[Anthology] The Paranormal 13- now With a Bonus 14th Novel!

by Dima Zales

  He shook his head. "She was gone by the time I reached the street."

  If he'd run after her immediately, he might have seen the direction she took, but he'd stayed with me to see if I was all right. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't be sorry about that.

  "Who do you think she stole the book for?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Who knows? Her brother, a friend, or just because she liked the look of it and thought it would fetch a good price. Whoever it was, there's a good chance they were the ones who cursed the amulet, or will know who did. We have to find them."

  I nodded. "I'm not sure if our research can help us there though. George and I learned that the demon was well known to gypsies across Europe. They used to summon it then direct it to destroy their enemies, or the horses of their enemies."

  "So we can strike gypsies off our list of suspects."

  "Why?"

  "Gypsies pass down their customs through the generations by word of mouth. They won't need a book to tell them how to summon a shape-shifting demon."

  The street grew busier as we drew closer to the Kings Road precinct so we strolled in silence although my mind was in turmoil. I was still a little shaken by the incident with Maree, and even more shaken by the knowledge that someone was directing a demon based on whatever knowledge they could gain from one book.

  But there was something even more troubling. No, not troubling as such, but it occupied my thoughts almost to the exclusion of all else. "George told me about your family," I said to Jacob eventually. We were only a block away from my house and I didn't know when we'd have a chance to speak so openly to one another again. I'd expected Jacob to disappear and let me walk home alone but he'd remained by my side the entire time. Was he still worried about the incident with Maree? Did he expect me to faint out of fright at any moment?

  He said nothing, so I went on. "Not that George knew much, but he did tell me they're very … distressed about your death because your body was never found, you see, so they can't have peace." I was rambling, the words tumbling out of my mouth without me thinking them through first. I was afraid that if I did think about them, I wouldn't say anything, and I desperately wanted to broach the topic with Jacob. It seemed vital somehow, but to whom, I wasn't sure. Him? Or me? Or his family?

  "That isn't your concern, Emily," he said, striding ahead. I had to walk fast to keep up with him. His legs were very long.

  "Nevertheless, I am concerned. I'd like your permission to speak to them—."

  "No!"

  "But I can help them move on. They need to know you're dead, Jacob, or they'll be forever wondering."

  "Leave it, Emily. You're not … " He heaved a deep sigh. "This is not your concern."

  "But—"

  "No!" He stopped and rounded on me so that I almost bumped into him.

  I ducked into a nearby alley where we could talk without the stares. I was about to argue but then I saw anxiety behind the fierceness in his eyes.

  Why? What about his family worried him so? Or perhaps the real question was, what was it about me meeting them had him so concerned?

  What would I learn?

  "Very well. I understand." I couldn't meet his eyes as I spoke. I fully intended to visit them, but not today. Today I had a séance to conduct.

  I started walking again and he fell into step beside me. "There's one other question I want to ask you."

  He groaned. "I had a feeling there would be."

  "Did your death come about due to an accident?"

  "Not an accident, no."

  My stomach knotted. Even though it was the answer I expected it sickened me to hear him confirm my suspicions. "So someone must have … killed you." The word stuck in my throat. It was simply too horrible. "Who?"

  "I don't know."

  I stopped. He stopped too and shrugged. "I don't," he said.

  I believed him. "How did it happen?"

  "I'm not entirely sure."

  I waited but he didn't say anything else. "Would you like to elaborate?"

  "Not right now."

  Good lord it was like pulling out a rotten tooth—painful. "I see. So your body is located … ?"

  "I don't know."

  "Right. So you don't know who killed you, or how, or where or even why. Do you think any of those things is the reason why you can go wherever you please and why you look decidedly real?"

  His gaze fixed on something over my shoulder and I thought he wouldn't answer me, but then he said, "I think they have something to do with the way in which I died, yes."

  "So … do you want to tell me more?"

  He looked at me with those blue, blue eyes and darkly forbidding expression that thrilled me yet unnerved me at the same time. "Perhaps another day," he said.

