[Anita Blake Collection] - Strange Candy (7 page)

But somehow Abbie didn't think that anyone would want Brian's ghost in their house. It was romantic to have a murdered sixteenth-century explorer roaming about, but recent victims and a child at that…. Well, historic victims are one thing, but a ghost out of your morning paper, that was something else entirely.

Abbie just hoped that Brian Garner would be laid to rest easily. Sometimes the ghost just needed someone to tell it that it was dead. But other times it took more stringent measures, especially with violent ends. Strangely, there were a lot of child ghosts running around. Abbie had read an article in the Sunday magazine about it. The theory was that children didn't have a concept of death yet, so they became ghosts. They were still trying to live.

Abbie left such thinking up to the experts. She just sold houses. As soon as the car started Abbie turned on the radio. She wanted noise.

The news was on and the carefully enunciated words filled the car as she pulled away from the house. “The Supreme Court reached their verdict today, upholding a New Jersey court ruling that Mitchell Davies, well-known banker and real estate investor, is still legally alive even though he is a vampire. This supports the so-called Bill of Life, which came out last year, widening the definition of life to include some forms of the living dead. Now on to sports…”

Abbie changed the station. She wasn't in the mood for sports scores or news of any kind. She had had her own dose of reality today and just wanted to go home. But first she had to stop by her office.

It was late when she arrived and even the receptionist had gone home. Three rows of desks stretched catty-corner from one end of the room to the other. Most of the overhead lights had been turned off, leaving the room in afternoon shadows. A thin strip of white light wound down the center and passed over Sandra's desk. Sandra sat waiting, hands folded in front of her. She had stopped even pretending to work.

Her blue eyes flashed upward when she saw Abbie come in. The relief was plain on her face and in the sudden slump of her shoulders.

Abbie smiled at her.

Sandra made a half smile in return. She asked, “How was it?”

Abbie walked to her desk, which put her to Sandra's left, and two desks over. She started sorting papers while she considered how best to answer. “It's going to need some work before we can show it.”

Sandra's high heels clicked on the floor, and Abbie could feel her standing behind her. “That isn't what I mean, and you know it.”

Abbie turned and faced her. Sandra's eyes were too bright, her face too intense. “Sandra, please, it's over, let it go.”

Sandra gripped her arm, fingers biting deep. “Tell me what it was like.”

“You're hurting me.”

Her hand dropped numbly to her side and she almost whispered, “Please, I need to know.”

“You didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't your fault.”

“But I sold them that house.”

“But Phillip Garner played with the Ouija board. He opened the way to what happened.”

“But I should have seen it. I should have realized something was wrong. I did notice things when Marion contacted me. I should have done something.”

“What, what could you have done?”

“I could have called the police.”

“And told them that you had a bad feeling about one of your clients? You aren't a registered psychic, they would have ignored you. And Sandra, you didn't have any premonitions. You've convinced yourself you knew beforehand, but it isn't true. You never mentioned it to anyone in the office.” Abbie tried to get her to smile. “And get real, girl, if you had news that important, you couldn't keep it to yourself. You are the original gossip. A kind gossip, but still a gossip.”

Sandra didn't smile, but she nodded. “True, I don't keep secrets very well.”

Abbie put her arm around her and hugged her. “Stop beating yourself up over something you had nothing to do with. Cut the guilt off; it isn't your guilt to deal with.”

Sandra leaned into her and began to cry.

They stayed there like that until it was full dark and Sandra was hoarse from crying.

Sandra said, “I've made you late getting home.”

“Charles will understand.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I have a very understanding husband.”

She nodded and snuffled into the last Kleenex in the room. “Thanks.”

“It's what friends are for, Sandra. Now go home and feel good about yourself, you deserve it.”

Abbie called her husband before locking up the office, to assure him that she was coming home. He was very understanding, but he tended to worry about her. Then she escorted Sandra to her car and made sure she drove away.

 

IT
was weeks later before Abbie stood in the newly carpeted living room. Fresh hex signs had been painted over the doors and windows. A priest
had blessed the house. A medium had come and told Brian Garner's ghost that it was dead. Abbie did not know, or want to know, if the ghost had been stubborn about leaving.

