by Gina Ardito
“So, what are you saying?” Mr. Lange rose to his full height, towering over her with a menacing presence that slowed her kinetic energy to tortoise speed. “That I killed Jenny in a previous life? And so did her father, and her stepmother, and her current husband? What were we? Some kind of cult or something?”
Unease danced through her cells, and she squirmed. “It doesn’t mean you necessarily killed her. You might have victimized her in another way.”
“In what way?” Luc’s waves of kinetic energy raged around his aura like the rays of the sun on an equatorial beach.
Trapped between the two fuming men, Jodie stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the kitchen chair. “I-I don’t know. There are lots of ways. You might have robbed her or raped her or been directly responsible for some major hardship she experienced. Maybe you were a drunk driver who left her severely injured in an accident. Maybe you found her wallet in the street, kept the contents, and she wound up homeless because the wallet held her rent money. Maybe you inadvertently bilked her out of her life savings through some pyramid scam. The possibilities are endless. The main focus is an act on your part that negatively impacted her.”
“And she gets her revenge by killing me the next time around? That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
She waved her hands. “You misunderstand. It’s not revenge. It’s Karmic Justice. And depending on your crime against her, this could be a never-ending cycle.”
“You mean we could keep doing this to each other forever, life after life after life?” Mr. Lange flashed a look of disgust at his widow who now carefully applied the caps to her doctored iced tea bottles.
“Not quite forever. The intention of this cycle is for each of you to learn forgiveness. With each incarnation, you’ll be given the opportunity to break the cycle and find love. But, if after several incarnations, the victimization continues, the Afterlife will attempt an intervention called Human Life Empathy, wherein the souls involved will somehow be brought to experience the pain of other victims. These individuals continue to experience that pain until they seek and receive forgiveness from all those they wronged. The longer the process takes the more pain the individual feels in sympathy. Eventually, they’ll experience each wrong as if they were the victim.”
An unholy roar erupted in the room, and Jodie squeaked at the sudden noise. Luc’s energy swirled in pulsating hues of magenta. Volcanic fury spewed, splashing her in red-hot fire. Instinctively, she raised her arms to protect herself. She cried out as each stinging barb struck tender flesh, so like the flames in Castelan. When at last the onslaught stopped, she lowered her arms and found herself facing the curious stare of Phillip Lange.
Luc was gone.
Chapter 28
On a spiraling rage, Luc sped straight to his old Tudor-style home in the New York suburbs. He landed in, of all places, the bedroom he’d shared with Daphne. The massive teak four-poster, draped in gauzy white netting, still ruled supreme in the center of the room on its very own platform.
While the same furnishings remained, all the accessories had changed. Where snapshots of their wedding once hung now perched a gilt-framed portrait of Daphne in some upper-crust pose. Garbed in a glacier blue Grecian-style gown, her rich auburn hair coaxed into an updo with one long curled tress cascading over her bare left shoulder, the lady of the manor stood in semi-profile, one hand resting on the back of an empty chair.
Rising, eyes fixed on the portrait, Luc scoffed. “She’s got to be kidding.”
He didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned when he noted no photos of Matt within this private sanctum. Why? Had she already killed Matt and moved on? Like that Lange woman?
Jodie’s comments thundered in his head. With each incarnation, you’ll be given the opportunity to break the cycle and find love.
Love? Thanks anyway. He didn’t need love. What he craved was peace. Peace from the nightmares haunting him. Peace from the pain he felt with every bounty he pursued. As if he experienced their agonies on a personal level.
If after several incarnations, the victimization continues, the Afterlife will attempt an intervention called Human Life Empathy, wherein the souls involved will somehow be brought to experience the pain of other victims. These individuals continue to experience that pain until they seek and receive forgiveness from all those they wronged. The longer the process takes the more pain the individual feels in sympathy. Eventually, they’ll experience each wrong as if they were the victim.
Which explained the symptoms he’d experienced since Jodie’s arrival.
