Most importantly: her mom wasn’t named Eyelash, or anything even close to it. Maybe this wasn’t her mom. Maybe Pop was wrong, and she wasn’t doing anything wrong…
“Too bad you don’t have the other one, huh? It would go a long way to figure out why someone would trap a spirit in the first place. Maybe even figure out who she really is.”
And maybe why Pop thinks she’s my mother. That last part she kept to herself.
“At the very least, we’d be able to keep this from happening again to someone else. It’s maddening, knowing that the possibility still exists, that another could meet the same fate. Another person, stolen away from the ones who love her.” Finn’s voice grew thick and he glanced away, clearing his throat. After a moment, he took the mold from Aerie and placed it back into the box. “So, we keep looking. We found this one. We still may find the other.”
He gestured to a big chair that sat along the wall before turning back to the wall of books. “We need that. Bring it over.”
It was a lot heavier than it looked, and it took serious effort to look like she didn’t have to struggle with it. Pride was such a pain sometimes. She dragged it from the wall and shoved it over to the center of the room. Once it was in position, she flopped down on it, grateful for a chance to rest.
Finn glanced over at her, a quick dip of the chin to approve the position of the chair. “Are you wearing that stone chakra?”
She nodded.
“Take it off.”
“Turn around first.”
When he gave her the privacy, she slid down in the chair, straightening her body enough that she could reach the stone. She tried to do it discreetly. However, digging a rock out of one’s underpants was awkward, no matter how hard a girl tried.
Removing the stone, she tucked it into the tiny pocket on the front of her jeans and pushed upright to a more comfortable position. “Much.”
Spoke too soon.
The spirit, rushed to fill her senses, seething at having been kept from her. She exhaled and dropped her head back, feeling the hotness wash down her like desert wind. Flames seeped out of her pores, covering her in a slick of blue hellfire.
He made a circle over his shoulder. “Restrain.”
Lashes whipped out from the arms, the legs, the back, restraining her. Only her head and forearms were free.
“Hey!” She strained against the lashes and tried rocking the chair off its legs. Couldn’t even get it to budge. “What the hell?”
“Sorry. I have to immobilize you for this.”
“Oh, buddy.” She laughed a soft rueful sound, her voice changing, splitting, deepening. It was half her, half the other inside her. “We’re so gonna get you back for this.”
“Quit it. I’m not going to hurt you. Unhook the chain. I don’t want you to accidentally get decapitated once this thing starts going.”
She slid the chain around until she came to the latch, straining to hold it still long enough to thumb open the catch. With her elbows pinned and only her forearms free, she looked like a T Rex fumbling with a necklace. Just great.
Finn took a box of matches off the table and went around the room, lighting each of the wall sconce candles. With a soft grunt, he lifted the table with its chest and carried it over to her, setting it down behind the chair.
Tapping his lip, he looked around a few seconds before taking a can from one of the shelves. He uncapped it, tipping it to pour some of the contents into his hand. The white powder made a tiny mound in his palm.
Salt. Hmm. Traditional. Natches tended to start with the basics. She watched him, partly in suspicion, since she was tied to a chair, but mostly because it was a rare treat to see another Natch work his craft. Watching him reminded her of who she was, temporarily slowing the demon burn inside.
She expected him to draw a circle with the salt. When he capped the bottle and put it away without doing so, she frowned. Maybe not so natural, after all. Stepping close to her, he tossed the salt over his shoulder.
“Superstitious?” She smirked, letting her tone go red-line snarky without even trying.
“Nope. Just efficient.”
She looked down at the floor. The scattered salt began to multiply and skitter across the tiles, moving outward from them to form a perfect salt circle.
“Holy…” she whispered. “That was—”
“Magic,” he said, grinning. “Oh, one more thing.”
He ducked behind her and she heard him rattle something on the table. There was a heavy plastic click and then a hissing sound.
She tensed, straining to see behind her. He was squatting down and she couldn’t see beneath the chest.
Voices sounded, a man, a woman, some children. General talk and such. Goofy stuff, kids playing, people laughing. Family stuff.
Mages often used sounds to focus. She preferred heavy metal, especially good guitar solos. This guy liked Nick Jr. and Blue’s Clues, apparently.
Finn walked around to stand in front of her, raised his hands to form a casting circle, and began to chant his drumbeat spell.
The demon heard.
He paced in a measured half-circle around her, and the demon followed each step, in thrall of the words, the man who spoke them. Her eyes half-closed, Aerie swayed, mirroring him, anchored to him by the demon that flooded her soul.
A terrible wrenching started somewhere in her chest. It started as pressure built, stomping on her lungs, squeezing her guts as if her outsides were shrinking and her insides were expanding.
Out. Out. She needed to get out. She struggled at the bonds, too tight to budge, impossible to wiggle loose. Desperation filled her, worse than the demon ever had. Her body became a shriek of pain that got louder and louder and louder—
And the amulet glowed, exploded with light, blinding her, burning her. Suddenly he was in front of her, a slight shadow, a spot of coolness. In his hands he held the chest.