The house felt clean and new, as if it had just been built. Perhaps a registered psychic could have picked up some lingering traces of evil and horror, but Abbie couldn't.

The kitchen door stood white and pure. There were no stains today, everything had been fixed, everything had been hidden. And wonder of wonders, she had a client coming to see it.

The client knew all about the house and its history. But then Mr. Channing and his family had been having difficulties of their own. No one wanted to sell them a house.

But Abbie had no problem with selling to them. They were people, after all; the law said so.

She had turned the lights in the living room and kitchen on. Their yellow glow chased back the night. Charles had been unhappy about her meeting the clients alone, at night. But Abbie knew you couldn't sell to people if they didn't think you trusted and liked them. So she waited alone in the artificial light, trying not to think too much about old superstitions. As a show of great good faith, she had no protection on her.

At exactly ten o'clock the doorbell rang. She had not heard a car drive up.

Abbie opened the door with her best professional smile on her face. And it wasn't hard to keep the smile because they looked like a very normal family. Mr. and Mrs. Channing were a young handsome couple. He was well over six feet with thick chestnut hair and clear blue eyes. She was only slightly shorter and blond. But they did not smile. It was the boy who smiled. He was perhaps fourteen and had his father's chestnut hair, but his eyes were dark brown, and Abbie found herself staring into those eyes. They were the most perfect color she had ever seen, solid, without a trace, falling. A hand steadied her, and when she looked, it was the boy who touched her, but he did not meet her eyes.

The three stood waiting for something as Abbie held the door. Finally, she asked them in. “Won't you please come inside?”

They seemed to relax and stepped through the door with the boy a little in front.

She smiled again and put a hand out to Mr. Channing and said, “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Channing.”

The three exchanged glances and then polite laughter.

The man said, “I'm not Channing; call me Rick.”

“Oh, of course.” Abbie tried to cover her confusion as the woman introduced herself simply as “Isabel.”

It left Abbie with only one other client, but she offered her hand and her smile. “Mr. Channing.”

He took it in a surprisingly strong grip and said, “I have looked forward to meeting you, Ms. McDonnell. And please, it's just Channing, no Mr.”

“As you like, Channing. Then you must call me Abbie.”

“Well then, Abbie, shall we see the house?” His face was so frank and open, so adult. It was disconcerting to see such intelligence and confidence in the eyes of a fourteen-year-old body.

He said, “I am much older than I appear, Abbie.”

“Yes, I am sorry, I didn't mean to stare.”

“That's quite all right. It is better that you stare than refuse to see us.”

“Yes, well, let me show you the house.” Abbie turned off the lights and showed the moon shining through the skylights. The brick fireplace was an unexpected hit. Somewhere Abbie had gotten the idea that vampires didn't like fire.

She did turn on the lights to show them the bedrooms and baths. They might be able to see in the dark, but Abbie didn't think it would impress them if she tripped in the dark.

The female, Isabel, spun round the master bedroom and said, “Oh, it will make a wonderful office.”

Abbie inquired, “What do you do?”

The woman turned and said, “I'm an artist, I work mostly in oils.”

Abbie said, “I've always wished I could paint, but I can't even draw.”

The woman seemed not to have heard. Abbie had learned long ago that you didn't make conversation if the client didn't want to talk. So they viewed the house in comparative silence.

There was one point in the master bathroom, when the three had to crowd in to see, that Abbie turned and bumped into the man. She stepped away as if struck and to cover her almost-fear she turned around and nearly gasped. They had reflections. She could see them just as clearly as herself. Abbie recovered from the shock and went on. But she knew that at least Channing had noticed. There was a special smile on his face that said it all.

Since they had reflections, Abbie showed them the kitchen more thoroughly than she had been intending. After all, if one myth was untrue, perhaps others were; perhaps they could eat.

The basement she saved for last, as she did in most of her houses. She led the way down and groped for the light pull cord but did not turn on the lights until she heard them shuffle in next to her. She said, “You'll notice there are no windows. You will have absolute privacy down here.” She did not add that no sunlight would be coming down because after the mirror she wasn't sure if it was pertinent.

