by Gina Ardito
“Then you can’t possibly commiserate with what I’m going through.” Her tone lowered the temperature in the attic by at least thirty degrees. “Yes, I gave my baby up for a private adoption. I had to. The society matrons would have had a field day with her mysterious parentage, studying her for any resemblance to anyone they knew or once met, constantly speculating who her father might be. I wouldn’t allow my child to bear any shame for my mistake. I fell in love with a man who refused to marry me. Who’d already been married three times. Although I didn’t know about Wives Number Two or Three until it was too late. Soon as I did learn the truth, I sent him packing. Such a man for a husband would have only made Rebecca and me miserable. To be certain she knew only love and happiness in her life, I made the choices I believed best for Rebecca.”
“No one’s arguing with you about that,” Luc pointed out.
Jodie shot him a shut-up-and-look-pretty vibe.
Kristin, on the other hand, ignored him and continued her speech, fingers twisting her hair into mini-cyclones. “I may not be able to see Rebecca from here, but I can still feel her, sense she’s happy and loved. I don’t want to give up that connection. Not now, not ever.”
“Who says you have to?” Luc replied. “As a matter of fact, in the Afterlife, you’ll have a better opportunity to watch over your daughter, to actually see her grow up.”
The fingers paused in mid-twist. “Really?”
Luc raised his right hand. “Swear to…whoever.”
Boru Magoo, the giant panda. Now he shot her the shut-up-and-look-pretty vibe. Had he read her thoughts? Probably.
“Come with us,” Luc murmured, inching closer. “You’ll see. Once you’ve been processed, simply convey your desires to your spirit guide. He or she will make certain the Council of Elders grant you the opportunity to see Rebecca’s future in full detail before you continue your journey.”
Relief bathed her face like summer rain. This time, when Luc held out his hand, Kristin nodded and floated toward him. “What do I have to do?”
“Close your eyes,” he replied with a softness that took Jodie by surprise. “I’ll do the rest.”
Chapter 7
By the time they returned to the Afterlife’s main contact site, angry confusion soared in Luc’s private stratosphere. What fresh hell had the Board visited on him now?
While he’d hovered inside the Esterby attic, attempting to talk sense to the overwrought Kristin, the strangest sensation had overwhelmed him. Barren desolation swept up from the ground, enveloping him. He had no clue why the sudden emptiness turned its claws on him. Hunger gnawed his insides; not for food, but for something more visceral—air. Pain seared his chest until he gasped for breath. Tremors racked him from head to toe, as if he’d contracted a high fever. An insatiable need to breathe nearly drove him to his knees.
Meanwhile, the argument with the stubborn Kristin Esterby drained his energy, depleting him, diminishing him, crushing him. At one point, his quickly disappearing senses swept the attic, but found no one to call upon for aid. His damned trainee had taken it upon herself to flit hither and yon, leaving him to the mercy of whatever devil delighted in tormenting him.
Thank God he’d found the wherewithal to pull spare ions from the damp. cloying air. But even that attempt at survival hadn’t been enough to stem the tide of loss. Jesus, he’d grown so lightheaded, at one point he’d almost keeled over.
Naturally, just when he thought his cells would go out like a pilot light, Jodie had reappeared. With her arrival came sustenance and equilibrium. To add insult to his injured pride, in five minutes’ conversation, she’d convinced Kristin to move onward. The idea he needed assistance—especially from someone like Jodie Devlin—burned until he tasted ashes.
Now in the Reception Room, he struggled to keep a civil tongue while introducing Kristin and Jodie to Samantha. He didn’t even break a smile when Samantha commented favorably on his t-shirt. Instead he growled at her. “I want to see Sherman.” She held up a hand, but he slammed a fist on her table forcefully enough to shake the pile of empty clipboards stacked on one side. “Now!”
Leaping backward, Samantha let out a short shriek, and then took several gulps of air. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She turned from her desk, but out of the corner of his eye, Luc spotted the diminutive spirit guide strolling across the crowded lobby. “Never mind. I’ll get him myself.” Before Sherman could disappear into the crowd, Luc took off after him. In three long strides, he managed to grab hold of his target’s sleeve and give one hard yank. “I wanna talk to you.”
