by Anne Frasier
They’d dumped their guide off at his truck, then went back to Gabriella’s place, where they’d opened a bottle.
“Here it is!” Gabriella waved the piece of paper in the air and wended her way through the piles of clutter in her living room. The lamps were turned down, candles were lit, and Shirley and Millie were sitting on pillows in front of the coffee table, the empty bottle of wine between them. At first the idea of continuing with their plan of a reanimation spell had given Gabriella a mild sense of unease, but now that they were safely home she could rationalize what had happened.What had happened?
Nothing.
Evan Stroud had found them digging on his property and he’d chased them off. Pretty straightforward. She felt kind of silly about her reaction now. Participating in the reanimation spell might be a good way to redeem herself in the eyes of her fellow witches. And the wine didn’t hurt.
“He was extremely good-looking.” Shirley was staring at an antique photo of Richard Manchester. She’d been staring at it for ten minutes. “I mean, he was gorgeous.”
Gabriella dropped the bag of graveyard dirt on the table and lowered herself to her pillow, legs crossed as much as they could be crossed for someone of her age and physical shape. “It makes it easier to understand how so many people followed him and did what he said, especially women.”
“And a few men, I’ll bet.” Gabriella tried to take the photo, but Shirley wasn’t finished with it. Gabriella shot her a look of annoyance. “A charismatic leader.”
She’d found the photo on eBay. It hadn’t been cheap either.
“His eyes kind of follow you.” Shirley moved the heavy card left and right, let out a shudder, then passed the photo to Gabriella.
Yes, he was a beautiful, beautiful man, with pale, perfect skin and a sensuous mouth. Dark brows above pale eyes that had probably been a brilliant blue.
He stood posed with both hands on the hilt of a long sword, the tip resting on the ground near his feet. He wore a frock coat made of wool. It had a row of buttons down the front, with matching buttons on the sleeves, a bit of white cuff showing. Around his neck was a scarf with an embroidered crest.
It was hard to equate the mummy in the museum to this man. The mummy, while interesting, didn’t seem to generate anything. It was just a shriveled crust of skin that had once held a man’s soul.
“I would have followed him,” Gabriella admitted.
She found herself fantasizing about his touch. Long, tapered fingers moved down her spine, pulling her close. . . .
She closed her eyes, and for a second she could have sworn she felt a soft flutter on her lips and even a little tingle—down there.
Millie reached for the green wine bottle and tipped it upside down over her glass, shaking out a few last drops. “Do you have the rest of the stuff?”
“And I have more wine. A lot more wine.”
They opened another bottle and filled all three glasses—almost to the top, even though Gabriella had been told that wasn’t the thing to do. She picked up the curled photo of the Pale Immortal and gave it a kiss. “I hate to see this go.” The other two women mumbled their agreement. Gabriella placed the photo in the bottom of the bowl.
“Here’s what Matthew gave me.”
Her nephew was the night janitor at the Tuonela Museum. He’d been able to get them everything they needed.
Gabriella opened the lid of a metal cigarette tin. “Hair of the Pale Immortal.” She placed the long, dark strands in a special spell bowl. “Button from his coat.” She added that.
“Look!” Millie pointed to the photo. “It matches the buttons in the picture!”
Shirley nodded. “The real deal. No phony vampire buttons for us.”
“Skin.” Gabriella dropped the dried flakes with the rest of the items. “Matthew says the mummy sheds. He has to clean inside the case all the time.” She dumped and tapped the rest of the contents into the bowl. Then she unzipped the plastic bag. “Goofer dust.” About two spoonfuls.
She mixed it with the straight end of a crochet hook.
“Blood is the final ingredient,” Millie said.
Gabriella was tempted to pretend with some of the red wine, but Shirley was already digging around in her purse and came up with three finger lancets. “Aren’t you glad you have a diabetic in the bunch?” She passed out the lancets.
All three women pricked their fingers and squeezed blood into the bowl; then Gabriella stirred the contents once again.
“The powder,” Shirley reminded her.
Many spells required a catalyst that was really no more than incense powder. Gabriella sprinkled the black powder over the top.
“Do you have the words? Who has the words?”
They’d gotten the words from a book of spells they’d found online, ordered from a place in Europe. A village with an exotic name that Gabriella had never heard before and couldn’t remember. The spell was in another language. Someone thought perhaps it was ancient Finnish, but no one knew for sure.
“How do we know if we’re even saying it right?” Millie asked.
“We don’t.”
It was short.
Gabriella sounded it out as best she could, ignoring the accent marks. The other women repeated the sounds. They were ready. Gabriella struck a match and tossed it into the bowl. The contents sparked and flashed, then began to slowly smolder. The women joined hands and spoke the words of the spell.
A good spell was based on repetition. They repeated the words, speaking in unison.
The incense powder couldn’t cover the stench of burning hair and the melting shell button that had probably come from a clam found on the bottom of the Tuonela River. The ancient pressed-photo paper caught with a sudden flare that jumped from the bowl, then settled into a steady flame. The photo burned completely until the only thing left was a small pile of black ashes. The women released hands and blinked into the semidarkness.