  If he thought a few simmering glances would deter me, he had a lot to learn. "Why not now?"

  He started walking again. "Because I think you'll take it upon yourself to find out more if I do. Give a dog a bone and it'll look for a second when that's gone."

  I squinted at him. "Are you comparing me to a dog?"

  "When your hair tumbles over your eyes like that, you do look a little like an Old English sheepdog."

  I swept my hair off my forehead and tried to shove it under my hat but without the pins to keep it in place, it simply fell out again. He laughed.

  "This isn't funny, Jacob. We're discussing your death."

  "Which we haven't got time for at the moment, not with a demon on the loose."

  I couldn't argue with him since he was right. Despite the lack of time, however, I would still try, even without his help. He might not want to discover who his murderer was, but he or she had to be punished. Jacob's death could not be swept aside as if it didn't matter. It mattered.

  More than I wanted to admit.

  "I hope you're not mad about the dog comment," Jacob said as we turned into Druids Way. As usual the wind whipped down the street, making an even bigger mess of my hair. "If it makes you feel any better," he said, "the Old English sheepdog is one of my favorite breeds."

  "I hate you," I said and he laughed harder.

  We reached home and he disappeared as soon as Celia met me at the door. I stared at the spot where he'd been standing until she pulled me inside.

  "Goodness me, Em, look at you!" She clicked her tongue as she removed my hat and groaned when the curls spilled over my face. "We have to be at Mrs. Postlethwaite's house in fifteen minutes." She teased and tugged my hair into shape, rearranged my hat on my head, turned me around and pushed me out the door.

  Exactly fifteen minutes later, we arrived at Mrs. Postlethwaite's house. The séance went well. We didn't release any demons and the ghost we summoned—Mrs. Postlethwaite's dead husband—was eager to return to the Waiting Area after his widow had finished asking him if he'd had a clandestine relationship with the next door neighbor. He hadn't, or so he said, and Mrs. Postlethwaite was content with his answer although her spinster sister sitting beside her thought it a lie. She also thought I was a fraud and tried to prove it by inspecting the objects the ghost held up as part of our routine to see if we used hidden wires or magnets. She found none of course, which only soured her temper further.

  I managed to avoid her afterwards while tea was being served. Indeed, I managed to avoid all of the guests—an easy thing to do since they left me alone. To be fair, they probably didn't know what to say to me. Some might be scared, others just cautious and I didn't make it easy for them, preferring my own company. Celia was the chatty one, handing out cards to the guests and telling them stories, some true, about the ghosts we'd summoned at other séances. It was all good business, she once told me, and she enjoyed the theatre of it immensely. My sister had missed her calling—she would have been a natural on a Covent Garden stage.

  My separation from the group allowed me to think as I sipped my tea. After wondering why there was a rush of widows summoning their late husbands at our séances, I couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Postlethwaite's extr
a-marital relationship. He'd been quite an attractive man for his age, which I put to be at mid-forties, and he certainly kept an eye on the prettier ladies in the room, my sister included and his wife, unfortunately, not.

  I wasn't naïve. I knew married men and women had affairs on occasion, and the idea of my existence coming about because of one wasn't new to me. In fact it was the most obvious explanation. For some time I'd thought Mama must have met someone after her husband's death then nine months later I'd been born. But seeing Mr. Postlethwaite sowed a seed of doubt. Just a small one. He had been precisely the sort of person to have a liaison outside of his marriage—handsome in a preening, peacock-ish way, a roaming eye, and a charming manner.

  Mama had been none of those things. She was pretty, I suppose, although it seemed to me she'd always been middle-aged, even when I was little. But she wasn't handsome like some women, or gregarious, and she had certainly never looked at men the way Mr. Postlethwaite looked at ladies.

  Could Mama possibly have fallen deeply in love with one man so soon after her beloved husband's death? A man who'd not loved her enough in return when he got her with child?

  If not, then … what?

