by Kresley Cole
"There are more than fifty diamonds! One alone is four carats. You can have all of them."
"We're getting warmer, spirit."
Beeeeeep. "In the safe there are stock certificates from before I... died. They were worth twenty or thirty thousand dollars eighty years ago. They'd have to be worth a fortune today, since the companies are still in business."
"Which companies?" This Mariketa was certainly no-nonsense when it came to money.
"Um, there's General Electric and International Business Machines. I think it's called just IBM today—"
"Okay, I have cartoon dollar signs in my bulging cartoon eyes. I'll be right over. Knock on the mirror closest to you while I'm on the phone."
Did Mariketa need the mirrors for her spells? Néomi's heart fell. "But they're all broken."
"Doesn't matter. Just need a sliver." Néomi dutifully knocked, and Mariketa said, "And I've... got it. All right, when a witch of superlative gorgeousableness climbs out of your mirror, don't ghost out on me."
Climbs out of my mirror? "Oh, I assure you—"
The phone was now emitting a long, unbroken tone!
"Please hurry, Miss Mariketa!"
"Hey, just call me Mari." In a feigned somber tone, she sighed, "And I shall call you... Spirit Friend."
Smiling stupidly, Néomi turned off the phone and tossed it to the bed. She was giddy—she was... hopeful.
She began to pace anticipating Mariketa's—Mari's arrival. With their singing, music, and cards, those females were like the bons vivants she'd adored. And one was coming to visit!
Life was suddenly new and different and full of promise.
It couldn't be this easy. But, what if, what if, what if?
25
Conrad sat hunched in a tree atop a hill, overlooking the chaos of the gathering. He scanned the crowd for Tarut, but so far had spied nothing. Even in this throng, the demon would be easy to spot. He was eight feet tall.
Though the risk in being here was great, Conrad was prepared. His hand was nearly regenerated. The drugs had all but worn off. And he was holding strong mentally.
Bullshit.
He was addicted to Néomi. I'm addicted to a ghost. Conrad couldn't feel her presence, couldn't smell her scent. And it was killing him.
Behind his sunglasses, his eyes darted. Only his own survival mattered, he told himself again and again. She didn't matter to him. Damn it, she doesn't!
Yet over the last three days, as his anger abated, he'd come to realize that she hadn't withheld his freedom for malicious, or even selfish, purposes. Her expression had been tormented when she'd handed the key to him. As long as he lived, he'd never forget how she'd looked in the rain, the glitter of electricity all around her lovely face.
With each hour, he remembered more of his enraged tirade. He'd accused her of keeping him in danger from his enemies. Yet she'd been watching over him like a sentinel whenever he'd slept. If anyone had attacked Conrad at Elancourt, he didn't doubt she'd have put them on the ceiling.
And he'd questioned whether she would've let him starve when the blood supply ran out, demanding to know if she gave a damn about that at all—when in fact, it was Néomi who'd coaxed him to start drinking the bagged blood anyway. Every sunset she'd brought him a cup filled to the rim, though she detested the sight of it. "I just can't see it without remembering," she'd said. "When I died, I was bathed in it, in Louis's... ."
Conrad had known that—he'd seen it spilling out over her floor the night of her dance. Exasperated, he'd said, "Then why do you keep bringing it?"
She'd blinked at him. "Because you need it."
Why would Néomi let a self-professed murderer loose? She'd been tortured by one.
Go back for her, his mind whispered. And do what with her? He'd never soothed the hurt feelings of a female. He wasn't smooth with words like Murdoch.
Why would she want to have anything to do with him after the things he'd said? He'd been so damned hard on her. He remembered telling her to rot in hell—she'd whispered that she already was.
He grasped his forehead. What is wrong with me?
She'd endured eighty years of that hell, only to have a vampire destroying her home, punching her walls. And even before those years, Néomi had suffered. The bastard who killed her had made sure of it. Robicheaux hadn't plunged the knife and then looked on in horror at what he'd done. He'd taken hold of that blade and sadistically twisted it.
And Conrad couldn't even torture and slaughter the one who had done this to her.