“Well?” Shirley asked.
“I thought I felt something,” Millie said. “But it might just be because I’m drunk.”
They laughed.
“I wish we knew what we just said.”
“Did you try Babel Fish? Enter it in Babel Fish and see what it says.”
Gabriella grabbed her laptop, found the site, and typed the phrase into the box. “Finnish?” she asked.
“Try it.”
“Nothing.”
“How about an ancient language?”
She closed the Babel Fish page and did a search. “Here’s something called Nostratic. Some believe it’s the root language to many language families.”
“Ooh, try that one.”
There was a translation box. She entered the text and it gave her an answer.
“ ‘He who dies will live again. He who lives will die again.’ “
Chapter Twenty-three
The wind blew out of the north, across and through Old Tuonela, bringing with it the scent of decay and the whisper of mingled voices. At first it was just a sh-sh-sh. But as he listened, he could make out a word here and there.
Come back to us.
Voices from the past, reaching into the present.
For so many years he’d felt trapped. Living in darkness, in a kind of limbo. Waiting. Always waiting.
Come back.
But limbo wasn’t a bad place to be. No pain, no cravings.
Now he craved.
He had the notion that if he could somehow shed his shell the world would open up for him. But he couldn’t sever the thread. It always pulled him back.
Wandering in his mind, he dreamed of the out- side. The harder he concentrated, the more concrete and real it seemed.
It was possible to travel without a body. He had a vague memory of doing it before, but it took focus. Deep concentration. And it didn’t last. He needed to find a way to make it last.
He concentrated . . . and suddenly soared upward.
He expected the display box to shatter. He expected to hit the ceiling
. Instead, he shot through it to hover above the museum.
As he looked down, mesmerized, the wind caught him and gave him a push. He rode it, gliding along, floating over houses. And even though he couldn’t see the people inside, he could sense them and smell them.
Especially the children and women.
Sh-sh-sh.
The voices held him up and carried him along. They were the breeze that lifted him over chimneys and treetops.
Sh-sh-sh.
They were familiar. Old friends. Family. Women he’d loved. Children he’d loved and killed.
Sh-sh-sh.
He drifted over the Tuonela Bridge.
The flowing freedom was sensual.
This place.
God, how many times had he wanted to leave it? How many times had he tried?
But suddenly whatever had tethered him was gone. For a hundred years he’d stood at the thresh- old of another existence, unable to move forward, unable to go back.
But something brought about his release.
Float away.
Just float away. All the way back to the mother country, to England.
Get away from this dark, vile place of memories best forgotten. Of traitorous, vile people.
What about revenge? For those who had tricked him and betrayed him? Especially one person . . .
If only he could truly inhabit his body again. If only he could be whole again.
He drifted over a sprawling Victorian house—and paused.
Something snagged at his mind. Something tugged at him.
And they whispered: Yes, yes, yes.
All he had to do was think of the direction he wanted to go, and suddenly he shifted and dropped.
He plunged straight down.
Instead of smashing against the roof, he moved silently through it. The shock and surprise caused his breath to catch, and it took him a moment to realize he’d passed the physical boundary of the roof.
He was in a chamber. The lights were off, and through the turret window he could see the Wisconsin River and the lift bridge.
She’s down the hall.
Yes.
He could sense her presence and he moved toward it. He didn’t have to worry about his feet making noise. He glided soundlessly inches above the floor.
He paused. To the left was a bathroom with a claw-foot tub. To the right, an open door.
He stopped in the doorway. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
Lavender. She’d always smelled like lavender.
Sweet girl. Sweet woman. Sweet love.
Oh, you hurt me. You hurt me so much.
Sh-sh-sh.
The whispers held him up. They’d brought him there.
True love.
That was what it had been. He would have done anything for her. She was his downfall. Some would argue he wasn’t capable of love, but everyone was capable of love. Even the most evil, heartless of men loved in some form. Even if it was only for a fleeting second. Even if it was a twisted love.
And love blinded even the strongest.
She made a soft, restless sound and turned in the bed.
Could she sense him in the room? Invading her dreams?
Sweet, sweet girl.
He was both fearful and curious.
He moved closer, stopping at the edge of the bed.
She rolled to her back, arms above her head. He could see her breasts outlined against the white fabric of her T-shirt.
He remembered her. He remembered touching her and holding her and making love to her.
His gaze tracked down, and he let out an involuntary gasp. The sheet had slipped and he could see her belly. It was swollen, the skin tight.
Had he been here before? Done this before? It was hard for the dead to remember.
So familiar.
A baby.
He put out his hands . . . and placed his palms against her stomach. The baby kicked. And kicked again.
As if it knew he was there.
Interesting.
He loved children. If he were capable of smiling, he would have done so.
They were holding him up.
His followers.
With their whispers and their invisible hands.
He leaned closer; he brushed his lips against hers.
