"Who?" I said, wheeling on Kristof.
As his eyes met mine, I knew the answer was obvious. Dead obvious. But I thought of Lizzie, standing at the top of the stairs, laughing at Bridget's struggle with the door lock, then calmly ironing handkerchiefs while her dead stepmother lay one floor above them. To switch from this kind of rage to that kind of calm within minutes, well, it made no sense. What kind of monster--
I looked back at Abby. As I did, in my head I heard a skipping song from childhood.
Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks;
When she saw what she had done--
"Oh shit!" I said, and raced for the steps.
I took them two at a time, turned at the bottom, and dove through the closed door.
Wearing her father's overcoat, Lizzie stood behind her sleeping father's head, with her back to me. She lifted a bloodied hatchet, then swung it down.
She gave her father forty-one.
19
WE STOOD THERE GAPING AS LIZZIE BORDEN HACKED apart her father's head. Then she laid down the hatchet. Her eyes closed, and her body went stiff as she rose onto her tiptoes.
Kristof nudged my arm.
"Look," he whispered.
There, on the sofa, lay Andrew Borden, intact and un-bloodied, reading the morning paper. Lizzie had backed up to the doorway between the kitchen and the parlor. She blinked, then walked through, needlepoint appearing in her hand.
The doorbell rang.
"Who is it at this hour?" Andrew grouched, slamming his paper to the floor.
"I'll get it, Father."
"No. Go help your mother."
Lizzie nodded, then laid down her needlework and disappeared into the kitchen. In the front foyer, Andrew threw open the door, and barked a greeting at the man there--the doctor who'd come to the door before.
"Just stopped by to see if you folks are feeling any better," the doctor said.
"Feeling better?"
"Yes, your wife came over this morning, said you'd both been up all night with stomach complaints..."
The two continued, having the same conversation they'd had when we'd been watching from the front lawn.
"It's looping back to the start," I said. "Did we miss something? Are the Fates playing it again for me?"
"Someone is replaying it, but I don't think it's for you."
Andrew stormed back into the parlor, sniping to his wife and daughter. A moment later, Bridget rushed past, hand over her mouth. I started going after her, but Lizzie stood in the door, peering through the kitchen toward the back window. I kept going--and bumped into her, hitting so hard, I bounced back.
"She's real," I said, looking over my shoulder at Kristof. "Solid."
Without waiting for his reaction, I strode across the room, reaching out to both Abby and Andrew. My hand passed right through both. As with the doctor outside, I was the corporeal one here. They were the spirits.
"So Lizzie is real," I said. "But only her."
Kristof nodded, as if he'd reached this conclusion already.
"If she's real, then I can talk to her. I saw something in her eyes earlier--"
"She looked at you."
"Yes, but I think I also saw the Nix--or some leftover bit of her. Lizzie Borden must have been one of the Nix's partners. This must be the one the Fates wanted me to speak to, so let's--"
Kristof laid a hand on my arm.
"Don't rush her," he murmured. "Try it again when she's sitting down."
When Lizzie finally sat with her needlework, I plunked down beside her.
"I know you can hear me," I said.
She kept stitching, the needle sliding through the fabric, dragging a blue stream of thread after it.
"Look--" I began.
"Wait," she said.
She looked up at her father, who was adjusting his jacket, preparing to leave.
"Have a pleasant day at work, Father," she said.
He responded with an abrupt nod, and another for his wife, then walked out the front door. Abby and Lizzie worked in silence, as they had before. When Abby headed upstairs, Lizzie's eyes slanted toward me. My cue.
"Good," I said. "Now stop sewing."
"I cannot."
I glanced at Kristof. He motioned for me to ignore the needlework and continue.
"I need to talk to you."
She said nothing, just kept working with swift, determined strokes.
"Look, I am going to talk to you, whether you--"
"Hurry."
"What for? You're not going anywhere. Well, except to kill your parents again."
Her cheek twitched, eyes filling with genuine guilt and remorse, the kind Amanda Sullivan couldn't imagine, much less feel.