But not the reason. The question ran uppermost in his mind. Why? Why had the Board singled him out? What had he ever done to Daphne to deserve this Karmic Justice? If, in fact, that was what caused all his discomfort these days. Maybe he’d wronged her in a previous life. But in the past lives he’d viewed with Placide upon his initial arrival in the Afterlife, he’d been the victim. Had Daphne been the one to turn him over to the Redcoats, too? Why?
Because as far as he knew, his only mistake this time around had been in marrying her. Stupid? Hell, yes. Criminal? Hardly. But he must have done something horrible to her if she was so thirsty for revenge that she’d pull him off life support. No doubt, something he’d dismissed as inconsequential. And how exactly did Matt Cooper figure into the equation? Or was Matt just this incarnation’s accomplice? Would Luc get the opportunity to gain revenge on Matt in his next life? If he ever got to his next life…
Seeking clues to whatever he may have missed that earned him such harsh punishment in the Afterlife, Luc approached the mirrored armoire near the bedroom door. How long had he been dead now? Would there be anything of his left to scrutinize? If Daphne got rid of his stuff with the same expediency she’d rid herself of him, he’d definitely waited too long to make this trip.
Idiot! On so many occasions Placide had stressed Luc needed to clear up unfinished business. But he’d never heeded his Elder Counselor’s advice. Another test he’d failed.
With exaggerated slowness, he slid open the top drawer. The scent of lavender rose in the air, a sharp reminder of his former wife, and he swerved to ascertain the place remained unoccupied.
Silly really. Even if a crowd filled the room, they’d never notice him. The drawer wouldn’t appear open to any earthly eyes anyway. Luc merely rearranged the molecular structure for his own benefit. The Living, self-absorbed and skeptical of the unexplained, rarely noticed the actions of souls who might revolve around them. Sometimes a child or an animal would catch a hint of activity from an other-worldly being, but any attempt the witnesses made to draw attention to the phenomenon was quickly shushed and dismissed as fantasy.
Still, something about this whole scenario urged Luc to engage in subterfuge on the deepest levels. Inside the drawer, piles of delicate lace in a dozen pastel shades met his gaze. Daphne’s lingerie. Regardless of what she wore on the outside, from workout gear to designer ballgowns, her choice of underwear never wavered. She’d once confided she savored the delicious suspicion that what she wore closest to her skin would make grown men fall to their knees to worship her—if only they knew.
That confession was so indicative of Daphne’s personality: all sexy secrets and enigmatic surprises. Perfection on the outside with a lot of devil on the inside. Which probably explained why he’d fallen so hard for her. And probably why she managed to skirt a murder rap when he died.
After all, no one had ever questioned her loyalty. When their friends talked about the eventual demise of the Asante marriage, it was always Luc who bore the brunt of the future blame. Luc the thrill-seeker, who spent most of his time searching for the next big adventure. Whether he plunged headlong from cliffs over the swirling turquoise water in Mexico, from airplanes at thirty-thousand feet, or into a whirlwind wedding, Luc had lived his entire life on the edge.
Now he skimmed a tentative finger over the lace cup of Daphne’s bra. And a television monitor inside his head zapped to life.
Onl
y one sound echoed over his pounding heart. An infernal beep perfectly timed to pierce the small lapses between each pump of adrenaline through his veins.
Whoosh, beep. Whoosh, beep. Whoosh, beep…
What the hell was that noise? While his vision grew fuzzy around the edges, the beeping increased in intensity. A chilling fog enveloped him, as if he’d suddenly become encased in dry ice. He blinked once, twice, a third time, until at last he saw the room with renewed focus.
Except…
He no longer hovered in the bedroom he’d shared with Daphne. The silk-papered walls around him had taken on a painted pea green hue. Bleeping, glowing machinery, some spitting out tongues of white paper tape, pocked the vertical surfaces. The photos changed again, this time to mass-produced prints of patients’ rights and pain charts with frowny faces numbered one through ten. The four-poster became a metal bed with rails on the sides and tubing adhered to run from an IV pole into a patient’s arm.
What fresh hell had he found now? His attention snapped to the woman seated in the lone chair beside the bed. Daphne. Could she see him? A sudden tremor rippled through him, but quickly eased.