His eyes widened. But he could desecrate the bastard's grave for her! Now I'm thinking. And of course Néomi would want to know about Conrad's gesture because it would please her. He would have to return, if just to tell her.
The idea heartened him, made being here a fraction more bearable.
When her mirror bulged out, somehow becoming pliable, Néomi gasped. A briefcase flew out of the glass, landing with a thud on her studio floor.
Then came hands, parting the mirror like a curtain.
From the opening, a comely redhead crawled out, her face alight with a smile. Following her was an eerily pretty black-haired woman with arresting golden eyes—and pointed ears. The glass closed seamlessly behind them.
"I'm Mari MacRieve," the redhead said. She hiked a thumb at her friend. "This is Nïx the Ever-Knowing. She's a Valkyrie."
Shaking off her astonishment, Néomi said, "It's such a pleasure to meet both of you." Turning to the black-haired woman, she said, "Nïx? I know some people who are searching for you."
"They always are, dearling," Nïx sighed, then fogged and buffed her nails, which looked more like small, elegant claws. She asked Mari, "How are you doing with all these mirrors?"
Mari let out a breath. "Hanging in there."
"She's a captromancer," Nïx explained. "She uses mirrors for her spells and for travel."
"But," Mari said, "I've got this foreign greedy power inside me that makes me get all entranced in mirrors if I'm not careful. So I can't live with 'em, can't live without them." Mari turned in circles. "Wow, what a place!"
Néomi noticed that she had a piece of paper taped on her back that read, I Do Ghouls.
"Oh, dear," Néomi said, pointing delicately. "Mari, you have a... "
Mari patted behind her until she snagged the page. "Damn Regin." After reading it, she crumbled the paper, then glared at Nïx. "When is Lucia getting back? I can't handle Reege by myself anymore."
Nïx shrugged. "Don't worry, I've got Regin taken care of. Folly, a rogue Valkyrie and Regin's archnemesis, arrives next Friday at a quarter after four."
Mari exhaled with relief. "Ah, your foresight is a beautiful thing. I wish mine was a fraction as strong as yours."
"No foresight needed. I bought Folly a ticket. I'm flying her in from New Zealand first-class. Regin will be furious at the betrayal—but sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind."
"You are wise," Mari said, then returned her attention to a bemused Néomi.
"How is it that you both can see ghosts?" Néomi asked.
Mari answered, "Because I'm a witch, and because she's damn old and powerful."
"Old as carbon," Nïx agreed. "And so powerful I'm working on my demigoddess badges."
Néomi didn't think Nïx looked a day older than Mari, but what did she know? "Can either of you tell me how I became a ghost?"
Mari shook her head. "No one really knows for certain, but I've heard it has to do with a soul being too strong, even after death, to pass on. Oh, and usually you have to have a sturdy spirit anchor."
"Spirit anchor?"
"Yeah, if you die in a place that you loved or that had meaning for you, it can anchor your spirit there."
Néomi had loved Elancourt—the property had been all she'd had that was permanent and lasting. She'd wanted to plant roots, to watch children play in the gardens and the folly. To grow old here with someone she loved.
Why did Conrad's face flash in her mind when she imagined that
?
"So what do you do for fun around here?" Mari asked.
"Fun? Um, I read the newspaper. And... oh, sometimes cats move in! And there's this family of nutria that come in the winter to root around inside the house. Their antics are so funny, I could watch them for hours." She frowned. "Actually, I do watch them for hours."
Mari cast Nïx a speaking glance. "Bones, we got here just in time!"
"Clearly, Jim," Nïx replied in a bored tone.
Bones? Jim? "So you'd heard of me?" Néomi asked.
"Yeah, I'd thought about doing my class report on you."
Striving for a casual tone, Néomi said, "But you didn't?"
"An older witch had already written a paper on a suffragist from Baton Rouge. I wasn't above using it. But I remember you were a burlesque dancer turned ballerina."