"So this is your punishment, then," I said, my voice softer.
"Punishment?" A confused glance my way. "This is what I deserve."
"A hell of her own making," Kristof murmured.
I looked up at him.
"I think this is her doing," he said. "She's created her own hell, and trapped herself in it. No need for anyone to punish her. She does it herself."
Lizzie had returned to her needlepoint, face expressionless. As much as I wanted to jump right in with direct questions, I knew I had to be careful. The Fates must have considered Lizzie Borden a credible witness, but that didn't mean she might not try to trick me, or tell me what I wanted to hear.
"Before you...did it," I said. "Did anything happen? Anything unusual. Maybe you...heard something."
"The voice, yes. I heard it."
"Telling you to kill them."
She kept her gaze down. "She didn't tell me to do anything."
"Encouraged you," I said, remembering Amanda Sullivan's confession.
"Yes, she did embolden me. But I wielded the hatchet. These fingers--"
She clenched her hands, the needle stabbing into her palm. When she opened her fists, a single drop of blood fell on her needlework. She stared at it, transfixed, as it disappeared into the fabric.
"The blame is mine," she said. "I'd thought of it, dreamed about it--killing them. No beau was ever good enough for my father. Those men weren't perfect. I know that. But they would have been kind to me, taken me out of this place. Except he wouldn't let me leave. And her--" She spit the word. "Always conniving. First she gave her half-sister the house that was supposed to be ours, Emma's and mine--"
She stopped, head dropping again.
"No excuses. It cannot be excused."
"Maybe, but I can see how--"
"No!" Her gaze shot to mine, filled with a vehemence approaching fanatical. "There is no excuse and no justification. Honor thy father and thy mother. Honor thy father and thy mother." She repeated the phrase, voice dropping to a mumble.
"Excuse me," she said, laying her needlework aside.
She headed into the foyer and up the stairs. I tried not to think about what was happening up there, but when I heard Abby's body hit the floor, I couldn't suppress a wince.
A few moments later, the scene with the locked front door replayed itself.
Lizzie and Andrew came into the parlor. Andrew took over the sofa, sprawling out and closing his eyes. Lizzie went into the dining room and set up an ironing board. The maid, Bridget, came in to begin cleaning.
"Are you going out today?" Lizzie asked her.
"I don't know. I'm not feeling very well."
"If you do leave, be sure to lock the front door behind you. Mrs. Borden has gone out on a sick call, and I might go out later as well."
Lizzie turned her attention to ironing handkerchiefs. As she worked, I stood beside her, Kristof staying across the room, listening but staying out of the conversation. Lizzie knew he was there, but had yet to say a word to him or even glance his way.
We returned to the subject of the Nix, and I asked Lizzie whether she ever sensed her or saw images of her.
"I see her...what she's done. Sometimes it stops for a while, but when it starts again--" He
r hands quivered. "When it starts again, there are always more."
More killings. The images stopped while the Nix was in the world of the living, then she returned bearing fresh nightmares for her dead partners.
I asked Lizzie what she'd seen recently, whether she had any idea where the Nix was or where she was headed.
"She seeks a teacher," Lizzie said. "A man named Luther Ross."
My head jerked up. "Luther Ross?"
"You know him?" Kris whispered.
I glanced over at him. "Heard of him. A poltergeist teacher."
Kristof snorted. "Another charlatan."
"No, Ross is actually..." I motioned that I'd explain later and turned back to Lizzie. "What does she want with this teacher?"
"I don't know. I never know. I only see."
Lizzie glanced over at Bridget, who was almost finished cleaning the dining room curtains.
"There's a sale on at Sargent's today," Lizzie said. "Dress material at eight cents a yard."
"Oh," Bridget said, smiling. "Then I will indeed be going out. I'm done here. May I leave now?"
"Certainly."
When Bridget was gone, Lizzie peeked into the living room, where her father had drifted off to sleep.
"Excuse me," she murmured.
