Bitter Spirits
Page 2
Shouldn’t be, but was.
Strong ghosts looked as real as anyone walking around with a heartbeat. But even if the woman with the red combs hadn’t been dressed for bed, Aida would’ve known the man was alive. He was speaking to himself in a low rumble, a repeating string of inaudible words that sounded much like a prayer.
Ghosts don’t talk.
“Is she your dance partner?” Aida said.
The man jerked around. My. He was enormous—several inches over six feet and with shoulders broad enough to topple small buildings as he passed. Brown hair, so dark it was almost black, was brilliantined back with a perfect part. Expensive clothes. A long, serious face, one side of which bore a large, curving scar. He blinked at Aida for a moment, gaze zipping up and down the length of her in hurried assessment, then spoke in low voice. “You can see her?”
“Oh yes.” The ghost turned to focus on the man, giving Aida a new, gorier view of the side of her head. “Ah, there’s the death wound. Did you kill her?”
“What? No, of course not. Are you the spirit medium?”
“My name’s on the sign outside.”
“Velma said you can make her . . . go away.”
“Ah.” Aida was barely able to concentrate on what the man was saying. His words were wrapped inside a deep, grand voice—the voice of a stage actor, dramatic and big and velvety.It was a voice that could probably talk you into doing anything. A siren’s call, rich as the low notes of a perfectly tuned cello.
And maybe there really was some magic in it, because all she could think about, as he stood there in his fine gray suit with his fancy silk necktie and a long black jacket that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, was pressing her face into his crisply pressed shirt.
What a perverse thought. And one that was making her neck warm.
“Can you?”
“Pardon?”
“Get rid of her. She followed me across town.” He swept a hand through the woman’s body. “She’s not corporeal.”
“They usually aren’t.” The ghost had followed him? Highly unusual. And yet, the giant man acted as if the ghost was merely a nuisance. Most men didn’t have the good sense to be afraid when they should.
“Your breath is . . .” he started.
Yes, she knew: shocking to witness up close rather than from the safe distance of the audience when she was performing onstage. “Do you know what an aura is?”
“No clue.”
“It’s an emanation around humans—an effusion of energy. Everyone has one. Mine turns cold when a spirit or ghost is nearby. When my warm breath crosses my aura, it becomes visible—same as going outside on a cold day.”
“That’s fascinating, but can you get rid of her first and talk later?”
“No need to get snippy.”
He looked at her like she was a blasphemer who’d just disrupted church service, fire and brimstone blazing behind his eyes. “Please,” he said in a tone that was anything but polite.
Aida stared at him for a long moment, a petty but sweet revenge. Then she inhaled and shook out her hands . . . closed her eyes, pretending to concentrate. Let him think she was doing him some big favor. Well, she was, frankly. If he searched the entire city, he’d be lucky to find another person with the gift to do what she did. But it wasn’t difficult. The only effort it required was the same concentration it took to solve a quick math problem and the touch of her hand.
Pushing them over the veil was simple; calling them back took considerably more effort.
After she’d tortured the man enough, she reached out for the Chinese woman, feeling the marked change in temperature inside the phantom’s body. Aida concentrated and willed her to leave. Static crackled around her fingertips. When the chill left the air, Aida knew the ghost was gone.
She considered pretending to faint, but that seemed excessive. She did, however, let her shoulders sag dramatically, as if it would take her days to recover. A little labored breathing was icing on the cake.
“Your breath is gone.”
She cracked open one eye to find the giant’s vest in front of her. When she straightened to full height, she saw more vest, miles of it, before her gaze settled on the knot of his necktie. It was a little annoying to be forced to tilt her face up to view his. But up close, she spotted an anomaly she hadn’t noticed from a distance: something different about the eye with the scar. Best to find out who the hell this man was before she asked him about it.
“Aida Palmer,” she said, extending a hand.
He stared down at it for a moment, gaze shifting up her arm and over her face, as if he were trying to decide whether he’d catch the plague if they touched. Then his big, gloved hand swallowed hers, warm and firm. Through the fine black leather, she felt a pleasant tingle prickle her skin—an unexpected sensation far more foreign than any ghostly static.
TWO
WINTER MAGNUSSON WASN’T SUPERSTITIOUS. IF ANYONE would’ve asked if he believed in ghosts a week ago, he might’ve laughed. He wasn’t laughing now. And after a lousy week marred by one bizarre event after another, he frankly wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.
First, a crazy old woman had accosted him on the street and shouted some hocus-pocus curse at him. After that, a specter began appearing in his study every afternoon—something no one in his household could see but him. Then, during a business meeting tonight at a bar in Chinatown, someone spiked his drink with a foul-tasting green concoction. And before he could spit it out, a prostitute with a gaping hole in her head walked right through a wall from the brothel next door.
