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

by Dima Zales

  "You clearly haven't. Which means you thought it was important."

  He gave me his crooked smile and I was overjoyed to see the charming Jacob back. No matter how hurt I was by the fact he didn't want to stay with me forever, I couldn't be mad at him for long. "You know me so well already." He sat on the chair near the fireplace and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His shirt gaped open and I was rewarded with a rather delicious view of his naked chest underneath.

  Would I ever get to touch it now?

  "Emily, are you listening?"

  "What? Yes, of course I am. You said I know you so well."

  "And then I said I told Adelaide I didn't know anyone called Frederick. But that probably wasn't true."

  "Why would you lie to her?"

  "I didn't lie deliberately. I thought at the time that I didn't know anyone called Frederick. But now … now I think I must have."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Because I now think he had something to do with my death."

  I hugged my knees closer to my chest. "Why? No, let's start with who he is. How well did you know him?"

  He turned his hands out, palms up, without shifting his position. "I didn't. That's the thing, I don't remember anyone from Oxford named Frederick."

  "No one? It's a common enough name."

  He looked down at his hands. "I know."

  "Adelaide said he was fair haired, slight build, plain features. Can you recall anyone from school matching that description?"

  "Not really. I suppose it could describe several of my classmates though."

  "None of whom were named Frederick?"

  He sighed and slumped back in the chair. "I can't recall. There might have been one or several Fredericks in my year. I just … "

  "Can't recall." I sighed too. "It would seem you spent more time with your head in the clouds before you died than after."

  He cocked his head to the side and gave me a withering look. "Very funny."

  Adelaide and George hadn't been exaggerating when they said Jacob never noticed people. I was only now beginning to believe it.

  "If I could have my life over again," he said, serious, "I would speak to everyone I ever met. Every single person. I'd stop people in the street and ask them how their day was."

  "You would get some very strange looks." I tried to make light of the situation but it was no joke. It was obvious Jacob regretted what he'd been like when he was alive. It made me think about everything I wanted to change about myself. I made a mental note to give Celia a hug in the morning.

  "Do you think Frederick killed you because he thought you were avoiding him?" I shook my head at the absurdity. "Not only is it a big leap but it also doesn't make sense. If he wanted to be your friend, then why would he kill you? He could never be your friend then." I drummed my fingers on my knee as another thought occurred to me. "Or perhaps there was some other reason he wanted to see you. Could you have owed him a debt?"

  "How could I owe a debt to someone I didn't know? No, my death was certainly related to the fact he thought I was avoiding him."

  I frowned at him. He looked away. "How do you know?" I hedged.

  He shrugged one shoulder. "I just do."

  "Jacob, what aren't you telling me? What do you know?"

  "Nothing. Just leave it be. Accept that I'm almost certain Frederick the boy from Oxford is somehow relevant to my death."

  "You mean he killed you."

  "No. I think he had something to do with my death, but didn't commit the act himself."

  I put my hands up, stopping his convoluted riddles. "If you don't know who killed you, how can you discount Frederick from the list of suspects? He sounds like the most likely one to me."

  Jacob scratched his head, making his hair stick out at odd angles. "I can't tell you why I know he didn’t do it, I just do."

  "You can tell me, you just don't want to."

  That cynical smile again. "Thank you for clarifying."

  I climbed off the bed and crouched in front of him, touching his knees. "Jacob, you have to tell me everything. I need to know what you know."

  "No!" He gripped my forearms and hoisted me up as he stood too. "There are some things you should not know, Emily. This is one of them."

  Anger flared, bright and fierce, behind my eyes. Already tonight he'd decided we would not be together and now he was keeping information from me that could help me solve his murder? It was too much. I deserved to decide what was important and what wasn't too. "Why shouldn't I know?" I jerked out of his grip. He sat down again, shock rippling across his handsome face. But I wasn't prepared to let my anger evaporate beneath his sudden change. Sometimes anger is a benefit, if channeled correctly. "What could it possibly matter now? You're dead. And I will find out who killed you so you might as well tell me everything you know."

