Кей Хупер - Out of the Shadows

Before he could touch her, the storm quieted in another lull, and the silence of the room closed about him. He heard Bonnie breathing softly. Heard one of the little girls shift in her bed and murmur something unintelligible. Nothing else.

Seth drew back his hand and listened intently for several minutes, but there was only peaceful quiet inside and the storm outside.

Half under his breath, he said, "Daniels, you're losing it."

But he moved his uncomfortable chair closer to Bonnie's bed. And he didn't feel drowsy again, not for a long, long time.

"I'm not a medium," Miranda protested.

"No, which is why the spirit couldn't inhabit your mind," Bishop said. "But it tried. Tried to force its way, to cut your mind and spirit free of your body so it could have a vessel of its own again. And when your defenses slammed up, their normal strength magnified by all the force you'd been building inside ..."

"It was too much," she finished slowly. "My system couldn't handle it, physically or mentally. My spirit very nearly was cut loose, drifting away. And without that, my body was—"

"Dying. It makes sense. As much as any of this makes sense, that is."

Miranda smiled slightly. "So you did save my life. Thank you."

Bishop had a vague memory of growling something at her about doing whatever it took to keep her alive, and half hoped she'd forgotten that. He was fully aware that the ruthless aspect of his nature made her wary, and he wasn't sure if, given his actions in the past, she had any confidence in his ability to use that ruthlessness wisely.

"You're welcome," he said.

Miranda laughed under her breath, then went grave again as she looked down at the Ouija board. "So whatever spirit they contacted is probably still here, in the house." She kept her voice matter-of-fact, even though her skin crawled at the idea of a spirit so angry or desperate to escape, it had ruthlessly attacked her.

"Are you sure of that?"

"No. But I think we'd better assume it for now."

"And both of us are psychically blind as a couple of bats. Even if we were mediumistic, neither of us could open a door for it — to come into us or to leave here. So we're safe from it, at least for now. But when we regain our abilities we'll have to be careful; if it attacked you only because your shields were down, then anyone with any kind of psychic ability could be at risk."

"Bonnie can't come back here," Miranda said.

"At least not until we regain our abilities and figure out what to do about it," he agreed. "Young as she is, we can't take the chance she might not be able to protect herself — especially if, say, it's the spirit of Steve Penman, who by most accounts did have a lot of anger in his nature."

Recalling the force of the attack against her, Miranda felt a chill. Bonnie had good shields, strong shields, but they could be weakened by physical weariness or slip because of carelessness or inattention. Just a slight opening, a weak point in the defenses, and an angry spirit could force its way in — especially into the mind of a mediumistic psychic designed by nature to be receptive to the contact.

"She'll be all right, Miranda."

He was, she decided, getting entirely too good at reading her, especially without benefit of his extra senses. "I know."

"You said it would take time for the spirit to gain enough energy, enough strength, to leave here. Right?"

"Right." As far as I know. But do I know enough to be sure?

"Then we have a little breathing room. And there is a more immediate threat we have to consider."

He was right. Pushing aside the unknown, Miranda said, "Gossip is spreading fast about how we were able to find Steve's body. Sooner or later, the killer is going to find out Bonnie poses a danger to him."

"Yes — assuming he even believes in what she can do."

"You said it yourself, Bishop — this killer wants to think he's in control and all-powerful; it will only reinforce his ego if he thinks the only way we can interfere with his plans is by using paranormal means. That's right, isn't it? He'll be eager to accept the idea that the ghost of one of his victims sent us to find Steve Penman."

"He'll also be eager to make sure we can't use that tool again. Especially if it unsettles him to believe his victims can speak through Bonnie, can accuse him of his crimes. So I'd say we have far more to fear from the living than the dead, for the present anyway."

Miranda got up and moved across the room to the big front window. The streetlights were barely visible through the swirling, blowing snow, and the moaning of the wind was constant.

"I hate this," she muttered. "We're isolated, cut off from everything, helpless to do anything but wait. While that maniac is out there somewhere, probably pissed and thinking about his next victim. I just hope to God he's trapped inside like the rest of us."

Bishop came up behind her and slid his arms around her. "You know, for an atheist you have an interesting relationship with God."

She was stiff for just an instant, then relaxed against him. "Oh, you noticed that?"

"I did, yes."

She chuckled, grateful for the momentary distraction from her worries. "Just habit, I suppose, to use the word. The name. No disrespect intended or offense meant. And no belief in a deity. Malign fate, maybe, but no benevolent intelligence watching over us."

"Yet you know something of us survives death."

"To me, that's not a religious thing — not a question of faith or belief, or any notion that surviving death is some kind of reward for a life well lived. It's a certainty. It's like knowing a tree sheds its leaves year after year, cultivating a new set each spring of its life cycle. The tree grows and sinks its roots deeper and deeper, and wears a new set of leaves each spring until it finally grows as large as it can, reaches the end of its life, and dies."

"Our bodies are the . . . leaves of our soul?"

"Why not?" She shrugged. "We tend to think what's real and lasting is only what we can see, but that doesn't mean we're right. Maybe our skin and bones and the faces we see in the mirror are really the most transitory things about us. Maybe we just wear our bodies the way that tree wears its leaves, our physical selves being born and maturing and dying over and over while inside our spirits grow and learn."

"It has its attractions, that theory," Bishop said. "And maybe it explains ..."

"Explains what?"

He hesitated, and when he replied he made sure his tone was light. "Explains what I felt the first time I set eyes on you. Do you suppose one soul can recognize another even wearing a different set of leaves?"

After a moment, she said in an equally casual tone, "I guess that would depend on the soul. An old soul would probably have more practice at it, especially if you believe the karmic theory that says we travel through our existence surrounded by many of the same souls in life after life. Maybe we're psychic because we're old souls, and these abilities of ours are simply the result of a ... spiritual evolution."

Bishop wondered if neither of them wanted to probe too deeply and question their own feelings because they were afraid of the answers they might find. But he accepted the tacit avoidance, and his own relief told him he was not yet ready to risk pushing Miranda in that direction.

"Another theory that has its own attractions," he said judiciously. "Nice to think of oneself as a highly evolved soul. Do you suppose an earlier set of my leaves might have been Charlemagne?"

Miranda turned to smile up at him. "More likely Rasputin," she said. "Although I suppose you could have been both, given the dates."

"The Mad Monk? Thanks a lot."

She slid her arms up around his neck. "There's just something about those eyes. Absolutely hypnotic."