Channing's voice came soft and low out of the velvet dark. “It is quite adequate.”

It wasn't exactly unbridled enthusiasm, but Abbie had done her best. She pulled on the light and showed them the water heater and the sump pump. “And the washer and dryer hookups are all set. All you need is the machine.”

Channing nodded and said, “Very good.”

“Would you like me to leave you alone for a few moments to discuss things?”

“Yes, if you would.”

“Certainly.” Abbie walked up the stairs but left the door open. She went into the living room so they would be sure she wasn't eavesdropping. She wondered what the neighbors would think about vampires living next door. But that wasn't her concern; she just sold the house.

She did not hear them come up, but they stood suddenly in the living room. She swallowed past the beating of her heart and said, “What do you think of the house?”

Channing smiled, exposing fangs. “I think we'll take it.”

The smile was very genuine on Abbie's part as she walked forward and shook their hands. “And how soon will you want to move in?”

“Next week, if possible. We have had our down payment for several months, and our bank is ready to approve our loan.”

“Excellent. The house is yours as soon as the papers are signed.”

Isabel ran a possessive hand down the wall. “Ours,” she said.

Abbie smiled and said, “And if any of your friends need a house, just let me know. I'm sure I can meet their needs.”

Channing grinned broadly at her and put his cool hand in hers. “I'm sure you can, Abbie, I'm sure you can.”

After all, everyone needs a house to call their own. And Abbie sold houses.

T
HE
prophet was an old man crazed with his own visions. He crouched against the dark wood of an elm. His fingers dug into the bark as if he would anchor himself to it. He gasped and wheezed as he drew in the morning air.

We had been chasing him through these woods for three days. And I was tired of it. If he ran this time, I was going to put an arrow in his leg. Celandine could heal him of the wound, and she could finally ask her question. I had not mentioned my plan to the healer. I thought she might object. The old man looked into a bar of dazzling sunlight. The glow showed his eyes milky with the creeping blindness of the very old and the very poor.

He was sick, blind, and crazy, and he had eluded me for days.

His prophecy protected him or perhaps the voices he called out to told him I was near. He turned his head to one side as if he were listening. I heard nothing but the wind and a small animal scuttling in the brush.

He turned his blind eyes and looked directly at me. The flesh along my back crawled. He could not see me, but I knew he did.

His voice was an abused cackle that never seemed to finish a thought completely. I had listened to him rant, but now he spoke low and well. “Ask,” he said.

It was Celandine's question, but while he was in the mood to answer, I asked. Not all prophets are able to answer direct questions. Those that do tend to answer only one question for each person. “How do I find the token which Celandine the Healer seeks?”

“The black road must take. Demons help you. Fight in darkness you will.”

I heard the whisper of cloth that announced the healer.

She came up beside me, white cloak huddled round her body.

Without taking my eyes from the old man I asked, “Did you hear what he said?”

“Yes.”

“Ask him something.”

“Where is the token I seek?”

“Demon, demon inside.” He coughed, his body nearly doubled over with the violence of it. Bloody foam flecked his chin. Celandine stepped forward. “Let me heal you.”

His eyes went wide. “Death want, death seek, no heal.” And he was gone, vanishing into the underbrush noiseless as a rabbit.

Celandine stood there, tears glistening in her eyes. “He'll die.”

“He wants to die.”

She shook her head, and one teardrop slid from crystalline blue eyes down a flawless white cheek. “He doesn't know what he's saying.”

I touched her arm. “Celandine, no healer can cure the madness of prophecy.”

She nodded and pulled the cloak's hood to hide her face. A strand of black hair trailed across the white cloth like a stain.

I said, “This is the seventh prophet, Celandine. We must trust the information and act upon it.”

She spoke in a low voice that I had to strain to hear.

“Aren't you afraid, Bevhinn?”

I debated with myself whether she wanted truth or for me to be strong for her. I decided on truth. “I fear the black healers of Lolth. I fear being a female trapped behind their dark border.”

“And yet you will go?”

“It is where our quest takes us. We must go.”

