To Dance with the Devil bs-6

by Cat Adams

  I looked from the windows back to Gwen and seriously considered her question before answering. “Not really.”

  “We could reschedule,” she offered.

  “No point.” I sighed. “I’m never going to be ready. I’ll just have to do it anyway.”

  Never one to let me wallow in self-pity, Gwen grew stern. “That’s not quite true. You don’t have to. You have a choice, Celia. You need to recognize that fact. It is your decision to make. Your mother’s therapist thinks this would be useful for her. But I’m your doctor, my concern is you.”

  I smiled at her. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” I did. But it didn’t change anything. No matter what I thought about my mother and whether or not I believed she could get well, I needed to do this if I had any hope of salvaging my relationship with my gran. And I wanted that, badly. Not long ago, the terrorists had tried to kidnap her to use against me. They’d failed, but it was a close enough call to make me realize that we really needed to work on the issues standing between us before it was too late.

  I reached into my purse and took out the pair of pictures I’d been carrying around all day, setting them gently onto the desk where Gwen could see them.

  Gwen looked at the pictures carefully. She seemed more interested in the one from Ivy’s birthday, so I said, “That was taken about a week before Ivy died.”

  She nodded. I watched as she gathered herself, preparing for something. But when she spoke, it was to ask a surprisingly innocuous question. “Is that you in the background?” She pointed a manicured finger at a figure in the background, leaning forward so that I could get a clear view of the image.

  I found myself giving her an odd look. Gwen had to know that was me—she’d treated me when I was that age. She knew what I’d looked like. So she must be trying to make a point—leading the horse to water, as it were.

  I looked from the picture to her face. Her expression gave nothing away.

  “Yes.”

  “How much do you think you weighed, looking at this picture?”

  I’d been young enough not to have reached my full height and was still pretty skinny. “Probably ninety pounds, less than a hundred, anyway. Why?”

  “You’ve recovered all your memories of the kidnapping, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So tell me, how much do you suppose your attackers weighed?”

  I closed my eyes and actually thought about it for a moment. The biggest of the guys had probably been six two, and he’d been heavy, with a beer gut, and muscular, with the kind of calluses you get working construction. If I was describing him to the police, I’d put him at around 250. The others were both smaller, say, five ten and 180 pounds.

  “Celia, I want you to look at this picture again. Do you really think that any girl that size, no matter how tough, could fight off three full-grown men?”

  I opened my eyes and really looked at the girl in the picture. I knew it was me, but for the first time I looked at the girl in the image as if she were a separate person. Damn, she was tiny. She probably weighed half of the smallest of the three guys who had attacked her and her sister. She was a tough little thing, a fighter—you could see that in her eyes and the slant of her jaw. But there was no way she’d be able to fight off even one of those men, let alone three.

  My eyes blurred. I couldn’t breathe. The realization hit me like a club to the brain or a semi doing ninety. It was just so obvious. That little girl hadn’t stood a chance in hell of stopping what happened or protecting her sister. I hadn’t stood a chance.

  It wasn’t my fault.

  For the first time I really felt that, really believed it.

  Gwen moved the tissue box to where I could reach it but remained silent, letting me release the torrent of painful emotions. I’d blamed myself for so long—allowed my mother to blame me. These wounds never healed; the pain was raw, always just beneath the surface. Now I saw everything differently, but the adjustment was agonizing.

  It took a fair amount of time, and most of the box of tissues, for me to pull myself together. Eventually, however, I blew my nose noisily a couple of times and began to get my breathing back to normal. As I regained control of myself, I felt the temperature in the room start to drop, a sure sign of a ghostly presence.

  “Ivy, is that you?” I whispered. The light flickered once. It was a code we’d worked out the first time she’d manifested after death: once for yes, twice for no. Since ghosts cannot lie, it was Ivy.

  I spoke to the air, to the ghost of the baby sister I love and had failed to save. “I tried. I tried so hard. I just couldn’t stop them.” I’d swear I felt small arms holding me, hugging me close.