He lifted the lid. Tears streamed from her eyes and she could barely see past the blinding glare spewing from the amulet. Empty or full, she could not tell, but whatever secret that box held was one that drew the attention of the amulet.
She felt it break contact with her mind first, and then her body. The hot scald of psychic contact faded. The glowing device hovered over her chest, no longer anchored, no longer possessing her. Slowly it drifted toward the chest, throwing off light like a dying star, dragging the chain lightly along the side of her neck.
“Take it by the chain only,” he whispered.
She gingerly felt for the chain, pinching it tightly.
“Okay. On three.” They counted together and he closed the chest. The amulet sputtered, a show of angry sparks—before it jerked back toward her, trying to make contact once more. She almost lost grip on the chain.
He released the bonds and she jerked her hands out to arm’s length away. The amulet strained toward her, the chain taut. It hissed and threw off sparks that stung her face and arms.
Aerie could feel it slip through her fingers.
Finn spoke his lullaby chant again.
The amulet fell silent and dropped like a weight.
“Well, it’s off.” Finn gusted out a breath and placed the chest on the table before squatting. A tape recorder sat on the lower shelf. He snapped it off, silencing the recorded sounds of happy family life. “Are you okay?”
She didn’t answer. Finally separated from the object and its insidious influence, she was alone inside her body. Just as she always had been before she donned the amulet.
But, it was different, too. She wasn’t just alone. She was alone alone. She felt empty and solitary and singled out in a world that seemed to be full of connections. For everyone else, she mused. Just not for her.
That amulet and the spirit inside it had been a wicked trial, for sure, full of hell rage and demon-fire, but beneath it there had been a sense of companionship.
She opened her Holding Plane and stowed the amulet inside. Wow. How sentimental for a hunk of junk. What did t
hey call it? Stockholm Syndrome. When a hostage develops feelings for her captor.
Aerie rubbed her nose. Nope. Not her. She was no one’s hostage. “I’m good.”
He broke the salt circle with the toe of his sneaker and went around the room, blowing out the candles.
“You can’t let him know it’s off.” Going over to the table, he pulled the amulet mold out of its box and held up the replica. “Better wear this so he thinks nothing changed.”
He took off his own chain, tugging off the medal he wore before slipping on the replica. He placed it around her neck and fastened it, nodding.
It wasn’t as heavy, and felt rough beneath her fingertips. But at least it wasn’t a live device. It was completely devoid of any power or essence or life. “But I won’t look possessed anymore.”
“No. You’ll have to wear a glamor. Here.” Circling, he cast a glamour on the replica. The bluish sheen of demonic ley fire spread out over her, without the pain of possession or the noise of the sense that someone else was within.
She went over to the mirror to inspect his handy work. “Not bad. What kind of spell is that?”
“Celtic. Wee-Folk magic. I can’t do your eyes, though, so keep sunglasses on.”
Just great. She hated wearing those things. First, it was to hide the fact that she was possessed. Now, it was to hide the fact she wasn’t. “What was in that chest?”
“What chest?” His voice was suspiciously mild.
“You know damned well what chest.” When he turned from her with a shrug, she reached for his sleeve. “There was something in there the spirit wanted more than it wanted me.”
He shrugged, turning away. “All I saw was the fire that thing was throwing off.”
“Listen.” She grabbed his sleeve. “Whatever it is, the—spirit wanted it. Needed it. It was like—a comfort she needed, something I couldn’t give.”
He wouldn’t reply, wouldn’t even look at her. “There’s stuff you don’t understand, and don’t need to.”
“I don’t need to understand? Why? Because I was only possessed? That thing was bonded to me. It was part of me. I wasn’t just its puppet. I was its partner.”
“Stop saying its. I told you—” A door thumped distantly, interrupting him. “Dad’s home. I guess you’re gonna meet him. I know he’s been looking forward to it.”
“Why are you doing all this?”
“Because after seventeen years, she recognized someone enough to bond to them. You have something she wants. I have to help her get it. It’s my duty.”
“But you’re not just helping her. You’re helping me, too. Why?”
“Maybe I don’t think you’re as terrible as you want everyone to think.”
“Yeah, well.” She tucked in her shirt and stuck the fake amulet inside her shirt. “I guess there’s still a lot you haven’t learned about me.”
15
“Dad?” Finn ushered her out of the workroom and paused long enough to seal the entrance. “Where are you?”
“My office,” came the reply, a deep voice from upstairs.
Aerie grimaced. Great. Another dad with an office. This ought to be a real treat.
Finn led her through the house to the front corner, where the door was ajar. He gestured at her to go in first. Aerie walked into the office, making the gentleman turn around. He saw her and froze.
Agape, his mouth worked a few moments, no sound emerging. With a whoop, he strode to her and gathered her up to him in a warm encompassing hug.
Aerie was stunned, letting herself get swept up by a stranger. Wizards could be such weirdos. She had first-hand experience.
He released her and held her at arm’s length. “You’re here. You did it, my boy. I knew you could—”
“Yeah.” Aerie backed off, warily. “He didn’t get me here. I agreed to come. He said you guys could help.”
“Anything, my dear. Sit,” he said, and ushered her to a plump armchair near the desk.
