Arkady came into our lives a good bit after, but he, too, had been alone, and now none of us were.
“You’re my hero, Winterbutt. See me bat my eyelashes at you,” Belfry quipped from Stevie’s shoulder with a breathy sigh, his favorite place to rest.
I chuckled. “Stop, old chap, or you’ll make me blush like a giddy schoolgirl who’s been asked to dance for the first time at prom.”
“I’d sure like to see that,” Belfry chirped.
Ah. I’d like for him to see that, too. I’m sure I’ve mentioned I’m determined to reenter Stevie’s plane. The longer I’m here in limbo, refusing to move past this plane and onto whatever lies beyond, and each time I see someone cross over into that magnificent light, the more determined I become.
I’ve done it successfully once—returned to Stevie’s plane. It wasn’t for long, mind you. It was only long enough to feel the soft press of Stevie’s lips to mine, touch her silky skin, hold her in my arms, but it happened…and I’ll never forget that moment.
Yet, if I didn’t have enough incentive before that incredible moment, I do now. I managed to inhabit my twin brother’s body while he was unconscious, and it drained the life out of me.
Hah! Little joke there. I have no life to drain, as you know. I suppose it’s better to say the event drained my energy, but I managed it, and it brought me great hope moving forward. Since, I haven’t been able to repeat my performance, but I won’t give up. Not until I’m back on Stevie’s plane where I belong. Also, as a note on the ethical care and treatment of a possession, be aware, I would never possess a body with deep earthly ties. For instance, I would never take over the body of a husband and father, or a body whose family and friends abound.
I know with clear certainty I couldn’t wander about in the physical body of someone who would be deeply mourned, on the off chance we should ever run into a bereaved loved one. Nor would I ever take over a body where the soul, even weakly, still exists.
I have rules for this eventual possession, strict, unbending, ironclad rules, and when the right situation presents itself, the absolute right situation, I’ll make my move.
I’ll take that vow a step further in regard to my long-lost brother as well. We are identical, and I’m quite positive I could possess his earthly shell. But as angry as I am with his attempt to steal everything I left to Stevie, I refuse to possess his body while he still lives in a permanent play for life on this plane.
To note, I’ve not been able to locate my twin brother since he turned tail and ran after threatening to take everything I left to Stevie in my will. Likely, because for all the DNA he could produce, identical twins do not share the same fingerprints. When called upon to produce them in the presence of lawyers, my twin disappeared.
Still, the threat of having all my riches, all my worldly possessions in jeopardy after I’d bequeathed them to Stevie, was and remains, unacceptable. All this after she’d so graciously agreed to help me solve the murder of my lovely friend, Madam Zoltar—the only person on this plane who believed I wasn’t some delusion in her mind.
We’d held our collective breath for quite some time, waiting to see if Balthazar would show back up, until we decided my twin had finally wised up and skulked back from whence he’d come. Yet, a great sadness comes with his disappearance for me personally, despite his dirty tactics. I would have liked to know Balthazar, hear his life story, possibly help heal the wounds caused by the time he’d spent in foster care during his youth, while I’d lived with and been nurtured by a loving family.
There’s mystery surrounding our adoption and the reasons we were split up as infants. A mystery that went with my mother to her grave, which we can’t find a hint of anywhere. Not even MI6 has any information about my true lineage. Though, come to find, they were thoroughly aware I’d been adopted. I was gobsmacked when I found out about my adoption, and remain as such to this day.
But there’s no denying, Balthazar looks exactly like me, and yearns for what I have as though I somehow personally wronged him and stole the life he thinks he should have been given.
Yet, I have no grudge to bear with Balthazar. I’m saddened by his callous disregard for me. Surely twins have a connection no other form of sibling share, no? I’ve read much on the subject of twindom, and while I can’t ever remember feeling as though anything were missing from my life, that certainly doesn’t mean had I known of his existence, I would have attempted to rob him blind the way he did me and, by proxy, Stevie.
Ahem. Maybe my backside’s a little more chapped than I’d care to admit.