The woman in the bed awakened with a gasp. She sat upright, hands planted on each side of the mattress, eyes wide in the dark.
She shifted and touched her belly. He could almost feel her hands on top of his. The baby squirmed in protest, and she let out another gasp, this one sounding as if she were in pain.
Ah, my love.
He could almost taste her. The air suddenly seemed tainted with the sickeningly sweet scent of almonds.
How many ways did you try to kill me? First the poison, then— Recalled agony ripped through his chest and he jumped back. With dismay and regret, he felt himself dissolving and briefly wished he’d never come here, never floated through the roof to visit her room.
Don’t think about that, the voices whispered. Don’t think about how she destroyed you. . . . You can be strong again. Stronger than before. We can help you. He can help you.
The woman in the bed looked blindly about the room. “Where are you?”
Could she see him? What a delicious thought.
She turned slightly and reached into nothing. “Who are you?”
He felt himself fading.
One last sizzle before the spark went out.
She’d done it to him again. Killed him again.
He would answer if he could. He would tell her who he was, that he was her long-lost love, Richard Manchester.
Chapter Twenty-four
Evan dug.
He dug to find and forget. He dug to discover and escape.
The hole was so deep he had to toss dirt above his head. It spilled in his eyes and sifted into his hair. He could taste it on his lips.
He was driven by something internal and external; a sense of urgency overpowered his waking hours.
Hurry.
Dig.
Voices whispered to him, coaxed him, coached him. They felt it too. The urgency.
Hurry, hurry, hurry.
Over here. Dig over here.
He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. Didn’t matter. Food was unimportant. Sleep, when it came, wasn’t sleep but collapse. His body giving up and tumbling into unconsciousness.
That was what he truly craved. Those few hours when everything stopped. Those few hours of nothingness.
Don’t think.
Somewhere beneath the turmoil in his head he felt he must find the secrets buried in the past and possibly, if not a solution to his situation, an answer. He needed to know who the Pale Immortal had really been, and why he’d done what he’d done. He needed to know what Evan Stroud had become and was becoming.
The shovel hit something solid.
He dragged the metal blade across a wooden surface, pushing dirt away until the object was revealed.
A child’s coffin.
Working the shovel, he broke the box free, lifted and deposited it on the ground next to the hole, then climbed out.
It was held shut with a rusty metal lock.
He grasped the lock and tried to force it open. Pain lanced through the fleshy part of his palm. His fingers grew sticky. He raised the box to his shoulder and walked through the woods toward home.
Evan pushed open the kitchen door.
Someone sat at the table. Someone vaguely familiar. It took him a moment to remember the person’s name.
Graham.
The kitchen was dark except for the light of a weak bulb above the sink.
“What are you doing back this time of the night?”
Graham asked. “It’s not even close to morning.” A nice combination of resentment and sarcasm in the kid’s voice.
Evan lowered the box to the floor. It was a traditional shape. Not rectangular, but wide at the shoulders, narrow at the bottom.
G
raham took note of what it was and jumped to his feet. “Is that a coffin?” He backed away.
“Find me a screwdriver.”
“No.”
Graham hovered in the doorway, looking as if he might bolt at any second, but unable to take his eyes off the wooden box. In the dim light, Evan could see that a cross had been carved on the top.
Evan pointed. “In that drawer.”
“What’d you do? You’re bleeding.” Graham grabbed a kitchen towel and handed it to Evan. Evan stared at it.
Blood hit his boots and the floor. He wrapped the towel around his hand.
“You have to put that back.” Graham pointed to the box. “You can’t keep digging up dead people.”
Evan crossed the room, jerked open a drawer, and pulled out a screwdriver. He held it to Graham. “Open it.”
He shook his head. “That’s desecration.”
“Open it.”
Graham moved reluctantly closer, his feet dragging. He crouched in front of the coffin and wedged the tip of the screwdriver under the metal latch.
“You should get a tetanus shot,” he mumbled, “if you cut yourself on this rusty, dirty thing.”
“I’ll be okay.”
It wasn’t locked, but the rust had fused the metal.
Using the screwdriver, Graham broke the latch so nothing held the box closed but two hinges.
Evan moved closer, the bloody towel pressed to his injured hand. Graham looked up.
“Open it,” Evan whispered.
Graham swallowed and shook his head.
“Do it.”
In the end, the kid couldn’t defy his father.
Using the fingers of both hands, Graham wiggled the lid until it loosened; then he swung it open, his feet sliding against the floor as he scrambled away like a spider. He stopped, the fear in his eyes changing to puzzlement.
Bent over like an old man, Evan shuffled closer to examine the contents.
No mummified baby. No body.
Books.
Not just any books—journals tucked among an infant’s yellowed gown, a dagger, and what looked like the dust of crumbled flowers.
Evan lifted out one of the journals. Reverently and carefully, he opened it.
Feminine handwriting in faded black ink.
The brittle, brown pages smelled like a mixture of lavender and sage. He closed his eyes and inhaled.