  He said nothing for a long time, just stared at me, and for one breathless moment I was scared that he found my anger ugly and that he was relieved he'd not committed to spend the rest of my life with me. But I could not regret it any more than I could control it. Something was bothering Jacob deeply and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  "Very well." He sucked in his top lip and indicated I should sit. I sat on the bed, my stockinged toes just touching the fringe of the rug, my hands at my sides on the quilt. "I suppose it doesn't matter what you think of me now anyway," he said, bleak.

  "What I think of you?" I felt like all the air had been knocked out of me along with my anger. I shook my head. I didn't understand.

  "It might even be for the best." He rubbed his fists down his trousers and didn't quite meet my gaze. "Now that we've decided I must cross over, having you … despise me will make that easier."

  "Despise you?" I got up and went to him but he lifted a single finger, halting me from curling into his lap and kissing him all over. "I could never despise you," I said instead.

  He pressed the finger into his eye socket and his thumb into the other. "You haven't heard my story yet."

  I sat back down on the bed and tucked my hands beneath my thighs. "Go on."

  "I know that boy Frederick didn't kill me because … because I killed him." He waited for me to say something but I didn't. In truth, I couldn't have spoken anyway. I was too shocked by his admission to make any sense. "I was walking home late one night when a boy accosted me. I didn't realize then that it was the same boy that had come to the house. That only came later. Much later, after I died. Anyway, the boy began shouting at me, accusing me of ignoring him and deliberately avoiding him. Of course I had no idea what he was talking about. I tried to calm him down and make sense of what he was saying but he just got angrier and angrier." He rubbed his cheek as if trying to remove a smudge. "He struck me. It wasn't a very strong blow but I hadn't been ready for it and I must have stumbled back. He came at me again but I'd recovered enough to defend myself. In the ensuing struggle I punched him. He fell and … and hit his head on the ground. The pavement was uneven and … The sound … " He closed his eyes and his nostrils flared. "The sound his head made as it hit the ground has stayed with me all this time."

  I sat on the bed and waited for him to go on but he didn't. My heart beat hard in my chest and blood pounded in my ears. Jacob had killed someone. Jacob. My Jacob. A murderer.

  I sucked in air between my teeth and let it out slowly. No wonder he'd avoided telling me about the circumstances surrounding his own death. I'd suspected outside George's house that he was withholding something vital from me and now I knew what it was, and why. He was racked with guilt and he was afraid I would think badly of him.

  "Don't look at me like that," he said upon opening his eyes.

  "Like what?"

  "Like … like you still love me."

  "I do." What a stupid thing for him to say! "Of course I do."

  "But … how can you after what I just told you?"

  "Because you didn't mean it. It was an accident." I got up and crouched before him again.
I took his hands in both of mine. "It was an accident, Jacob, and you don't deserve to carry this guilt, just as you didn't deserve to die." Oh God, is that what he thought? That he deserved death because he'd accidentally killed someone?

  He blinked once then looked down at our linked hands. He lifted them to his mouth and skimmed his lips across my knuckles. "Do you really believe that?"

  "Yes! Jacob." I caught his face and drew it up so he looked at me. Our gazes met, briefly, then his flitted away to a point over my shoulder. "You are not to blame. Do you understand me?"

  He smiled but it was weak and unconvincing. "I am to blame. Just because I didn't mean it, doesn't mean I didn't do it."

  "But he attacked you first!"

  "And I hit him last. That's what counts."

  Men! Why did they have to think like brutes when it suited them? "Your logic is ridiculous, Jacob. No court would convict you."

  "Emily." He said my name with great effort, as if he was beyond exhausted. "You don't understand. I hit him. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to stop him annoying me so I could go home, and to do that … I knew I would have to hurt him."