  “I did everything I could. But it wasn’t enough.” I turned to Gwen then, barely seeing her through the blur of the tears that were threatening to start again. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  She looked at me, her expression gentle and compassionate, but said nothing.

  “Mom blames me. I always blamed myself. But it really wasn’t my fault.” I was repeating myself. Over and over. I had to. It was the only way I could wrap my mind around a concept that was so huge and so fundamental to who I was.

  The air swirled around me, making my hair float away from my face, drying cheeks still wet with tears.

  I felt a surge of power—not magic, something different, more pure, strong enough to steal my breath. A slit opened, becoming a doorway hovering in the empty air six inches off the floor in the middle of the office. It was filled with light so bright I couldn’t look at it directly. I felt the ghostly arms of my sister tighten around me again and somehow knew it would be the last time I felt her touch. Then she released me. In my mind, I heard the echo of laughter. I saw the shape of my sister outlined against that brilliant white light. She turned back, her familiar features beaming. She waved once, then turned away, extending her hand upward as if taking the hand of some being of light. She walked into the opening and it closed behind her, leaving no evidence that it had ever existed.

  My sister was gone. I knew that this time it was forever.

  Gwen and I sat together in silence for a very long time, well after the bell had rung to end the session. I didn’t know if she had seen what I had. Awestruck, I was not coherent enough to ask. It was too much for me to process—the personal revelation that it really hadn’t been my fault combined with the certain knowledge that Ivy was gone. Ivy, who hadn’t wanted me to forgive our mom but had needed me to forgive myself.

  Finally I pulled myself together. “Did you see that?”

  Gwen nodded. “Yes. It’s not common, but I’m not surprised. After what you told me you experienced in the circle with Okalani, it seemed likely you’d be given the chance to tell Ivy good-bye.”

  My “experience” with Okalani had included an actual angel, a spirit of light, fighting a demon who had taken the shape of a dragon. “Do you mean I can see angels now?”

  “Only when they let you, I suspect,” Gwen said. “But you needed to see this, to know that Ivy would be well and happy, that she was moving on to a better place. To heaven, as it were.”

  She said the word “heaven” as if it were in quotes. Obviously, despite what she’d just seen, Gwen was not a true believer. Then again, neither am I. Although, I have to admit, having been party to quite a lot of religious-based supernatural shit, I was beginning to wonder if my gran had it right.

  “You’ve had a real breakthrough today. There’s a lot for you to assimilate. But there’s one more thing I want you to consider before the family therapy session.”

  I resented that a little. I mean, something else? Seriously? Didn’t I have enough to digest? I didn’t answer, so she continued, her voice firm.

  “Ghosts must leave this realm when their purpose is fulfilled. I know that Ivy had left you to care for your mother. But that wasn’t her purpose. Her purpose was to see you healed. Your healing was as necessary for her as it was for you. Ivy was not here for your mother. She was here for you.” />
  I pulled myself together. Gwen had a big budget meeting scheduled, and I needed to go. I was exhausted when I left Gwen’s office—physically, mentally, and emotionally wrung out. Still, I managed to drag my butt to my car. I tried to call Gran before I headed home, but she didn’t answer the landline or her cell. I left a message asking her to call me, then drove back to my house. Once there, I went straight to bed. And even though it was the middle of the day, I slept soundly and dreamlessly for the first time in ages.

  I woke up at midnight physically refreshed. I could literally feel that a huge emotional burden had been lifted from my shoulders. At the same time I was sad. Ivy’s ghost had been with me for more years than Ivy had lived. She’d helped me through all sorts of trials and crises. She’d protected our mother from the other inmates in prison. Whenever I needed her most, she’d come.

  I’d miss her.

  I knew it was best for her. But that didn’t change the fact that I felt well and truly alone. Even when she’d been with our mom, these last eighteen months, I’d known she was still around. She’d visited me often and every time I’d really needed her. But now, knowing that she was truly gone, her absence was different, a permanent void.