If Luc’s demand surprised Sherman, he certainly didn’t show it. His shrunken face remained impassive as he waved a hand in mid-air, ushering Luc to fall into step beside him. “Of course. Let’s take a stroll to my office.”
They weaved their way through the throngs of glassy-eyed newcomers, past the double doors, until they reached Sherman’s private sanctum. Once inside with the doors closed, contrary to his normal habit, Luc sank gratefully into the nearest club chair. Exhaustion called, and soon he’d fall asleep. But first, he needed to confirm his suspicions regarding what had transpired on Earth during this last sojourn.
“So?” Sherman strode around the desk to sit in his high-backed ergonomic throne, clasping his hands on the desk blotter. “How did your latest hunt go? Did your new trainee work out all right?”
“Oh, the hunt went fine.” His tone dripped acid. “No thanks to the Board.”
Rather than following up on Luc’s veiled hint, Sherman beamed like a harvest moon. “So your record’s still intact, eh? Wonderful.”
Leaning closer, Luc perched an elbow on the desk’s marble edge. Fury charged his molecules into a frenzied dance. “Would you care to explain to me why the Board kept vital information from us on this bounty?”
His eyes widened under arched snowy brows. The man resembled an arctic owl perched on the edge of branch. “They did?”
“Yes, they did.” He pointed an accusatory finger. “And you know it, you wizened old geezer. Now tell me why.”
He said nothing at first, but a pink flush crept up his craggy face. Finally, he sighed. “It was a test.”
“A test?” Irritation shot through Luc’s synapses, charging the air with static electricity. “Since when do I need testing? I have a spotless record. I always bring back the goods within one visit. One out, one back. I’m the best you’ve got.”
Sherman nodded eagerly, an arctic owl holding onto his branch for dear life through a category seven hurricane. “Yes, that’s true. But the Board wanted to test Ms. Devlin. And she passed.”
His reply was flat and emotionless. “Yippee.”
“What did you expect, Luc? A test was your idea.”
“My idea?” He rolled his chair back and stared at the little man. “How was it my idea?”
“You’re the one who said she was raw and inappropriate for the position.” Sherman spread his hands wide. “The Board decided to see if she could hold up to a challenge.”
“And what exactly was this challenge? Let’s-see-if-she-can-screw-up-Luc’s-perfect-record-on-her-first-day?”
“Nonsense, Luc.” The spirit guide waved a hand, and Luc had the urge to grab those fluttering fingers in a death grip. If only he weren’t so damned tired. “We knew you’d get your quarry,” Sherman continued, “no matter what it took.”
“Yeah, well, it was touch and go for a while there. All the crap you put me through was hitting below the belt, though. You didn’t have to incapacitate me to test Ms. Devlin, did you?”
The arctic owl grew quizzical. “No one incapacitated you.”
“The hell they didn’t!” Impatience reaching a fever pitch, Luc shot to his feet. “Either I caught some Afterlife strain of the flu or someone here was messing with my molecules. I nearly drained myself in that damn crawlspace over an argument with a socialite.”
“Until Ms. Devlin discovered the lady’s secret,” Sherman added with a lop-sided
grin. “And that’s what the Board had hoped for. The big question was, would Ms. Devlin be able to figure out what bound Kristin to Earth? And once she knew, could she use that information to convince the lady to leave anyway?”
Resentment created a blood-red aura around Luc’s force field. “She didn’t convince the lady.” He thumped his chest with a fist. “I did.”
Smiling, Sherman shook his head. “You delivered the fait accompli. But she did the work. She learned about the child and the vicious siblings. She used that information to bring about Ms. Esterby’s change of heart. You swooped in for the swift conclusion.”
Not quite the way he would have phrased the events, but…
“Maybe,” Luc admitted. “Still, I would have preferred to know about this test so I wasn’t bushwhacked during the hunt. Christ, you might as well have hit me with a two-by-four.”