She turned to me, face framed in shadowed hood. “It is death by torture for me if I am caught.”

I had heard the stories of what Loltuns did to white healers. They were tales to curdle the blood round winter fires.

“I will die before I let them take you. You have my word.”

She spun round as if she would find an answer in the spring morning. “I have your word.” She turned back to me, blue eyes hard. “What good is your word? You aren't human. You don't worship the Goddess that I serve. Why should I trust you to give your life for me?”

I clamped a six-fingered hand round sword hilt. Five months I'd traveled with her. Five months of living off the land, killing that we both could eat. I had slain winter-starved wolves and fought bandits. I had guarded her back while she healed the sick. I had been wounded twice, and twice she had healed me. And now this.

I let the anger flow into my face. I stared at her with my alien purple eyes, but I kept my voice low with menace. I had no desire to shout and bring men or a wild beast upon us. “Your fear makes you foolish, Celandine. But do not fear. Your father paid me well to guard you on this exile's quest.”

“You sell yourself for money like some harlot.”

I slapped her hard, and she fell to the ground. She looked startled. I had never offered her violence before. “Your father bought my sword, my magic, and my loyalty. I will lay down my life to protect you, but I will not be insulted.”

“How dare you. I am a white healer…”

I finished for her, “And bastard daughter of the King of Celosia. I know all that. He hired me, remember.”

“You are my bodyguard, my servant.”

“I'm not the reason we're out here in this godforsaken wilderness. You killed a man. You took that pure white gift of yours and twisted it. You used black healing and took a life.”

She was crying now, softly.

“The only way to end this exile is to follow the prophet's advice and go to Lolth.”

“I'm afraid.”

I grabbed her upper arms, pulling her to her feet. “I'm afraid, too, but I want this over with. I want to go back to Meltaan. I want a bed and a bath and decent food. I want someone to guard my back for a change.” I let her go, and she stumbled back, sobbing.

“I will not let your fear keep me out here forever. Your father didn't pay me that much.”

“You can't leave me.”

“I could, but I won't. But tomorrow we travel the dark road.”

Morning found us on the bank of Lake Muldor. A blue cloak to match her eyes replaced the healer's cloak Celandine usually wore. She kept it pulled close around her though it was very warm for spring.

The sun was warm on my face. The light shattered diamond bursts off the lake water and the silver of my armor. I had bound my breasts tight under the scale mail. I was counting on the fact that most humans think male Varellians look effeminate. And that they would look at sword and armor and think me male.

Celandine would simply go as my wife. It was rare, but it was done. That would explain my exile. The problem was that we both stood out. We could not simply blend with what few travelers there were.

Celandine was too aware of her royal heritage to play the common wife. She had no talent for lying or being false. I could have wasted magic to disguise myself as human, but it wouldn't have been safe. I was earth-witch, not illusionist, and disguise was not one of my better spells. So I rode as a Varellian. My hair was spun snow with a purity of color that
few humans achieved. The hair could have been dyed, the odd-shaped ears hidden, but a sixth finger was something else. It was considered a mark of good fortune in Varell but not among the humans. And, of course, my eyes gave me away. Purple as a violet, the color of a grape.

We were not your usual traveling couple. I rode a unicorn, which was very hard to hide. The unicorns of Varell are as big as a warhorse. They were the mounts of royalty and of the royal guard. Once a unicorn and a rider are bound, it is a lifelong binding. So through no fault of his own, Ulliam shared my exile among the humans and the horses.

But he also shared my magic, though he can only feel it and not perform it. His great split hooves danced on the damp meadow grass. The earth-magic of spring was calling. My power was tied to the ground and that which sprang from it. Every meadow flower, every blade of grass, was hidden power for my magic. My power called to other things. I shared the joy of the swallow as it turned and twisted over the lake. I froze in the long grass with the rabbit waiting for our horses to pass. Spring was one of the most powerful times for an earth-witch, as winter was one of the worst. And Ulliam danced with me on his back, feeling the power. I hoped I would not need it.