While she went to get the hatchet, Kristof and I decided we'd learned all we could from Lizzie Borden, and transported ourselves out before the gore started to fly...again.
20
I LANDED IN A POOL OF WATER.
"Your aim, my dear, is excellent," Kristof said.
He was submerged up to his armpits in muddy water. He looked over at me, the water barely reaching my knees. As he opened his mouth, something jumped from the water, splashing a sheet of brown ooze over his face and into his mouth. I bit my cheek to keep from laughing.
"Sorry," I said as he spit the water out. "I told you I only have one travel code for Honduras."
He spit again, then swim-walked over to me. As he drew close, he gave a wet-dog shake, water spraying in all directions, including mine. I yelped, stumbled back, and fell flat on my ass, with a splash that drenched any part that hadn't fallen under the waterline. He grinned and held out a hand to help me up. I took it, and yanked him down beside me.
He rolled onto his side. His gaze traveled across my wet clothing, and his lips parted.
I cut him off. "If that sentence contains the words 'mud wrestling,' I'd strongly suggest you reconsider them."
"I wasn't going to say anything about mud wrestling. Now, mud bathing, that's a whole other matter. Plenty of people pay good money to do this." He lifted a handful of mud and squeezed it through his fingers. "It would be...interesting, don't you think? A new sensation. You always love a new sensation."
"So you're suggesting this for my benefit?"
"Of course. I won't touch you. Won't even try. I'll just watch." A quick grin. "That'll be enough."
I pushed to my feet.
"God, you're sexy when you're flustered," he said.
"Please. It would take more than you to fluster me, Kristof Nast."
"Oh?" He swung to his feet and sidestepped into my path. "Then, if you don't want to try a mud bath, you won't mind waiting while I do."
He unbuttoned the top of his shirt.
"You take that off, and I'm leaving," I said.
He grinned. "Flustered?"
"Exasperated. And too busy for games."
"Oh, you can spare a minute or two. You wait right here, watch me, and I'll be done before you know it." The grin broadened. "You know how much I liked it when you watched."
I turned fast, and slid in the mud. An overhanging vine slapped my face. With a muttered oath, I shoved the vine out of my way and stomped toward the shore.
"Flustered," Kris called after me.
As I turned to answer, something splashed beside me. On the bank lay a huge alligator.
"Enjoying the show?" I asked.
He blinked and gave a lazy flick of his tail. A mini-tidal wave of mud splattered over me. Kristof laughed. I glowered at the beast. He yawned, showing off teeth as big as bowie knives, and twice as sharp.
"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Very impressive. And I'd be even more impressed if you could use them, ghost-gator."
Once on the bank, I gave my head a shake. Mud flew everywhere, but when I stopped, every strand of hair fell into place--shiny, clean, and brushed. Gotta love the afterlife. I closed my eyes and murmured an incantation. When I opened them, I was dressed in worn jeans and a T-shirt. The alligator harrumphed. I flipped him the finger and started walking, leaving Kristof to catch up.
Luther Ross lived on the island of Roatan, just north of Honduras. Even in the ghost world, this is well off the beaten path, which is why someone like Ross would choose to live here. The ghost world, like any other, has its laws. Poltergeist activity breaks most of them.
A poltergeist reaches into the living world and manipulates objects. Fortunately for the Fates, it's not a major problem because few ghosts can do it. Most so-called poltergeist activity isn't ghosts at all--it's earth tremors and faulty construction and bad wiring and bored teens.
The few true poltergeist ghosts find their services in high demand as teachers. When something is rare, it's always cool to be one of the few who can do it. There's only one problem. Most poltergeists haven't learned their power at all; they're born with it.
Almost all poltergeists are really telekinetic half-demons. Something about the power of telekinesis allows it to transcend dimensions, so after death, some find that they can continue to mentally will objects to move in both the ghost world and the living world. Yet they can't pass on this power to a nontelekinetic any more than I can teach a binding spell to a non-spell-caster.