Regardless, he’s not in the picture right now, and while it pains me to consider he’s what you Americans call a loose cannon, I can’t fret over what I can’t see.
“Win?” Stevie called my name on a yawn.
“Yes, Dove.”
“Did you remember to put out the word up there for Mr. Piscatello?”
“The chap looking for his pig, Cris P. Bacon?” That’s really what the bloke named his pig, ladies and gentlemen. Stevie takes every single client seriously, no matter what they’re looking for.
Arkady, Bel, and I? Not so much. I think we secretly laughed for over an hour about this man and his pig. Call us heathens, but he’s looking for his pig.
I repeat. His pig.
The guilt I feel over the three of us cackling like hyenas on a bender is enormous, if that makes our laughing any less horrible. Of course, I realize one can become attached to the oddest things. Take our turkey Strike, for instance. We adore him. But we had a good hen fest of a laugh about him, too.
Stevie stabbed her finger in the air as she tucked her feet under her. “That’s him. And before you say it, I know. Believe me, I know. It’s a pig. He wants to contact his pig. Ridiculous, right? But what if it were Whiskey or Strike? Wouldn’t you want to know they made it over the Rainbow Bridge? Chris P. was just as important to him as our pets are to us. No matter what species.”
I gave Arkady the sternest spy look I possessed when he hissed the beginnings of his hearty chuckle. “Of course, Dove. I love them as much as you do. However, I don’t know if there is a Rainbow Bridge. I’ve never seen this bridge animal lovers speak of. I’ve never met anything other than humans here on Plane Limbo, and neither Arkady nor I have been able to locate Mr. Bacon—which is of course unfortunate, but the truth.”
Stevie sat back on the couch, deflated. “I might have to cancel with him then. Bel, would you put that in the calendar for me, please? Shoot. I really hoped we’d be able to help. I’m not sure what I’ll do if there’s really no Rainbow Bridge. Surely the man upstairs doesn’t abandon the furbabies? I refuse to believe that. It’s unconscionable.”
That’s my girl. Heart of an angel, mind like a steel trap.
“I promise Arkady and I will hunt high and low for the Rainbow Bridge if it eases your mind, Dove. Won’t we, old chap?”
“Da! Whatever you wish, my fluffy Twinkie of love. I live to serve you and only you, malutka.”
Stevie smiled up into the ceiling the way she always did when Arkady used a food endearment to reassure her. The smile she didn’t realize was reserved for only those closest and dearest to her. It held extra warmth in its creases and made her brilliant eyes glow.
“Thank you, Arkady. I can’t bear the idea animals don’t cross over, too. It’s unfair.” Lifting her arms, she stretched and yawned before turning off the telly. “I think it’s time I hit the hay. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ll be glad when tourist season is over. Swear, I’m tired of people asking me if I can tell them what the lottery numbers will be for next week. Does no one take a medium seriously anymore? We talk to dead people—we don’t see the future!”
“It has been a busy season for you, Stephania. But look at all the money donated to the animal shelter and the hospital. You’ve made quite an impact.”
That made her smile. This smile was different, though. It was the smile of pride, one that said she was happy we could contribute by
donating all her reading fees to various charities, and she’d work as hard as she had to in order to keep the donations flowing. Stevie refused to rest on her laurels—something she surely could have done after inheriting all of my money.
Yet, Stephania has an incredible work ethic, one she made very clear to me from the start when I suggested she buy a real Gucci gown and not some used, vintage thrift store aberration. She refused my free ride and continues to do so.
And that’s just one of the things I lo—Cherish about her, and her overly large heart.
As she gathered herself, Bel, and Whiskey to head to bed, her adorable bear slippers flopping a path to the stairs, I felt that undeniable wall go up between us. The one we’d erected out of respect for her privacy.
Yes, yes. I can peek in on her anytime I choose. When she’s sleeping, when she’s putting on her makeup, whenever. But I don’t. I absolutely adhere to a strict code of honor where Stevie’s concerned. I would never risk her discontent for my own advantage. Her privacy is important to me. Thus, I behave as though I’ve just dropped her at her front door after a lovely outing unless it’s an emergency.