  I frowned and shook my head. "That doesn't matter. You're a good person and I will not see you so angry with yourself because of something that wasn't your fault."

  He drew my hands away from his face. His nostrils flared as his gaze met mine and held it. "You're not afraid of me?"

  "No."

  "You should be." He shoved my hands away, setting me unceremoniously back on my haunches, and stood up. "I'll stay away from you unless it becomes absolutely necessary." And then he was gone.

  12

  I sat on the rug and stared at the chair where Jacob had been sitting. The cushion, embroidered with a vine pattern by my mother, hadn't yet sprung back to its full plump shape. I lowered my head and would have cried—I wanted to cry—but the tears wouldn't come. Perhaps I had none left. I felt empty.

  After a while I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. But I didn't sleep. I couldn't. Jacob might come back. He might explain the meaning of his final words to me.

  You should be.

  I should be afraid of him. But I wasn't. Not of Jacob. He was gentle and considerate and protective. He would never hurt me, nor would he harm someone who didn't deserve it, I was certain. Frederick had hit him first and he'd been dogging Jacob for some time if his visits to the Beaufort's house were an indication. Jacob wasn't to blame for his death.

  But Frederick was the key to Jacob's.

  I knew that as well as I knew my own name. The events leading up to Jacob's murder were too coincidental for it not to be linked to Frederick and the incident in the alley. But if Jacob had killed Frederick in the fight, who had killed Jacob later?

  The answer to that lay in what might have happened after Jacob felled Frederick. I couldn't believe he'd leave the boy lying there, dying. Jacob was no coward. He would have faced up to his actions and I doubt he simply walked away.

  So what had happened next?

  And who on earth was Frederick?

  These questions and a thousand others swirled around my head until, drained, I finally drifted to sleep.

  I awoke with a start the next morning to knocking on my door. I jumped out of bed. "Jacob!" I opened the door but Celia stood there alone.

  "No," she said with suspicion. "Why would you think I was he?" Her already narrowed eyes became slits. "Has he been visiting you?"

  "Occasionally."

  Her lips puckered. "Please don't tell me he's been in your room."

  If Celia wanted to make it easy for me then she'd just given me the perfect opportunity. "Of course not." Of course not, I won't tell you. It wasn't exactly a lie …

  "Because if I learn that he has—."

  "Celia, stop questioning me." I stood with my hands on my hips blocking the doorway but she still managed to slip past me into my room.

  "It's most improper," she said from my wardrobe where she contemplated my gowns.

  "I doubt my reputation will be ruined by the irregular visits of a ghost."

  She turned to fix me with a withering glare. "Don't be so sure. Anyway, I'm worried about more than your reputation."

  More than … ? Oh. "Jacob has been the perfect gentleman, Sis, don't worry." I bit the inside of my cheek. He’d kissed me. Perhaps perfect was too strong a word.

  "Emily … " She shook her head but I could tell she was bursting to ask me something. I had a feeling I would regret prompting her but I did anyway.

  "Ye-es?"

  "Well, do you think ghosts can … you know?"

  Oh dear, regret wasn't a strong enough word for how I felt about this conversation. It was heading into very murky waters. "I have no idea what you're talking about and I don't think I want to."

  "I know you know what I'm suggesting because we had that little chat only last year."

  "Oh, that," I said, feigning nonchalance. "You're asking me if ghosts can have marital relations?" It was the phrase Celia had used during our talk on how babies were made. Even though most unwed girls my age were quite ignorant about what happened between men and women, my sister had insisted I be made aware. I'd thought it very progressive of her, particularly since she was essentially a prude. Not even I had seen her without her clothes on. Still, discussing it with her now was no less embarrassing than it had been then.

  "Yes," she said. "Well, what do you think? Can they … you know?"

  "I don't know. Would you like me to ask Jacob for you?"

  "No!" She turned back to the wardrobe and studied the clothes with extra intensity.