That doesn't keep telekinetic half-demons from selling their "services" on the black market. To disguise the true source of their powers, they pose as druidic or Vodoun priests, or other supernaturals with minor, easily faked abilities. They'll pretend to teach a student, all the while manipulating the objects themselves.
Luther Ross was different. When I first heard of him a year ago, I also heard that he was half-demon and dismissed him as someone too stupid to even hide the source of his powers. Then, a few weeks ago, I discovered that he was a Gelo, an ice demon, not a telekinetic. It's damned near impossible to fake the powers of a Gelo. So it would appear Luther Ross might be the real deal, someone who truly had learned how to move objects in the living-world dimension.
Getting into Ross's classes wasn't easy. To evade the Fates and their Searchers, he holed up in remote locations like Roatan, and gave out the transportation code only to students he personally approved. At least a dozen of my contacts had tried to get into his class, and failed, so I'd decided that when I had time to take his classes, I'd skip the application process. I'd tracked down someone who had directions to his latest school location, and I'd paid a pretty price in spells and transportation codes to get them.
I told Kristof all this as we trudged through the swamp, taking turns blasting the vines from our path. I skipped that part about bartering for the directions, though, and made it sound as if they were common knowledge. Kris wasn't fooled. He knew me, and he knew I must have been investigating Ross as a potential teacher, someone to help me in my quest to help Savannah. But he let the matter drop without comment. My "Savannah project" was one subject guaranteed to start fireworks, and neither of us wanted that. Not today.
We headed north, knowing we'd eventually reach the Caribbean. We came out near Puerto Cortez, or so we were informed by the first person we came across, a young man with the bleached-blond hair and dark tan of someone who'd spent his life near the ocean, and wasn't about to leave it after his death.
"Good surf?" I asked, pointing at his board.
"Nah. Great snorkeling, but no freaking surf unless you make it yourself." A quick flash of white teeth. "Good thing I can."
"Tempestras," I said.
"Whoa, you're good."
"A
spicio," I said, extending my hand.
He shook it sideways, fingers hooking around mine, thumb up. "Cool. You guys have the X-ray vision, right?"
"Something like that." I looked at his board. "So where do you conjure up your surf?"
"Over by Tela, near the National Park."
"Is that anywhere near Roatan? That's where we're heading...or trying to."
"Roatan?" His gaze flicked over Kristof and me, then he shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat. Easiest way would be to stick to the coastal route. Eventually you'll come to La Ceiba. That's the gateway to Roatan. Got quite a ways to go. Nice hike, though."
"Great. Thanks."
"No problem. You folks enjoy yourselves over there." He started to leave, then stopped and gave us another once-over. "Just, uh, make sure you change before you get to La Ceiba. They like to keep the place, you know, pure."
After he left, I turned to Kristof.
"Pure?"
He shrugged. "Guess we'll find out."
I certainly wasn't about to catch up to the half-demon surfer and ask, no matter how friendly he'd seemed. I'd landed myself into trouble doing that before. In the ghost world, it's one thing to admit you don't quite know where you're going, but it's another to admit you don't know what to expect when you get there. Opens you up to a whole world of grief.
In my first year, I'd been given the name of a potential contact in Stanton, Texas, and so I'd asked the referrer what to expect there--what the period was. The guy told me Stanton was set in the Old West, and my contact lived in a brothel. Naturally, I showed up in a costume appropriate for the period and the setting, and found myself in a nineteenth-century Carmelite monastery dressed as a whore. Lucky to get my ass out of there without a nice coating of tar and feathers. Oh, but the guy who sent me there had himself a good laugh. In a long and often monotonous afterlife, sometimes that's really all that counts.
I'm sure the scenery was lovely, but it had been ten miles since we'd seen any of it, trudging along in the darkness, under the glow of my light-ball spell. Finally, we saw another glow lighting the night sky.
"That's gotta be La Ceiba, but I think it's too late to get a boat to Roatan."
"Legally, yes. But there are bound to be plenty lying around."
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