Strong ghosts looked as real as anyone walking around with a heartbeat. But even if the woman with the red combs hadn’t been dressed for bed, Aida would’ve known the man was alive. He was speaking to himself in a low rumble, a repeating string of inaudible words that sounded much like a prayer.
Ghosts don’t talk.
“Is she your dance partner?” Aida said.
The man jerked around. My. He was enormous—several inches over six feet and with shoulders broad enough to topple small buildings as he passed. Brown hair, so dark it was almost black, was brilliantined back with a perfect part. Expensive clothes. A long, serious face, one side of which bore a large, curving scar. He blinked at Aida for a moment, gaze zipping up and down the length of her in hurried assessment, then spoke in low voice. “You can see her?”
“Oh yes.” The ghost turned to focus on the man, giving Aida a new, gorier view of the side of her head. “Ah, there’s the death wound. Did you kill her?”
“What? No, of course not. Are you the spirit medium?”
“My name’s on the sign outside.”
“Velma said you can make her . . . go away.”
“Ah.” Aida was barely able to concentrate on what the man was saying. His words were wrapped inside a deep, grand voice—the voice of a stage actor, dramatic and big and velvety.It was a voice that could probably talk you into doing anything. A siren’s call, rich as the low notes of a perfectly tuned cello.
And maybe there really was some magic in it, because all she could think about, as he stood there in his fine gray suit with his fancy silk necktie and a long black jacket that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, was pressing her face into his crisply pressed shirt.
What a perverse thought. And one that was making her neck warm.
“Can you?”
“Pardon?”
“Get rid of her. She followed me across town.” He swept a hand through the woman’s body. “She’s not corporeal.”
“They usually aren’t.” The ghost had followed him? Highly unusual. And yet, the giant man acted as if the ghost was merely a nuisance. Most men didn’t have the good sense to be afraid when they should.
“Your breath is . . .” he started.
Yes, she knew: shocking to witness up close rather than from the safe distance of the audience when she was performing onstage. “Do you know what an aura is?”
“No clue.”
“It’s an emanation around humans—an effusion of energy. Everyone has one. Mine turns cold when a spirit or ghost is nearby. When my warm breath crosses my aura, it becomes visible—same as going outside on a cold day.”
“That’s fascinating, but can you get rid of her first and talk later?”
“No need to get snippy.”
He looked at her like she was a blasphemer who’d just disrupted church service, fire and brimstone blazing behind his eyes. “Please,” he said in a tone that was anything but polite.
Aida stared at him for a long moment, a petty but sweet revenge. Then she inhaled and shook out her hands . . . closed her eyes, pretending to concentrate. Let him think she was doing him some big favor. Well, she was, frankly. If he searched the entire city, he’d be lucky to find another person with the gift to do what she did. But it wasn’t difficult. The only effort it required was the same concentration it took to solve a quick math problem and the touch of her hand.
Pushing them over the veil was simple; calling them back took considerably more effort.
After she’d tortured the man enough, she reached out for the Chinese woman, feeling the marked change in temperature inside the phantom’s body. Aida concentrated and willed her to leave. Static crackled around her fingertips. When the chill left the air, Aida knew the ghost was gone.
She considered pretending to faint, but that seemed excessive. She did, however, let her shoulders sag dramatically, as if it would take her days to recover. A little labored breathing was icing on the cake.
“Your breath is gone.”
She cracked open one eye to find the giant’s vest in front of her. When she straightened to full height, she saw more vest, miles of it, before her gaze settled on the knot of his necktie. It was a little annoying to be forced to tilt her face up to view his. But up close, she spotted an anomaly she hadn’t noticed from a distance: something different about the eye with the scar. Best to find out who the hell this man was before she asked him about it.
“Aida Palmer,” she said, extending a hand.
He stared down at it for a moment, gaze shifting up her arm and over her face, as if he were trying to decide whether he’d catch the plague if they touched. Then his big, gloved hand swallowed hers, warm and firm. Through the fine black leather, she felt a pleasant tingle prickle her skin—an unexpected sensation far more foreign than any ghostly static.
TWO
WINTER MAGNUSSON WASN’T SUPERSTITIOUS. IF ANYONE would’ve asked if he believed in ghosts a week ago, he might’ve laughed. He wasn’t laughing now. And after a lousy week marred by one bizarre event after another, he frankly wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.
First, a crazy old woman had accosted him on the street and shouted some hocus-pocus curse at him. After that, a specter began appearing in his study every afternoon—something no one in his household could see but him. Then, during a business meeting tonight at a bar in Chinatown, someone spiked his drink with a foul-tasting green concoction. And before he could spit it out, a prostitute with a gaping hole in her head walked right through a wall from the brothel next door.