  I didn't have any answers by the time we left Widow Postlethwaite's house, nor was there any likelihood of getting any. Mama was possibly the only person who knew my real father's name and I'd not been able to summon her ghost at all since her death. She must have crossed over immediately.

  I pushed the problem aside, telling myself it didn't matter, that I was loved by my sister and had been by my mother and that's all that mattered. Anyway, now I had other things to occupy my mind. I had the demon. And I had Jacob.

  I was eager to return home and speak to him again. Not for any reason, just because I wanted to. Perhaps I could find out more about his death, but if not it didn't matter. I'd enjoy his company regardless of what we talked about.

  "How did your information gathering go this morning?" Celia asked on the way home.

  "Well enough." I told her everything we'd learned, including the interview with Maree the maid, mentioning the school but leaving out the part where she tried to stab me. My sister's constitution is incredibly strong but still it wouldn't do to alarm her. She might never let me go out alone again.

  "I wonder if Lucy knows her," Celia said.

  "Who's Lucy?"

  "Our new maid. I collected her this morning from that North London School for Domestic Service. We'll ask her when we get home. Now, enough of that." We turned into our street and I glanced up at our house. No Jacob standing on the doorstep. I sighed. "Tell me about this George Culvert fellow," Celia said. "What was he like? Is he handsome? Was the house very large and does he have older brothers?"

  "Older brothers? Why, are you interested in meeting them for yourself, Sis?" I looked at her sideways and had to hold onto my hat as the breeze tried to lift it off my head.

  "Of course not," she scoffed. "I simply want to know if an older brother will inherit the house, that's all, or if it all goes to this George."

  "This George," I said sharply, "is a nice enough gentleman but he doesn't interest me in the way you're implying." I stalked off ahead and ran up the front steps.

  "But—."

  "Celia, stop trying to marry me off to every eligible gentleman we meet. I'm seventeen. I want to enjoy my freedom before I settle down with a husband."

  "Being married does not necessarily mean you'll lose your freedom."

  "Then why haven't you settled down with any of the men who've shown interest in you?" Three gentlemen had courted Celia over the years but despite a great deal of speculation on my part, she'd not married any of them.

  She fished in her reticule for the door key. "That's none of your concern," she said, snippy. "Now, come inside and meet Lucy. She seems very sweet."

  Lucy did indeed seem sweet. She was a little younger than me, plumper, shorter and fairer. She had an English rose complexion, the sort that's permanently pink and blushes easily. I'd often wished to have just such a complexion but with my tendency to feel embarrassed a lot of the time, it's probably just as well that I don't.

  "I hope you'll like it here, Lucy," I said to her.

  "Th … thank you, m … miss." She bobbed a careful but wobbly curtsy and stared at me as if I had two heads. If her eyes widened any further they'd pop out of her head.

  I turned an accusing eye on Celia, one hand on my hip.

  "I thought it best we tell her up front," Celia said, setting down her carpet bag. "Get it out in the open, so to speak, to avoid any nasty surprises later on. Particularly since that ghost of yours seems to be coming and going with ill-mannered frequency."

  "I don't think your sister likes me," Jacob said, popping up behind me. Was he watching me and trying to arrive at inopportune moments on purpose?

  The thought of him keeping an eye on me sent a shiver down my spine, and not entirely in a bad way.

  I ignored him and concentrated on Lucy but the poor thing whimpered beneath my gaze. I certainly wouldn't alert her to Jacob's presence. She might faint and then where would we be? Instead, I gave my sister a glare then turned a smile on the maid.

  "He's a nice ghost," I assured her.

  "Thank you," he said, "although nice is a rather bland word."

  "He won't harm you," I went on, doing my best to ignore him. "And he probably won't be here much longer, only until we sort out … " I bit my lip. Finishing the sentence with "our demon issue" probably wasn't a good way to settle her nerves. "Until we sort out a few things."

  The thought of Jacob leaving once we'd returned the demon to the Otherworld filled me with a hollowness I didn't want to explore. I'd only known him a day but he'd somehow managed to fill up my life in a way nothing else had.