Still, I feel this invisible wall far more than I suspected I would. It’s the wall separating our worlds.
Maybe it’s only my melancholy, but it’s there. It’s always there.
As she began to creep up the stairs, Whiskey in tow, she whispered, “Night, Win. Night, Arkady. Sweet dreams…”
“Good night, John-Boy. Good night, Mary-Helen—”
“That’s Mary Ellen, old man.”
Stevie’s laughter tinkled in my ears as she hit the top of the steps and made a right toward her bedroom.
I sighed as Arkady slapped me on the back.
Oh, something else to note. Yes, Arkady and I can indeed see one another as though we were still alive. We can feel one another’s touch—in fact, we even occasionally keep our spy skills honed with some hand-to-hand combat.
All in jest, of course, but some of the inhabitants of Plane Limbo don’t fancy our tussling about the lush hills and valleys as they determine whether they should cross. This is a place of reverence; a place to reflect and make the most important decision one will ever make. The lovely Mrs. Pederson reprimanded us once after a particularly vocal joust.
It should also be noted, Arkady has no desire to return to Stevie’s plane. He claims to be done with all earthly matters. To a degree, I understand. A spy’s life is treacherously hard and involves things like deception and all manner of bomb paraphernalia, and lest we forget, little time for anything but spying. Spies don’t have families, or house and car payments unless it’s an undercover assignment.
Thus, Arkady’s chosen to rest now, and I support that choice entirely.
We also don’t sleep, which I find terribly disappointing. I missed my fair share of naps as an adult due to my line of work; you’d think the unfairness of that would be given a balance here on Plane Limbo.
Anyway, it leaves us with much time on our hands.
“You okey-doke, my friend?” he asked as we sat together where we always sit. On a bench in a park with cherry blossom trees that eternally bloom and the greenest grass I’ve ever seen.
His sharply defined face with thick dark brows, offset by a longish nose, cheery green eyes and, if you can believe it, a handlebar moustache and goatee, were once the perfect cover for his deadly skills, and when he looked at me the way he was right now, I avoided making eye contact.
Arkady was always a hit with all the ladies, with his deep chestnut hair in a topknot and his melodic accent. His muscular body, in the shape of a T, drove them all wild. I often compared his almost perfectly proportioned body to a newer millennial version of the weightlifters once so prevalent in the circus; only rather than tights he wore his tight T-shirts and jeans.
Yet, he had a way with people. He made you feel like he was someone you might sit and share a pint with, thinking he’d listen to your woes. But make no mistake, in life, he was revered as a spy.
But nowadays, here on Plane Limbo, he was simply Arkady. I chuckled, slapping him about the shoulders. “I’m okey-doke, chap. What shall we do tonight while our mini-spy rests her lovely head? Chess, perhaps? No. We just played last night. Let’s mix it up a bit, shall we? How about backgammon? Shuffleboard?”
“Why do we not speak of how you are feeling, Zero?”
Zero, if you’re wondering, was my spy code name. Zero Below—because I was considered cold as ice.
If only MI6 could see me now. I’m tepid at best, if we’re to rate me by their standards.
“What shall we speak about, Arkady?”
He wrinkled his round nose up and made a face, squeezing my chin with his beefy hand. “Bah! You do this to avoid. Do not play mousecat with me. I know how you are really feeling. You must say it so we can talk about it, friend.”
“It’s cat and mouse, mate. And I’m not playing at anything, good sir. I don’t know what the bloody—”
The doorbell rang just then, sending us both to our feet, for all the good it would do, but you can’t teach an old spy new tricks.
“Who is this who rings doorbell so late at the night? Has no one make with the manners here in America?”
Stevie’s head poked around the corner of the hall upstairs. “Seriously? Is that the doorbell at this time of night?”
“’Twas indeed, Mini-Spy. Shall we investigate as I’ve taught you?”