"Burlesque? That got out? But people never understand," Néomi said, wondering what these women would think of her—Conrad had been appalled. What if they wouldn't take her seriously about what she was seeking? "I only did that for three months. Four possibly. A year at the most. I was never entirely naked," she added. "Not many times at all. Back then it was called a striptease. Not a strip, you understand. There were usually fans or big feathers—"
"But that's one thing people loved about you," Mari said. "These days burlesque is way cool. After your secret got out, people called you the ballerina with burlesque soul. You fit New Orleans."
"Oh, then," Néomi said on a breath. At last, people were seeing it as they should. "I'm actually mollified."
"Great. So, let's get down to business."
"Would you like to have a seat?" Having her own guests here was so surreal!
With a nod, Mari kicked her briefcase past the coffee table to the cot, then sat. Nïx hopped atop the display table to the dust-free spot where the gramophone had been. She surveyed Néomi's collection of condoms, bras, and Mardi Gras paraphernalia, but said nothing.
"I'd offer you coffee—"
"I don't ingest food or drink," Nïx said evenly.
Mari added, "And coffee on top of margaritas is courting the wrath of Cuervo." She took out a pen and a pad of paper. "So, Néomi, first some background just for my own records... . Why contact me now? I mean, you've been a ghost for decades."
"Well, I didn't even know about the Lore until the vampires moved in a couple weeks ago. I'd had no idea there were witches or Valkyrie—"
"Vampires moved in?" Mari interrupted, flashing a look at Nïx. "Funny. I just saw a foreign vamp at a bayou bar recently. What a coincidence."
Nïx mouthed, "Who? Whaa?"
"Yes, they're from Estonia," Néomi said, and soon the entire story flowed. "... and then Conrad cut off his hand and called me a pathetic ghost, and I realized I was, and I couldn't stand it. So that's when I rang you up."
"You're not seeking to be embodied because of the vampire, are you?" Mari asked. "To show him what he's missing? Because this is really serious."
Even if Néomi never saw Conrad again, she had to take action of some kind. Because I can't stand what I've become. "I'm seeking this, because it's time."
"Okay, I'm just going to lay all this out for you." Mari set down her pen. "I can help you with your incorporeality problem, but it's a temporary fix, and it comes with a high price. Not just the monetary type. It's basically a shell spell that creates a target practice body. The spell will make you look and feel precisely like the human you once were, but you'll, well, you'll get killed soon after."
"Why is that?"
"Some folks call what we're discussing a hail Mary mortality play. You could set about righting old wrongs, using knowledge of the afterlife to screw with the present. Fate doesn't like these bids and shuts them down forcefully," Mari explained. "It'd be like you were walking around with a glaring target on your back. You'd get capped by some unnatural cause—a runaway trolley car or a plane crash or you'd be electrocuted by your hair dryer. Something pretty horrific would happen. Your shell body would expire, then disappear, and then your spirit would die, die."
"How long would I have?"
"A couple of weeks? A night? Maybe a few months. There's no way to tell. But the most I've ever read of in the Web forum was a year."
Néomi swallowed. "What happens after death, death?"
"That's the kicker. Nobody knows—it's kinda between you and your God, gods, goddesses, et cetera."
"Well, now that we're in discussions," Néomi began, "I have to ask—is there any way to make me corporeal for a lifetime? Maybe I have enough money for a full resurrection?"
Mari and Nïx shared a look. "I don't touch those. But what you're asking for isn't a resurrection. Your spirit's here and available. No need to suck it back to this plane. What you need is an embodying, which is highly dangerous in itself. And there are about a dozen different conditions that would have to be met. But even if everything were ideal, I'm just not skilled enough to try it. Not yet."
"You've never attempted it?"
"On a human? Not outside a simulator." After a hesitation, she admitted, "I did recently attempt it on my ghost cat."
"And?"
"And, did you ever see Pet Sematary?"
Néomi shook her head.
"No? Well, my Tigger came back wrong!" she cried, biting her knuckle.
Nïx rose to sit beside Mari, patting her back. "There, there, favorite Wiccan-type person."
Mari dabbed at her eyes, muttering, "Got some, uh, dust in my eye."
To Néomi, the Valkyrie said, "Mari's got oodles of power, but this would be a skill level of"—she frowned—"what level?"
"A fiver," Mari answered, regaining her composure. "Out of five."