  I think I won that little battle.

  "Why have you been crying?" she asked suddenly.

  Oh dear, I was losing the war. I rubbed my eyes and yawned dramatically, putting my arms above my head and twisting my body for effect. "I slept poorly. I've a lot on my mind."

  She seemed to believe me this time. She patted my arm and sighed. "So have I. What are you going to do today?"

  "About the demon?" I padded across the floor to my dressing table and peered into the mirror. Good lord, I really did look awful. My eyes were rimmed red, my nose had swelled up and the dark shadows made it look like someone had punched me. Not even a strong cup of tea would help me look like myself again. "I think I'll go and see if George has contacted Leviticus Price," I said, frowning at my reflection. Hopefully a dose of cool air would help my complexion.

  "Good idea." She laid the dress on the bed and whipped her palm down the skirt to flatten it. Satisfied, she made for the door. "If there's anything I can do, let me know." She left, her back not quite as straight as usual. She must still be blaming herself for letting the demon loose.

  What she hadn't asked me was if there'd been another victim and burglary overnight. Of course I didn't know because Jacob had not appeared that morning.

  My heart dove violently into my stomach as I realized he may not appear at all, ever again.

  George was home, as was his mother unfortunately. When Mrs. Culvert saw us together in the drawing room, she turned her nose up at me and said, "You again," as if I was the plague. "George, a word."

  "Yes, Mother." But he didn’t move.

  "In private."

  With a loud sigh, he joined his mother outside the drawing room. A few moments later, I heard him say, "This is my house and I can entertain any sort of guest I want. Emily is an outstanding girl and—."

  His mother's voice cut him off but I couldn't quite make out what she said. The click-clack of her footsteps retreating on the tiles was a welcome sound to my ears.

  "Sorry," George said with a sympathetic smile when he returned. "Mothers."

  I smiled too even though I didn't necessarily understand his meaning. My mother had never dictated who I could be friends with, but then I'd had so few friends growing up she'd probably have encouraged me to speak to the poor little girl who sold matches on the street corner.

  "Now, where were we?" he said, sitting dow
n opposite me once more. "Ah yes, Leviticus Price. I sent him a message requesting to see him."

  "A message? Requesting to see him? George, you are being much too polite."

  He looked slightly taken aback at that. "Emily, there is no such thing as too polite."

  I refrained from retorting that he might as well live in a prison with all the society rules he and the people of his station had to live by. I suddenly felt an immeasurable amount of freedom, as I had done after speaking to Adelaide Beaufort the day before. My life, while complicated, was at least my own. "Come on, let's pay him a visit now."

  I stood. After a moment, George stood too. "I'm not sure this is a good idea," he said slowly. "Price isn't the sort of man who likes insolence, particularly in youngsters."

  "You're nineteen!" The urge to click my tongue, roll my eyes and generally make him see how immature he was behaving was very strong.

  "You're right. Let's go." He tugged on his coat lapels and stretched his neck. "Greggs!" he called as he strode to the drawing room door. "Send word to the stables for the carriage."

  Leviticus Price rented a few rooms in a brick terrace house in one of the newer suburbs on London's outskirts where street upon street was lined with identical brick terrace houses. The only distinguishing feature between them seemed to be the color of the door, but even there the palette was limited to blue, white and green.

  Price's landlady showed us up to the tiny parlor where a thin man with short white hair and a long white beard sat eating breakfast. The Times was open on the table beside him and several books and journals were piled or scattered around the small space. Oddly, the mantelpiece was empty except for a smoking pipe on a wooden stand. The walls too were bare. It was almost as if he'd just unpacked after moving in.

  Although it was almost noon, Price didn't seem concerned that he'd been caught eating at such a late hour, or that he'd been caught eating at all. He kept right on shoveling eggs and bacon into his mouth as if it was his first meal in a week. By the thinness of him, it might very well have been.