  On the one hand, it was an odd, sad feeling, and I knew it was one that would take a lot of getting used to. On the other, a load of terrible guilt that I had been carrying for so long that I didn’t really even think about it anymore was just … gone. I felt so light, like I might float away. I knew it was silly, but that didn’t change how it felt. I’d miss Ivy and grieve for her. But this time, when the grieving was over, I’d finally be able to heal.

  4

  I went out on the beach for a while and stared at the waves. I felt very alone. Late as it was, I could’ve called Bruno or any of my friends, and they would’ve come. But I didn’t want company, wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened, not even to the people closest to me. Besides, it just seemed wrong telling someone else before I told Gran. Eventually, I went back inside and back to bed.

  When morning came, I checked to see if Gran had called. She hadn’t, so I tried to call her again. I wasn’t going to call Mom. First off, I wasn’t positive the prison hierarchy would let me talk to her. If I pulled rank and used the whole “princess” thing and said it was a family crisis, they might. Though I wasn’t sure that what had happened qualified as a crisis. Ivy had, after all, been dead for years. Mostly, I just wasn’t in the mood to deal with Mom and the inevitable fallout. I hadn’t willingly spoken to my mom in a very, very long time, not since the day she’d tried to exorcise me as if I were a demon. She’d let loose with the kind of invective I wasn’t capable of forgiving. I’d tell Gran about Ivy. Gran could tell Mom.

  Of course to do that I needed to actually talk to Gran. I’d tried the telephone without success, maybe I should try telepathy.

  Closing my eyes, I concentrated on an image of my grandmother’s face—and tried to contact her. No luck. My thoughts hit a shield that was solid enough that I couldn’t get through. That was … odd … and a little worrying. In the end I decided to call my great-aunt Lopaka’s assistant and ask if she could get in touch with Gran and have her call me. It was a roundabout way of doing things and I really didn’t have the authority to ask for that kind of favor. But Hiwahiwa didn’t seem to mind, telling me cheerfully that she’d “get right on it.”

  I spent the rest of the day puttering around the house, putting boxes back in the closet, cleaning out the refrigerator, and waiting for the sun to go down. I could’ve put on sunscreen and used a beach umbrella, but the day was just too bright—too cheerful—for the mood I was in. Still, I longed for the ocean.

  The hours passed slowly. I didn’t cry. I was too numb. I didn’t answer the phone either. When Lopaka, queen of the sirens, tried to reach me telepathically, I shielded her out. She probably could have forced the issue, but she didn’t. I was glad. Lopaka was family, and I’m sure she was concerned—I’m sure her assistant had told her something was up. But I still wanted to talk to Gran before I spoke to anyone else, even mentally.

  Eventually, the sun set and I gathered up a few things and went out onto the beach.

  One of my favorite memories was sitting around a campfire on the beach—me, Ivy, and Grandpa Peahi, eating s’mores under the light of the stars. I couldn’t eat them now, but I could light a fire in the portable firepit, sit on the beach, and watch the waves and the flames. So I did. Only after the tide had turned and the fire was long guttered out did I pack up my things and head indoors to bed. I’d kept my phone with me the whole time; my grandmother did not call. I was starting to worry.

  At nine thirty the next morning I was awakened by the buzz of the intercom. Someone was at the front gate and wanted to be let in.

  I stumbled out of bed, cursing, and shuffled over to hit the switch. “Yes?”

  “Celia, it’s me, Alex. Let me in. We need to talk.”

  Heather “Alex” Alexander was a detective at the Santa Maria de Luna Police Department. She had been the lover of my best friend, Vicki Cooper, until Vicki’s death. We had been friendly acquaintances—we socialized well enough when we were with Vicki but never sought each other out otherwise. While we both loved Vicki dearly, mourning her hadn’t brought us closer together. If Alex was here without an invitation, it wasn’t a social call.

  Crap.