  It was all I could do not to look around and see if the thought had struck him too.

  The girl nodded quickly, her eyes still huge and her cheeks paler. I wasn't sure Celia's tactic to tell Lucy about me being a medium was such a good idea. Having someone stare at me like I was a lunatic in my own house wasn't my idea of comfort. Besides, would knowing mean she'd stay around longer, or just leave earlier? At least she was still here—it was a promising start.

  "How is dinner coming along?" Celia asked as Lucy accepted her bonnet and hung it up on the stand. "Good, miss. It'll be ready at six like you said. I set the water boiling for the potatoes and the fish is all ready to go on the gridiron, but I couldn't find it—the gridiron, not the fish—so I'll just use one of the pans instead. Mrs. White our teacher told us to make do with what pots and things are already 'vailable and not worry our mistress 'bout that stuff. She's a smart lady, Mrs. White, but she didn't take no fuss from no one."

  It was my turn to stare wide-eyed at her. It seemed our maid was quite the chatterer when she wasn't frightened.

  I smiled at Celia. Celia smiled at Lucy. "Can you serve tea in the drawing room, please," she said, "I'm parched after that walk."

  Lucy curtseyed again, without wobbling. "As you wish, miss. I'm very good at making tea. Mrs. White always said so. Said I was the best tea-maker in the whole school." She turned to go, stopped, turned back to us, curtseyed again, and only then did she make her way down the hallway to the stairs leading to the kitchen basement.

  "Aren't you going to ask her about the Culvert maid?" Celia asked me as we entered the drawing room.

  "Exactly what I was going to say," Jacob said, following me.

  The room was cool so I stoked the smoldering fire with the irons.

  "I'll do that," Jacob offered.

  I shook my head. I didn't want to alert Celia to his presence—she already thought him ungentlemanly for his ghostly comings and goings—and I definitely didn't want Lucy to see floating fire irons when she entered with the tea.

  "I think Lucy needs a few moments to get used to me before I press her about Maree," I said, poking the coals. "Oh and thank you, Sis, for mentioning the whole spirit medium thing to her. I'm sure she'll be inclin
ed to stay much longer than the other maids now that she knows"

  "Sarcasm will make your face sag," she said.

  "I'm simply saying I don't think it was a good idea." I returned the iron poker to the stand and sat beside her on the sofa.

  "I disagree," Jacob said from his usual place by the mantelpiece.

  "We had to try something," Celia said, taking up her embroidery.

  I picked up the book I'd begun the day before and left on the round occasional table. "Why does 'something' always have to involve me being on the receiving end of odd or frightened looks?"

  "It's better than being on the end of pitying ones."

  I lowered my book to see her better. Was she referring to herself and her spinster state? But she kept embroidering as if she hadn't a care in the world and it had merely been an off-hand comment.

  "Both are better than not being noticed at all," Jacob muttered.

  My lips parted in a silent "Oh" and I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to look at him. What a horrible, selfish fool I was. Jacob's lot was so much worse than anything Celia or I experienced. That would teach me to be so ungrateful.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "You're right."

  "Your book is upside down," he said.

  I shut it and returned it to the table. He was smiling at me and there wasn't a hint of self-pity in his expression. It shouldn't have surprised me. Jacob didn't strike me as the sort to wallow in his disadvantages, even though being dead was a major one.

  I was about to relent and tell Celia that Jacob was in the drawing room with us when Lucy entered carrying the tea tray as if it were made of gold and precious jewels. Her slow, careful shuffle didn't stop the cups from clinking against each other. Her tongue darted out as she eyed her destination—the central table in front of the sofa—and lodged in the corner of her mouth like a bookmark. When she finally set the tray down I let out a long breath and heard Celia do the same.

  "Could you pour, please," Celia asked.

  I wanted to throttle her. The poor girl was nervous enough and now she had to manage the pouring. Despite her shaking hands, Lucy poured the tea and spilled only a little onto the saucers. I reached for my own cup, as did Celia, and thanked her.