She knew without a doubt it was Finn’s father, even though the man had much less hair. If you didn’t count the beard, she amended. His beard was thick but tidy, more copper than brown. Their blue eyes, their wide mouths seemed copied from the same model. What was fair skin and freckles on Finn’s face was weathered on him, his freckles having spread out in that tan-but-not-tan look that people got from years in the sun. She hoped Finn used sunscreen, because she was pretty sure she was looking at a future version of him.
And he might want to keep that cap, too.
But this guy—he had the quintessential “dad” look to perfection, down to the plaid button-down shirt. A wide wedding band circled his left ring finger, while a more ornate band decorated his right. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? You look so thin. Are you well?”
“Are you serious?” Sitting was the last thing she wanted to do. Her blood was tingling with nervous anticipation, like she was waiting for something to spring at her. Free of the amulet’s influence, she had no demon-sight, no Hellfire, no back up. Just her, out in the field, with an unknown number of hostiles. “Finn, no offence, but this guy is freaking me out.”
“Aerie, this is my dad, Jim Meehan. Dad, this is Aerie Pathering.” Finn put heavy emphasis on her name and for a moment, the man looked confused. “The girl from the shop I told you about. The one who took the amulet.”
“I didn’t take it.” She elbowed Finn without thinking. “I took it back. There’s a difference.”
“Is there really?”
“Yes, there is really,” she said, her teeth clenched. “It wasn’t yours.”
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law—”
“And repossession is final.” She gave him a look that should have killed him. If she’d still been possessed, maybe it would have. Darn that pesky timing. “So, quit it.”
Jim raised his hands, trying to placate them. “Kids, please—”
Aerie pointed at Finn, her voice two notches from outrageous disbelief. “He started it.”
“I’m ending it.” Jim seemed to have recovered from whatever had urged him to hug her like a long-lost puppy. “Ah. The, ah, repo man. Girl.”
“Technically, I’m a Reaquisitioner.” She tugged her collar straight. “But, yeah. That’s me.”
“And now you two are friends?” he asked, looking over the tops of his glasses at them.
She snorted. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Do you like the work?”
“Hate it,” she blurted before she could stop herself. “It’s a tough job. People don’t always cooperate.”
“Like Finn, here?” Jim’s eye’s twinkled.
“Just like him.” She wanted to return the twinkle, but didn’t. She tilted her head and gave him an innocent look. “Did he tell you he hit me?”
Jim took off his glasses. “He what?”
“He hit me, like, poked me real hard. Just thought you should know.”
Finn looked like she’d accused him of strangling a puppy. “That’s not how it—”
“Oh, yes, it is.” She crossed her arms and turned her back on him. “I was trying to do my job and you shoved me. Not real hospitable.”
Jim cleared his throat in the unmistakable fashion of the I’m In Charge Dad. “It’s nice to meet you at last, Aerie. Under what I hope is a better situation than the one under which you met him.”
She grinned and flopped down into the chair he’d offered her earlier. It really was as comfy as it looked. If she had a chair like this, she’d install it in the van. “It’s been a real trip, so far.”
“So. Reaquistions.” His tone was one of interest, and not just the polite, faked kind. “Seems to be an odd job for a young woman of your talent. Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
Hadn’t thought of it much. “I don’t know. Working for my father, I guess.”
“Doing what you already do now?”
“Probably.” She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Is there something else you would like to do?”
>
She held her breath a few moments. She wanted to sing out with all her heart: “Yes! Yes! There is something else I would like to do. There has always been something else.”
She recalled Trevor on one of his home visits, remembered sitting next to his chair while he flipped through the pages of his journal, describing his most recent adventure. The faraway lands, the old cultures long forgotten. The mountains and the monasteries and the caverns deep within the rock. Anywhere in the world where there may be a secret, Trevor went after it.
He searched for those secrets. He dusted off those amazing artifacts of the past and he brought them home like treasures. The shop was still full of shelves and cases and trunks loaded with magical objects, all just waiting for the right wizard to come and find them and bring them home. They were never just objects to Aerie—they were orphans, waiting for their family to come and claim them.
In a way that was what she did on a repo case. She set out to find an object that, for some reason or another, simply was not with its right family anymore and she brought it home. She felt like a villain afterwards, most of the time, because the targets never wanted to give up the items. But rules were rules. Contracts were contracts. The rules weren’t up to her.
If anything were up to her, she’d have Trevor’s job. Bringing people and orphaned artifacts together, not pulling them apart. It was a job he loved and a job he gave his life for. Because it wasn’t even a job to him anymore. It was his life.
Being the repo girl wasn’t the life she wanted forever. That brief brush with his memory was like coarse wool over skinned knees, waking a pain that never really went all the way away. If Trev hadn’t died—she steeled herself and forced her brain to acknowledge the word—she’d still have some kind of family to cling to, and she wouldn’t mind so much being stuck in the job she hated because there wouldn’t be a possibility.
That was what killed her the most: hope. Hope that things might change, that her dream had a chance of coming true. Before there was hope, there was simply acquiescence. Routine. What was.
Now, having hope—having what could be dangled in front of her, knowing she couldn’t have it—that was torture.
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