No.
Whatever he witnessed at the moment wasn’t really in the moment. This was a memory—his or Daphne’s, he didn’t know. But since his human form currently reclined comatose in the hospital bed, he’d have to guess he now saw images that haunted Daphne. The conversation with Dr. Shane came to his psyche in full force. He saw Daphne race into the hospital, frantic for information about Luc’s condition. Nurses and staff attempted to stonewall her, but Daphne—diva to the max when the role suited her—caused such a scene in the middle of the reception area, Dr. Shane was paged to provide the details of his patient’s condition.
After settling her in a private consultation room, Dr. Shane listed Luc’s injuries: massive head trauma, collapsed lung, ruptured spleen, and several shattered bones. “We’ve placed him in a medically-induced coma,” he concluded, his expression grim. “But I have to tell you, it’s only a temporary measure.”
“Temporary,” Daphne reiterated, eyes bright with unshed tears. “So, that’s good, right? He’ll wake up on his own soon.”
Dr. Shane sighed. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Asante. I think you should begin considering final arrangements for your husband.”
Whoa! Hold up. That’s not the way Luc remembered this scene at all.
“No.” She fairly shrieked the denial.
“Mrs. Asante, please. I don’t normally rush to a conclusion, but—”
“You have to do something,” she insisted. “You can’t just let him die.”
“I’m sorry. But the damage is too extensive.”
Panic radiated off Daphne in undulating waves. “I understand he’s badly injured. But he’s only thirty-six and in excellent health. He can’t just die. There must be some kind of surgery, transplants, anything. Money’s no object, I can promise you.”
“Mrs. Asante, money or no money, if I believed there was the slimmest chance it would save his life, I’d do any or all of the above. But the fact remains. No matter what we try, your husband is not going to pull through.”
Shaking hands raked her hair. “But Luc wouldn’t want to die this way. Can’t he be kept alive by machine, just on a temporary basis? To give his body time to heal?”
“I’m afraid not. We can keep him on high doses of pain medicine for a short time, but eventually the pain will be too great and no amount of morphine will ease the torment. I really need you to make a decision, Mrs. Asante. Is there someone I can call to help you? A family member? Friend? A priest, perhaps?”
Daphne shook her head. “Can I see him first? Please? I just need to make sure… Before I order you to turn the machines off…” she announced, more insistent now. “I have to be sure.”
“Of course. If you’ll follow me?” Dr. Shane led her down the quiet, disheartening hall to a closed room.
“Oh, God!” Her breath came in audible gasps, uneven and jerky. “I don’t know what to do. I want to make the right decision. But I’m not sure what that is.”
“Perhaps you should wait to speak to someone else? The man who brought your husband in, perhaps?”
“No!” The denial ripped through her. Not Matt. An icy finger of suspicion tickled her vertebrae. Maybe she was reacting to emotion, but she didn’t trust Matt. Never had, never would.
“A cleric, then?” the doctor pressed. “Someone spiritual?”
Yeah, right. Wouldn’t Luc, the agnostic, have a chuckle-fest over that idea? Gallows humor. But the smile the idea engendered was enough to revive Daphne’s sagging spirits. Stiffening her spine, she pulled her emotions into a tight, swirling ball in the pit of her stomach. “That won’t be necessary, Doctor. If you’d allow me a few minutes alone, I’ll let you know my decision shortly.”
The doctor shrugged. “Very well, but if Mr. Asante intended to donate his organs, we should work quickly. The optimum time to harvest for transplant is slowly evaporating.”
“Why? Do you have a bus to catch or something?” she snapped. “Look, Doctor. I don’t give a damn about optimum time. Nor do I want to prolong my husband’s agony. You’ll have your answer soon. In fact, the sooner you allow me time to say goodbye, the sooner you’ll get what you want.”
“If you’re certain there’s no one I can call for you…?”
