrity. But ... I saw your credit card in the store.”

  “That’s okay—that’s you.” Dahlia slipped out of Mae’s side-hug and ran the pearl pendant back and forth on its chain. “But he can’t know.”

  “He doesn’t. Nobody does. You don’t see Fiona reading Glamour do you?”

  “Jill cares about style, though. Did you recognize me?”

  “No.” Mae had looked at some fashion magazines recently to see if she could spot Lily. It had been difficult but she’d found her twice. The clothes were so dramatic they drew attention away from the model, and Lily was made up and hair-styled almost beyond recognition. “You looked familiar, but I only figured out who you were from your card. Why the secret?”

  Jamie had arrived without a sound, leaning in the doorframe with liquid grace. “I get it. My dad’s famous, too, in his own small way. That’s why I’m Jangarrai, not Jamie Ellerbee. Come, talk to me.” He glided into the kitchen, picked up a samosa and held it out to Dahlia. She declined, and he popped it in his mouth whole, talking through it. “Mae, finish up in here, will you, love? Better reheat these after the curry’s done. Rice cooker’ll turn itself off. Spices are measured, just sprinkle what’s in that cup over the oil before you add the food. Stir-fry the veggies, and add the tofu last.” He finally swallowed. “And keep stirring.”

  He helped himself to another pastry and guided Dahlia into the living room. Strangely, she let him, this scarred shirtless man eating carbs and ordering Mae around like a servant. Over the music, Mae heard him purring in the other room. “Come in closer. Get to know me a little better. While the good housewife does her chores.”

  Mae washed her hands and began cooking. She had to hope the invitation to get closer meant he was getting ready to try the healing. Somehow Dahlia was attracted to Jamie when he acted like this. Maybe the spirit he’d called in knew what it was doing after all. If Jamie could encompass both healer and trickster, the plan still might work.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The layer of light between Jamie and Dahlia felt like a cushion of air. When he touched her, he didn’t quite touch her. Soul condom. Buzzing blue lights the size of gnats shot through his vision and filled his veins and nerves. Part of the plan had been that he and Mae would seek spiritual protection before they started. When he’d done the calling-in song, asking for a protector, he’d expected something benevolent to show up, like the guide that had come through him when he tried to heal Ximena, or even the doctor that had helped him cope with failing. Not the trickster and the buzzing things.

  Dahlia showed him pictures on her phone, some of her modeling shots. In her lifeless voice, she narrated her successes. She clearly had no idea how to make conversation except about herself.

  Jamie waited for the spirits to move him, his light-coated arm around her shoulders. After Mae, Dahlia felt like half a woman, so delicate she could break if he really squeezed her, but there was something strong in her too, like a caged creature, a huge thing about to break free. The human soul in him was terrified of it, but the spirit in possession of him dared tease the one that lived in her. “Nice shots, except for those ugly shoes. Bloody torture devices. And the makeup makes you looks like a fucking alien. You look better when you’re more natural. Remind me more of your mum.”

  Dahlia closed the pictures and jammed her phone into a little pocket on her purse. “I do not.”

  “Yeah. She’s got that nice hair and skin, pretty face. I know she’s got the great big bum, but maybe when you’re her age you’ll fill out a little—”

  “I will not. What is the matter with you? I hate her. I don’t want to talk about her.”

  He heard a thump in the kitchen, and Mae let out a little cry. He asked, “You all right, love?”

  Mae said, “The wok keeps sparking, where the cord plugs into the pan.”

  “Careful.” Had to be Dahlia fucking with it. “Turn it off. Use the stove.” It was a gas stove—she shouldn’t affect that. “Got fry pans if you can find ’em.”

  His real self wanted to make sure Mae was all right. The spirit made him stay put and cuddle Dahlia. He lifted her hair back. It was so heavy it had to hurt her scalp. If he struggled with keeping his untangled, what did she do? Spend hours brushing hers? She had to. How vain and lonely. “They should get you on a Godiva chocolate ad, in the nuddy on a horse, eating chocolate. Not that you eat. And your dad wouldn’t like that nude bit, would he?”

  “You don’t know what he’d like.”

  “Yeah, I do. Doing the fair, remember?”

  “I’m not talking about him.”

  “What’s with you and your parents? I get not wanting to be known as Harold Petersen’s daughter, like you have to live up to it. Mum’s a poet and Dad’s written all these books on shamanism. I don’t like people dragging my music through those filters. But I don’t go telling people they’re dead.”

  She jerked out of his embrace, and Mae let out another little shriek in the kitchen.

  Dahlia’s face bordered on having an expression. She straightened her already rigid posture. He thought she might say something, but she didn’t. He felt a change in her energy. Something flew out of her like a small dart. It bounced off him, but he sensed danger. Maybe this was the weapon she’d used on the models Mae had mentioned. This new power of hers was fascinating to the inner visitor, disturbing to Jamie.

  “Don’t mess with me,” Dahlia whispered. “It’s not funny.”

  Guided by the spirit, he ran a finger along her jaw. “Thought you wanted to mess with me.”

  “I changed my mind.” She cast a derisive look at his belly. “Now that I’ve seen you better. You’re not my type.”

  “You saw me in my yoga clothes back in March, and I’m the same shape I was then. You want ...” He brought his hands palm to palm with hers, testing to see if she would try something. She drew her power in, like a turtle into a shell, and he couldn’t feel it any more. “What do you want?”

  Gasser began to meow again, his calls long and pleading. The spirit didn’t care, but Jamie’s heart inside the envelope of possession ached to comfort his pet.

  Dahlia said, “I want your stupid cat to shut up.”

  “Let’s talk softer, maybe he’ll forget about us.”

  He lowered their joined hands. After a brief stillness, Dahlia let go and ligh
tly touched his bracelet. “That is totally amazing.”

  Jamie pulled his wrist away and covered the bracelet with his other hand. “Thanks.”

  “Can I look at it?”

  Letting her touch it troubled him. “Dunno. I’m funny with it.”

  “I won’t get fingerprints on it. God, you’re so sweaty, I can’t believe you think I’d be icky.” Dahlia stood and got a petite brown shopping bag with the logo of a downtown jewelry store on it from the top of one of the bookshelves. When she sat beside him, she was cool yet friendly. “Look at this.”

  She spread the contents of the bag on the coffee table and opened the boxes. Jamie touched the necklace. He recognized Oscar Kahee’s work before he even saw the card. Hiding from Oscar’s pain in order to bury his own, he hadn’t spoken to Kandy’s father since her death. He hadn’t even gone to her funeral. A heavy guilt overtook him, and he lost touch with the trickster. The buzzing lights vanished.

  It was like waking up from being drunk and having no idea how he’d gotten where he was. Dahlia’s cold soul paralyzed him. Was he going to have to do something to her on his own?

  “What is the matter with you?” she snapped. “It’s only jewelry.”

  Jamie’s hand went protectively to his bracelet. “His daughter made this.”

  Dahlia looked at the card, at the bracelet, and then at Jamie. “Kahee.” A shadow shifted in her eyes. “The girl that died. Did you know her?”

  “Yeah.”

  When she laid her hand on his arm, no layer of light came between them now. He sensed something coming from her again. The tube, this time. He’d let himself be vulnerable. Shaking her off, he drew on his rage against Jill and his horror of Dahlia’s touch. The feeler stopped, but it didn’t let go. She whispered, “Jill tells me everything. Do you want to know how Kandy Kahee died?”

  “Fuck, no. I already do.”

  “You can’t. Jill never told anyone but me. How did you find out?”