As she came into full view, her shoulders slumped beneath her bunnies-hopping-over-rainbows bathrobe—my favorite garment of hers, by the way—she whined, “Aw, c’mon, Spy Guy. Don’t make me put on the helmet. I’ve only been hit on the head once. I’m much better at this now. Plus, we have a security system.”
“Stephania, I won’t have your skull bashed in due to your pride! Get the helmet and get it now!” I didn’t realize I was shouting until I had, and if I didn’t notice after that, there was always Stevie with her eyes of fire to remind me.
She skipped down the steps and wagged a finger at the ceiling even though I was right beside her. “Don’t you tell me what to do, Winterbutt. I’m not wearing that helmet or the kneepads or that ridiculous mouth guard you ordered. You’re being way too overprotective. When was the last mission you took that involved a mouth guard?”
All right, she had me there. However, she’d never had to witness me almost dying, unable to do a single thing about it but wait helplessly as I crumple to the ground while some madman fiendishly hovers over me. I have watched as she’d almost died, and I have no wish to do so again. Thus, I encourage safety.
“Exactly my point, hall monitor,” she said to the ceiling, crossing her arms over her chest in defensive Stephania mode. “Now can it, pal, and let me look at the security camera.”
“Da, even you must admit the mouth guard is too much, Zero. It is as my little summer squash says, it makes her lips feel flappy when she take it out. You do not want her lips to be more flappy, do you, eh?”
I narrowed my eyes at my good mate and signaled him to put a sock in it, but he just grinned that wide grin of his that takes up his whole face, and once was accompanied by a bullet to your brain.
“You can it, too, Russian, or I’ll make you watch Mission Impossible again with my flappy lips commentating the whole way. Hear me?”
Arkady groaned long and low, letting his head hang to his barrel-like chest. “Ack! Please do not make me suffer that Tom Boat person and his pretty-girl face that never even sees a single tooth missing on his spy missions,” he spat.
Arkady has little regard for American spy films and shares his opinion quite frequently, calling the stars Candy Boys.
“That’s Tom Cruise, buddy, and I’ll make you watch them all back to back if you don’t behave!” Stevie warned.
Now I grinned at Arkady, devilishly, of course.
On tiptoe, Stevie peered out the front door’s stained glass and shook her head before looking at the footage of the live feed on the laptop in the dining r
oom. She cocked her mussed head and said, “Huh. Nothing.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Thank heavens there’d be no attempted assassinations on her life today.
And then we all stopped and tilted our ears in the direction of the door in order to listen.
“Win?”
I listened once more before I said, “Hmmm?”
“Do you hear what I hear?”
“What did you hear, Dove?”
She bit the inside of her cheek. She does that when she’s thinking, and it’s quite adorable. “I could swear—”
And there it was again, a soft mewling, one that grew and turned into a swell of sound sure to rival the scream of the whistle atop the Orient Express.
Before anyone could protest—before I could once more warn Stephania not to behave with such foolish impulse, she flung the door open.
And right there, directly on the welcome mat that read “Wipe Your Paws,” was a baby carrier. One you’d put in a car, I believe.
And inside this blue and white baby carrier was a dark-haired cherub with blushed cheeks and pudgy fists I often hear women coo they’d like to nibble.
And attached to that baby’s pastel-blue blanket with the satin hem was a note that read—
My darling Winsical (remember our little joke, Win?),
Meet your beautiful baby boy!
Chapter 2
“Winsical?” Stevie repeated for the hundredth time since she’d brought the child inside and out of the elements. “What the heck is a Winsical?”
“Well, I guess we’re not the only clever nickname makers, are we, Boss? And here I thought Winterbutt was first rate. Come to find, you’ve been collecting nicknames behind our back, haven’t you, cheater?” Bel said, his infectious giggle bubbling from his tiny throat as he flew in a circle above the baby to keep him amused.
Ain't Love a Witch? (Witchless in Seattle Mysteries Book 6) Page 2