“Of course I’m certain.” She must have realized her tone bordered on confrontational because she inhaled deeply, relaxed her shoulders, and lowered her voice. “Just one thing. I mean, it’s not like Luc and I discussed this possibility many times over the course of our marriage. I need to know a percentage. As close as you can get. I’m guessing he wouldn’t want to be on life support forever. But…” She swallowed her heart before the rapid beat tripped her tongue. “What are the chances Luc could survive if we left him on the ventilator? Even briefly.”
“I assure you, there’s absolutely no chance he could pull through. I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Asante.” Defeat weighed down the doctor’s next words. “There are forms you’ll need to sign…”
“Get them. Let’s be done with this farce so my poor Luc can be at peace and I can mourn him properly.”
The minute the doctor left the room, Daphne allowed her tears to fall in twin floods.
“Forgive me, Luc. I’m so sorry. Will you ever forgive me…?”
Jesus. Luc blinked the scene away, his conscience abrading him like broken glass. Poor Daphne. What a tremendous burden she’d saddled. Alone. Forgive her? Hell, he thanked her for having the courage to do what she did. Obviously, he was never meant to awaken from his coma.
“Dammit, Luc, wake up!”
The demand came from Daphne, but a Daphne he barely recognized. Swollen, red-rimmed eyes spilled tears onto chalky cheeks. Normally flawless makeup streaked her face like a multi-hued Rorschach test. Trembling arms enclosed her in a self-imposed bear hug, fingers skittering up and down her forearms as if to ward off a chill. She rocked up and down at the midsection, lips moving in frantic whispers. Please, oh, please. Let him be all right. Wake up, Luc. Please, God, wake him up.
Luc did a double-take. Was Daphne praying? For him? Why?
A quick flurry of sea green curtain ushered Matt into the room, a chilled bottle of water clutched in one hand. “Daphne? Any change in his condition?”
The words, filled with concern on the outside, blazed with an undercurrent of pure hatred that bounced off the walls and sliced into Luc with the power of hollow-point bullets.
Jesus! How could he have misjudged the man so drastically? Matt Cooper despised him!
With an obviously forced air of compassion, Matt pressed the bottle into Daphne’s shaking hand. “Here. Drink something.”
She pointedly ignored him, removing her hand from the water bottle in one smooth, graceful motion. “No, thank you.”
“You’ll dehydrate if you don’t.”
“I want nothing from you, Matt. You’ve done enough.” Her tone
sounded so brittle in Luc’s ears, as if she really was completely undone by the severity of his condition.
Matt edged closer to her side, a cobra slithering toward its unknowing victim. “What did the doctor say?”
“That…” Her voice caught on a sob, and she sniffled. “…There’s absolutely no chance he’ll pull through.”
Daphne coughed. “Dr. Shane says I should start making ‘final arrangements’ for Luc.”
“What kind of final arrangements?”
She leveled a teary gaze at Matt. Luc’s chest constricted. God, she really looked torn up. Which begged the question: if he’d misjudged Matt’s animosity, could he have also misjudged Daphne’s level of guilt in his death? The crushing possibility nearly drove him to his knees. Was that where he’d gone wrong? Blaming Daphne for his death when, perhaps, she was an innocent victim, just as he’d been? Did that explain his Karmic Justice?
“Final final arrangements,” she snapped. “As in done, finito, over. Everything. Dr. Shane said if I plan to donate any of…” The sobbing increased to thunderstorm intensity. “…Luc’s organs, they should be harvested soon. Harvested. Can you believe that cold son-of-a-bitch? Couching things in friendly-sounding terms when it’s little more than picking over a dying man’s remains?”
Matt’s defeated sigh could have garnered him an Oscar nomination. “But the doctor’s right, Daphne.” He pointed to the still figure lying in the hospital bed. “That’s not Luc. He ceased being Luc when he landed flat on his back on the ledge at Slanting Cracks.”
Luc glowered at his former friend. You oughta know, you conniving bastard.
“It should have been me,” she murmured. “I should be lying in that bed right now. Not Luc.”
“It was an accident, Daph.”
She leveled shimmering eyes at him, her expression furious. “Another accident. Just like Castelan, right, Matt?”