Lyn Benedict - Ghosts & Echoes

Sylvie gave her hands a last scrub. Just moving the sheets that the Hand had been resting on made her want to wash and wash, but any germs that survived the preservation were long gone, and any magical taint that had attached to her couldn’t be washed away with anything as simple as soap.

She stared at the trash can balefully and considered options.

Ten minutes later, Sylvie walked out the front door, irritated and worried enough that when Eleanor gawked at her—and who wouldn’t gawk at a visitor carrying out a trash can that had a magazine duct-taped over the top—she merely snapped, “You know, for a med student, you’re ignoring one hell of a sick kid. Call a doctor, huh?”

She walked back to her truck, slapped the trash can in the well of the passenger’s seat, and drove off, every nerve firing. She felt like she was driving a car that someone had loosed a snake into—unseen, but feared in her every anticipatory sinew.

Zoe didn’t answer when Sylvie dialed her cell, and Sylvie sighed, remembering she’d taken the phone away from her. In retrospect, a really bad idea. A girl should be able to call for help. Then again, if Zoe had just stayed put . . .

Sylvie dialed her parents’ phone, got the answering machine there, too. She left a terse, tight message for Zoe to call her at once, considered driving home and continuing the Zoe hunt. It was before noon, though. Zoe wasn’t much of an early riser. Wherever she’d washed up last night, she was probably still there, still sleeping the smug sleep of a teenager who’d gotten away with ignoring parental guidelines.

She could wait a few hours, see if Zoe called in, came by, acted like a reasonable person. Bella sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere, and Sylvie had taken their toy away.

At a red light, she leaned forward, rested her head on the steering wheel, and sighed. All reasonable, but there was some cold, scared part of her that kept pointing out that Zoe probably had been involved. Teenagers rarely backed off without trying something first. They had to learn things the hard way. Zoe had likely touched the Hand, at least once.

That nagging worry and the occasional thump of the Hand sliding around in its container made the drive back to her apartment—twenty-six miles of morning traffic and random road workers—more of an ordeal than she wanted to admit. Too many horror movies, she told herself. The Hand was a latent danger, not likely to claw its way free and take her by the throat. The problem with that consoling thought was she’d seen monsters that horror movies hadn’t considered.

She took the final corner to her apartment, winced as the Hand skidded within its prison, a sere scrabble that sounded deliberate, and pulled into her parking slot with a rush of relieved breath. The truck door slammed behind her before she’d consciously decided to move, her key already turning the lock.

Fine. She didn’t want to take it into her apartment anyway. She could leave it there, could be content that the teens wouldn’t be burglarizing anyplace else. Without the Hand, they’d have to deal with alarms and locks like any other would-be thief. That would be way too risky for them. Never mind that using black magic was a magnitude of risk higher. Now that she’d stopped them, prevention dealt with, she could take her time to decide on punishment. She leaned back against the warm steel of her truck, fingers absently rubbing at the claw marks.

Abruptly, she recalled Wright, left hiding out in her bathroom. This was the problem with compartmentalization. Sometimes, remembering what you’d set aside felt like being blindsided all over again.

It was past time to face Wright. Problem was, she still didn’t have the first clue of what to say. It was all emotions beating in her blood when she thought of him, of Demalion, of inappropriate kisses and borrowed bodies.

Her front door opened above her, Wright coming out to overlook the parking area, phone to his ear. He scanned the lot absently, as if he’d been doing it so often that when his eyes caught her, he twitched, nearly dropping the phone.

She froze; he waved at her, all cheery attention getting, and a quick toothy grin, then bent his attention back to the phone with an expression moving from pleased to irritated.

Wright was one of the most expressive men she had ever met, hunching shoulders, wild gestures, a voice that angled sharper and sharper. For him to greet her with a smile and a wave, after this morning’s incident . . .

He didn’t remember it. Or decided to let it go. Hell, from his point of view, what had happened? A little lost time, coming back to himself with Sylvie’s hands on his shoulders. For all she knew, he might think he had been trying to fugue-walk off the balcony, and she had put a stop to it.

The relief was bitter and strong and made her knees weak. If he didn’t remember, she didn’t have to explain that his ghost was all her doing. That the ghost occupying his skin and thoughts had come to Sylvie for something that had nothing to do with Wright. Knowing Demalion, it might be something as simple and as devastating as getting out his final wishes.

He’d tried to find Anna D, hadn’t he? His mother. It made too much sense.

Sylvie climbed the stairs slowly, rising as Wright’s voice rose.

“Jeez, Giselle, I told you. I’m in Miami. No, not on vacation. I swear . . . .”

He ran a hand through his hair, re-creating tufts that had disappeared with his shower; his grey T-shirt was damp at his nape. “No, I’m not staying at a hotel. You checked the credit cards? Giselle, I told you—”

He bumped his head against the balcony post, once, twice; a chip of red paint flecked off into his hair. “This is not a vacation! What does it matter who I’m staying with . . . ? No, I’m not staying with Sylvie.” He hunched a shoulder, half turned, his voice going harried.

Sylvie leaned against her open door, eavesdropping blatantly. Her name, his mouth. Interesting that his wife seemed to have more concerns about the company he was keeping than his health and condition. Demalion must have been keeping a pretty low profile, even in a confused and fragmentary state.

“—talk to Jamie? C’mon, I just want to say hi.”

Sylvie listened as his voice went soft and warm. A son, she remembered Alex saying. A very young one by the simple questions Wright was asking. You played with a dog? Was it a big dog?

Guilt shifted uneasily in her belly. A tiny spur reminding her that Wright’s case affected more than him; Demalion’s hold on Wright could injure a family. Wright was her client. Not Demalion.

But if he only wanted a chance for closure, for last words, a slower end to his murder, then maybe the possession was a problem that could take care of itself. Shepherd Wright around, keep him safe, while Demalion did what he needed to do, now that he remembered who he had been, now that he’d collected his last bit of soul.

Wright held up a single finger—just a moment—as she reached the top of the stairs. Sylvie brushed by him, heading for the AC in her apartment and another quiet moment to herself.

Wright had folded the blankets and left them at the side of the couch. He’d availed himself of her coffeepot, but had washed out his mug, left it neatly in the dish drainer beside the sink. Tidy-minded, and all Wright’s doing. Demalion tended to let the little things slide. Seemed stupid to think about it now, but Sylvie knew that somewhere in Chicago, Demalion’s bed was still unmade, still rumpled with their mingled sweat. His last day alive, and he hadn’t bothered to make the bed, or throw away the take-out containers from their last shared meal. Death left so many rough edges on a life.

A car honked outside, and she jerked back to focus. She traded Zoe’s jacket for the lightweight Windbreaker she’d dropped beside the couch the night before, collected her holster for more secure carriage of her gun, and caught Wright as he was coming back in, put her hand up, and ushered him back out. “Let’s go.”