“You were hardly bushwhacked, Luc.” Sherman’s tone grew indulgent, a parent calming a hysterical teen. “In fact, Ms. Devlin’s results wouldn’t have reflected upon you at all. She’s your trainee, not your shadow. Her successes and/or failures do not affect your record in the slightest. Besides, what difference does it make? She passed. You should be jumping for joy.”
“Why? If she’d failed, she would have been reassigned, and I’d be a helluva lot happier.”
Sherman laced his fingers and propped his sunken chin atop his steepled hands. “Perhaps, Luc, you might consider your apprenticeship with Ms. Devlin as your own personal test.”
The anger returned, simmering under a tight lid. “Why would I need a test?”
“The Board believes you’re still holding on to some anger from your last few lives.”
His temper boiled over, spilling from his lips in hot, stinging words. “Gee, I wonder why. One woman handed me over to the British as a spy during the American Revolution. Another ordered the doctor to pull the plug on my respirator when I would have awakened from a temporary coma. I think those kinds of events have given me a right to be distrustful of the fairer sex, don’t you?”
“What I think isn’t important, Luc. What is important is that if you continue to nurse that anger, it may eventually overcome you. And if that happens, you’ll become one of the Furies you so successfully chase for us now.”
Tossing his head, he snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”
Sherman rose and walked toward his double doors, which opened on his approach. “The Board has invested a great deal in you, Luc. Don’t disappoint us.”
Knowing he’d been dismissed, Luc stormed past Sherman. “This isn’t over.”
Two women had already brought about his downfall on Earth. He’d be damned if he’d allow a third’s insecurities to drag him down in the Afterlife.
~~~~
While waiting for Luc to return, Jodie slumped in a cushy chair near Samantha’s desk. God, just to sit felt so good! Every muscle, whether real or simply energy, screamed for sleep. Even her eyelids ached. Meanwhile, her stomach voiced its own noisy needs, and her skin itched reminders of the thick layer of dry sweat and dust clogging her pores. What had Luc said? There have been plenty of times I’ve fought a battle to decide whether to eat, sleep, or shower first. Sleep always wins for me because the other two can be taken care of while I’m recharging the old battery.
“Sleep first,” she murmured to her body, dispelling the debate.
Not because she knew how the other two could be “taken care of” while she slept. But food could wait until she had regained enough energy to chew. And no way would her muscles keep her standing for a shower without a chance to rest beforehand. Therefore, sleep was the obvious winner.
The doors leading to Sherman’s office swished open. Contrary to her exhaustion, Luc strode out with furious strides, energy bouncing off his form with the force of machine gun fire. “Come along, Ms. Devlin,” he growled as he stalked past her.
She jumped up as if prodded with a pitchfork, struggling to gather excess static from the carpet at her feet to propel her forward. The now familiar rush of ions whipped around her, weak, but effective. A moment’s panic stole her breath as she broke into miniscule pieces of power, but the new surge of electricity reawakened her confidence. Closing her eyes, she envisioned herself as a spear of lightning, aimed for the floor of her room at the Halfway House.
Sure enough, when she opened her eyes again, she stood in the foyer of her room. Atop the counter, the clipboard lay, at rest. The way she hoped to be soon. She yawned. Very soon. In fact, the bed only a few steps away seemed to glow like a neon Vacancy sign, beckoning her forward. On stumbling legs, she staggered toward the mattress. With the last ounce of bouncing atoms, she dove, face first, into its welcoming embrace.
She slept, dreamless, with no concept of time, a machine unplugged. Rebooting…
Chapter 8
Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzz!
The sudden noise jolted Jodie back to consciousness. An alarm clock? Here? In the land with no time?
She sat upright, scanned the area around her bed, found nothing. Still the buzz rattled through her head, more annoying than a mosquito in a dark room. Where the hell was it coming from? Out of the corner of her eye she spotted purple lights dancing on the ceiling. The clipboard! The message currently transmitting from the Board flashed so brightly and with so much power, the characters reflected on the flat painted surface overhead and even made the counter vibrate.
Fully awake now, she stumbled out of the bed linens. Once she’d disentangled her legs, she raced to the jumpy, noisy device. When she placed her fingers on the clipboard, the Voice intoned, “Please stand by for your assignment.” The clipboard then dimmed and went silent.