  I hit the button to turn on the camera. It was Alex, all right. She was alone and looking both businesslike and cranky. With a sigh, I hit the switch that sent the signal to open the security gate, then went back into the bedroom to throw a robe over the worn T-shirt and men’s boxers I’d worn to bed.

  By the time she reached my front door, I was decently if not glamorously covered.

  I greeted her as pleasantly as I could manage, even offering her a cup of coffee.

  “No, thanks.” She brushed past me, taking a seat on the living room couch without being asked. I didn’t mind. I’d have liked to be closer, but it just never seemed to work out, perhaps because we were both so strong-willed and stubborn. Those two qualities had helped Alex to rise to detective in the competitive boys’ club atmosphere of the police department. They’d helped me make a success of my business, guarding other people. They probably also made us too much alike to ever be completely at ease with each other.

  Alex was dressed for work in a black pantsuit with a faint pale blue pinstripe that matched her prim cotton blouse. The jacket didn’t quite manage to conceal the weapons she carried. I suppose that was understandable. On a public servant’s salary she wasn’t likely to be able to afford special tailoring or concealing magics. She’d inherited a bit from Vicki, but I knew that money had gone into her retirement fund and to charity.

  “You haven’t been answering your phone.” She fingered the anti-siren charm at her neck when she said it. The charm had been made using my own hair, giving her special protection from me personally as well as other sirens. She hadn’t asked, but I’d had it made for her. She’d needed to be able to prove I wasn’t influencing her on the job. It had taken a lot for me to give it to her. A person’s hair can be used to do some pretty serious bad magic to her. I had to trust that Alex didn’t wish me ill and wouldn’t let anyone who did get hold of the charm. I had to trust that she’d destroy it before she’d let it be used against me. Vicki had trusted her like that. I still wasn’t sure I did.

  Had she tried to call? I must have slept through it. There was a hint of accusation in her voice, an edge to her voice that made it more than a simple observation.

  “I’ve had a lot on my mind.” I took a seat on the chair facing her. Looking into those intense blue eyes, I knew that something big was up. So it wasn’t a surprise when she started grilling me.

  “What do you know about a woman who called herself Abigail Andrews?”

  “Look, Alex, I just woke up. Can we do this in the kitchen? I need some coffee, and I need to eat.”

  “Fine.” She rose. “This could take awhile
.”

  She followed me into the kitchen, pulling up a chair as I puttered around, starting a big pot of coffee and choosing my baby food breakfast. I didn’t rush. There was no point. I knew Alex well enough to know that she wouldn’t budge until she got the answers she was looking for.

  “In answer to your question, I don’t know Ms. Andrews well at all. I met her at La Cocina the other day. She was thinking of hiring me to guard her daughter, but we didn’t hit it off. I thought she was lying through her teeth and hiding things from me. She thought I had an attitude problem.”

  Alex snorted, her mouth quirking in a grin she couldn’t quite manage to suppress. “You? An attitude problem? Surely not.”

  I didn’t argue. It was not, after all, an argument I could win and we both knew it.

  “Then what?”

  “She left. I ate lunch, had a drink, and left.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. You can check with Barbara if you’d like. She’ll confirm it.”

  Alex nodded. I got the impression that she’d known what I’d say, that I was just verifying information she already had. That was odd, and it made me worry, just a little. So I volunteered more information than I might otherwise have. “I did a little research on the Internet later, just from idle curiosity. Couldn’t turn anything up on Andrews or the guy she said I’d be guarding her daughter from. I’m not surprised. Like I said before, I could tell she was lying. Then again, a lot of folks do.”

  Alex gave another amused snort. “Don’t they just. Anything else?”

  “No, why?”

  “I take it you haven’t turned on the television or checked out the news online?”

  Uh-oh. That sounded ominous. “Not in a couple of days.”

  Alex looked at me as she said, “Abigail Andrews was abducted off the street in front of her apartment last night by a pair of masked men. We found the van they used a couple of blocks away. Ms. Andrews’s handbag was in the back, near an empty syringe that contained traces of a sedative. Your card was in her bag.”