Celandine rode silently, blue cloak pulled over a plain brown dress. Visions of torture still danced behind her eyes. Her fear was an almost palpable thing. She rode one horse and carried the lead for a second. She would need a fresh mount if we were to make good time. I would have liked to rest Ulliam, but warhorses were not easily found in the wild lands. I would not ride less. You could not fight off the back of a normal riding horse. The clang of metal, the swinging shield, even drawing bow and arrow, could send a horse racing in fright. And you couldn't afford that in battle. A war steed had to be trained to it from birth; there was just no other way. Ulliam and I had been trained together. No other mount could have known my mind as he did.

I had used magic to make him less noticeable. Most would see a great white horse and nothing more. If a wizard concentrated, then perhaps he
would see past the glamour, but it was the best I could do. In Lolth they sacrificed unicorns to Verm and Ivel.

I asked Celandine, “Have you ever worshipped Ivel?”

She made the sign against evil, thumb and little finger extended near her face. “Don't use her full name.”

“As you like. Have you ever worshipped Mother Bane?”

“Of course, you must not ignore any of the three faces of the Great Mother.”

I didn't argue theology with her. We had found we did not agree on matters of worship. “You've never spoken of Mother Bane as one of your Gods.”

“Because it is not wise to do so.”

“Why do the Loltuns sacrifice women to Her altar?”

“It is a matter of theological interpretation.”

“Interpretation?”

“Yes.” She seemed reluctant to speak further, so I let the subject drop. Celandine was not happy that I could argue her into a corner using her own sacred tomes. The black road erupted from the damp meadow grass without marker or warning. It seemed to be made of solid rock, black as if the earth had bled. Legend said that Pelrith of the Red Eye forged the road. And seeing it lying there on the shore of the lake, I believed in demigods calling things forth from the earth. I urged Ulliam forward.

The moment his hooves hit the road, I felt it. The road was dead; no earth-magic sang through it. The horse Celandine was leading shied at the black surface. I moved Ulliam to calm it before the horse she was riding could bolt as well. We rode into Lolth three abreast, with the skittish horse in the middle.

I noticed bumps in the smooth surface of the road, but there was no pattern to them. I dismounted and walked Ulliam until I came to a bump that seemed higher than the others. I knelt and ran a mailed hand over the blackened lump. My eyes could not puzzle it out at first, then suddenly, it
was clear. A human skull gaped from the road, barely covered in the black rocklike stuff. And I could not force the image from my mind.

Celandine called, “What is it?”

“Bones. Human bones.”

She made the sign against evil again.

I mounted Ulliam, and we rode on. My eyes were drawn with a horrible fascination to each half-hidden shape as we rode. We traveled on the burial mound of hundreds.

We came to the border guard then. There were only four of them, but two shone magic to my eyes. And I knew that I shone as well. But there was nothing illegal about being a wizard; at least I didn't think there was. A female wizard might have been stopped, but healers do not shine like wizards. Celandine would seem merely a woman until she healed someone. When she laid hands, she glowed like the full moon.

One man came from behind the wooden gate. He stood in front of me. “Well, you must be an ice elf.”

It was a rather rude way to begin, but I had been prepared for that. It was a killing insult in Varell, but I had been five years from there. It wasn't the first time someone had called me elf to my face. It would not be the last. “I am Bevhinn Ailir, and this is my wife, Celandine.”

His eyes turned to the healer, and he said, “Oh. She's a beauty.” He walked over to her and put a hand on her knee, massaging it. Celandine glared at him.

The hand began to creep up her thigh, and she yanked her horse backward. It bumped the man, and he backed away smiling. He said, “You could make money off this one. She would bring a fair price every night you stay in our country.”

“She is a wife, not a whore.”

He shrugged. “There isn't that much difference, now, is there?”

“There is where I come from.”

“Yes, the Varellians and their reverence for females. You and your queen.”

I had had about enough of this. “Can we pass, or must we stand here and be insulted?”

He frowned at that and said, “I'd keep that fancy armor hidden. There are those who would take it from you.”

I smiled at him, forcing him to stare into my alien eyes. “It is good armor, but surely men aren't eager to die for a suit of armor they would never fit into.”

He returned the smile and said, “I would love to see one of your Varellian women. You're pretty enough to eat yourself.”