"Why not practice on me?" Néomi said, making her tone bright. "I'm game."
Nïx shook her head. "For Mari to do a five, she'd have to commune with the mirror to unleash her full power. It's likely she would get entranced in her own reflection, unable to break away from it. Possibly forever."
Mari nodded. "But I'm going to face my reflection in fifty years, when I'm stronger and more skilled. We've already got it marked on the calendar. If you can wait that long, I'll put you at the top of the list, for a nominal, onetime fee—"
"No. Merci, but no." Fifty more years of loneliness and sliver moons? Her death relived another six hundred times?
Or possibly a year of life. There wasn't even a question of which she'd choose.
"I'm sorry, Néomi. If I tried to embody you now, I'd probably get enthralled and you'd come back worse than dead. I know you're thinking that there's nothing worse than dead—"
"No. I don't think that." Néomi had just spent a lifetime worse than dead. She understood the concept, and why it'd be wise to avoid it.
"There's one other option as well," Nïx said. "In the Lore, there are Phantoms, a ghostlike species of immortals who can incarnate at will, like shape-shifters between life and death. If you can exist long enough in this plane as a ghost, you'd gradually regrow a physical form, accumulating strength to become like them. You'd be able to leave your spirit anchor, and still retain all your telekinetic abilities."
"How long?" This sounded perfect! "How long do I have to exist to grow a body?"
Nix snapped her fingers. "A mere four or five centuries. It'll be over before you know it."
"Oh." The breezy way Nïx said that made Néomi wonder how old the Valkyrie could possibly be. "That's kind of out for me, too. I relive my death every month. I couldn't stand the fifty years option, much less five hundred."
"Ah, the perpetual ghostly reenactment." Nïx nodded in commiseration. "Your spirit anchor would probably get burned or torn down before then anyway."
"Is there anyone else who can do the embodying?"
Nïx quirked a brow. "No one you'd want to tangle with. There are a handful of sorcerers who can do this, but they'll make outrageous demands—like your firstborn or something equally unfun."
Mari said, "Listen, Néomi, you don't have any reason to trust our advice o
n this, but I can provide a list of referrals who would be happy—"
"No, I trust you. How soon could you do the target practice body?" Néomi asked.
Mari seemed surprised that she was still interested. "Uh, tonight. But really, this whole thing is probably not something you'd want to consider. I mean, how bad could it be here?"
Pinning Mari's gaze with her own, Néomi said, "I'm trapped in an interminable hell that I can't even kill myself to escape. I perceive nothing, not until the one night a month when I have a knife plunged into my heart then twisted in my chest."
"Okey-dokey, then, sounds like we'll be doing the spell!" Mari pulled out papers and forms from her briefcase. "So, about that payment."
Néomi waved her hand over her shoulder at the jewelry armoire behind her, and a felt-lined drawer full of jewels opened. Another four practiced waves had the safe open. "Do your worst."
With a discerning air, Mari picked out a few diamonds and certificates and placed them in an inner compartment in her bag. Nïx wouldn't even glance at the intense glittering, instead exploring the studio. She continually cast puzzled glances at Néomi.
"Well?" Mari asked, spreading out contracts on the coffee table. "Are you reading anything on Néomi here?"
"I get nothing on her," Nïx said.
"Is that good or bad?" Néomi asked.
Nïx narrowed her eyes. "It's rare."
Mari offered a pen to Néomi. "Can I get you to sign here and here? Just an X will do." Néomi used telekinesis to craft a sloppy X. "Okay, and here. Nïx, would you witness?"
Nïx scrawled her signature, Nïx the Ever-Knowing, Proto-Valkyrie & Soothsayer Without Equal.
"Do I need to do anything to get ready?" Néomi asked.
"Why the urgency? I usually make clients wait forty-eight hours to mull their decision when the magick is irrevocable."
"I really like the Lore and want to see more of it. And there's this gathering tonight—"
"Ah, the Liv der Lanking, the Life of Lanking. A raucous party. We call it the Liver Spanking. Nïx here planned it."
Nïx nodded sunnily. "It's B.Y.O.S. Bring Your Own Sacrifice."