Stand by? She collapsed onto one of the stools and stared at the blank board. For how long? The sleep had not only left her refreshed, but antsy to get back to work. Her hunger had disappeared, as well. Did she have enough time to brush her teeth before the Voice returned?
Strange. The moment the idea came into her head, a minty taste filled her mouth and her tongue tingled with a freshly gargled feeling. Okay… How about washing her face? Maybe a shower? Sure enough, her pores tightened as if undergoing an expensive facial. When she touched her scalp, smooth, clean hair brushed her fingertips.
Was this conjuring? Had she finally figured out how to get out of the dumb toga? Only one way to know for sure. Let’s try a new outfit.
A pair of her favorite jeans, deep blue bootlegs with butterflies stitched in gold threads on the back pockets came to mind. And because she wanted to show Luc the proper way for a bounty hunter to dress, she chose a shimmering print blouse. Royal blue and hot pink butterflies flitted over pale blue silk, and a lacy pink camisole peeked from the unbuttoned V neckline.
Voila! Staring down at herself from chest to bare feet, she found the exact outfit she’d envisioned now clothing her frame. Woo-hoo! Time for a little Snoopy dance. She’d learned to conjure her garments!
Now she’d need shoes to complete the ensemble. Not just any shoes. A good pair of designer ankle boots with a teeny heel, in buttery soft brown leather, comfortable, useful, and sexy as hell. The moment the image fully popped into her head, the boots covered her feet. Flexing her toes up, then down, she smiled.
This was a death benefit she could easily get used to.
Bam! Bam! Bam! A loud rapping on her door shot her attention away from this morning’s successes. No surprise. She found Luc hovering in the hallway, fully refreshed, clean-shaven and displaying another stupid t-shirt. This one loudly proclaimed, Never knock on Death’s door. Ring the bell and run. He hates that!
“The Board’s calling?” he said in greeting.
Waving him inside, she turned away. “I slept fine, Luc. Thanks for asking. You?”
“Of course you slept fine,” he replied. “This is the Afterlife. No insomnia here.”
The door closed behind him with a snick.
“I see you got yourself a new outfit.” His voice blew hot breath on her nape, and she whirled to find h
im right behind her. “I guess that means you’ve mastered how to conjure.” His lips quirked, and he waggled his brows. “Would you be insulted if I said I’ll miss attempting to picture you in the prime of life?”
Heat flooded her from head to toe. “You mean naked?”
He leaned forward, closing the gap between them to the width of a fingertip. “Naked.” His gaze slowly skimmed her from head to toe. “In bed.” He stared at the pile of linens she’d let pool on the floor. “Sated…”
Bzzz! Bzzz! Bzzz!
The Board. She’d almost forgotten. Flashing Luc a disapproving glare, she grabbed the clipboard and planted her fingers atop the surface.
“…Artist Taylor Finch,” the Voice said, “wasn’t yet a household name when, in the summer of 1976, he was murdered by his agent and four of his paintings were stolen from his home. His widow, son, and daughter have fought to regain possession of the oils ever since they resurfaced in a private collector’s home in Miami Beach in the early 1980’s. The collector claimed he bought the paintings from a reputable dealer and produced receipts to back up his claim. Unfortunately, both the agent and the art dealer in question died before the receipts were presented, and their authenticity could not be verified.”
Jodie gasped, removing her fingers from the clipboard. How tragic. Imagine! This poor man had his life and his life’s work stolen from him in one greedy act.
“Forget the social commentary.” Luc rolled his hands. “Get the rest of the details.”
Eyes wide, she stared at him. “How did you know…?” She stopped, reconsidered. Must be that Vulcan mind-meld again. “Never mind.”
Obviously they shared a psychic link so that only one of them needed to touch the clipboard for both of them to receive the data. Efficient, she supposed. But also unnerving. To always have a stranger in her head? What was the point? Maybe the Afterlife suffered budget cuts like Earth? With her hand hovering an inch above the clipboard, she paused. “Don’t you ever consider how sad some of these stories are?”