Ghost Talkers (2 page)

“Well … that's done, then.” Her Caribbean accent came through more clearly in her fatigue. Her dark skin did not show the circles under her eyes as clearly as Ginger's, but it had gone ashy at the effort expended today. Even alternating control, their three-hour shifts were soul-numbing. The sheer number of deaths over the past two weeks had forced all the mediums to go to double shifts, and Ginger was not at all sure how long they could continue that pace. Already one girl had lost her grip on her body. They were keeping her physical form comfortable, in hopes that her soul would find its way back, but it seemed unlikely.

As a group, they dropped the circle and let go of each other's hands. Ginger's palm chilled as the film of sweat, which always formed during their long sessions, met the cool air. At least they would not have to be back on rotation until seventeen hundred today.

Letting her soul slip a little out of her body, Ginger paused to do the required check on their team. They had seven members in their team, as per regulations. A circle consisting of two mediums and four unsighted, with an aide for corporeal needs. Mrs. Richardson and Mr. Haden were clearly well and had matching rosy glows to their auras.

She flexed her fingers and turned to Mrs. Richardson on her right. “Thank you for the support during the drawing.”

The elderly woman smiled and patted Ginger on the knee. “Of course, dear. It is the least I can do for the war.”

“Aye. That and knitting.” Mr. Haden gave her a sly wink. He wore a pair of fingerless gloves that Mrs. Richardson had made for him out of a thick grey wool. His arthritis bothered him in the perpetually cool warehouse, but he hadn't complained. It was simply hard to hide aches and pains from a circle. Even those without the Sight could sense at least a little of what the others felt when the mediums linked them. Which is how she also knew that Mr. Haden was sweet on Mrs. Richardson. Neither of them admitted it aloud though, pretending to be oblivious and flirting the old-fashioned way.

Lt. Plumber picked up his crutches and gave her a brief nod as he levered himself to his remaining leg. He could have sat the war out on disability, but he opted to be an anchor in the Spirit Corps instead. He wore the blue uniform of the disabled with pride. The dark tinge of pain in his aura seemed no more pronounced than usual.

Joanne was already leaning in to whisper to Edna. They were no doubt planning to head straight to the WAC's hospitality room to dance with as many officers as they could, if the cheery mixture of light red and yellow were any indication.

Ginger stood and stretched with a groan. She glanced to the side of the room where Ben waited for her. He was leaning against the wall of the warehouse, scribbling something in the tiny black notebook he kept perpetually tucked in his uniform pocket. His long, lean figure had always been dashing in evening dress, and seemed to exhibit the British Army uniform to equal advantage. His hat was tucked under his arm, and a lock of his dark curls had worked its way free of its pomade to hang over his forehead. The line of his mustache was turned down in a scowl as he concentrated on his notes.

He looked up, as if he felt Ginger's gaze, and a smile briefly lifted the worry from his face, though it did nothing for his aura.

Helen caught Ginger's eye and gave a nod toward Ben. “Looks like you have other duties awaiting you.”

“Yes, well.” Blushing a little, Ginger tried to appear nonchalant. “We do have to prepare for a staff meeting.”

“Mm-hmm.” Helen winked. “I'm sure he's looking forward to your report.”

Laughing, Ginger crossed the floor past the other circles that were still in session. Most of the mediums were women, but some were men who were unfit for duty on the front. Their anchoring circles were also largely women, mixed with injured veterans and men too old to fight. Braziers stood every few feet, trying to knock back the perpetual chill of the vast warehouse—Potter's Field, they called it. Ginger kept her head down as she walked and her soul tucked tightly in her body, trying to keep her awareness of the dead soldiers to a minimum. Without being linked in a circle, she wouldn't see a full vision of any of them, but their auras still tugged at her, begging for a chance to tell how they died. She pulled further into herself, trying to confine her sight to the mortal sphere.

Ginger stepped past the line of salt that marked the edge of the working area. The temperature was a trifle warmer here, but that might have been simply due to Ben. Just his smile of greeting heated her skin.

“Good morning, Miss Stuyvesant.” He tucked his little notebook into his pocket.

“Captain Harford.” Their engagement was not a secret, and the wedding had only been delayed because of the war, but the brass still preferred them to be discreet. It was “distracting,” apparently. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to help me collate my reports?”

“I thought I'd take advantage of the cool.” His smile did not reach his eyes, and his aura stayed dark. “Walk with me?”

“Into the heat? You are a contradiction.”

“I like to keep you guessing.” He gave her a little bow and gestured to the door. “It is the role of an intelligence officer to avoid predictability at all costs.”

“Mm … and here I thought you just enjoyed being difficult.”

“It is an occupational hazard, I fear.” With a passable imitation of a heartfelt sigh, he opened the door and ushered her into the corridor that ran along the length of one wall. Doors to a warren of offices opened off the side of the hall opposite Potter's Field, but Ben walked her down to the exterior door. The hall was warmer and mercifully clear of ghosts. A swirl of men and women filled it as they hurried outside, away from the cold of duty. “Speaking of occupational hazards, Axtell ruined my copy of Chaucer.”

“The one I gave you? Humph. I never did like him.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Darling, I would not trust him with one of your gifts. Besides, he doesn't read Middle English. This was my Pitt-Taylor translation.”

“Even so. I am surprised he had any interest.” Ginger's sensible boots clicked against the sharp green and white tiles as she walked with Ben to the end of the hall. She was simply fatigued at the end of a shift. Nothing more. “Or was this an illustrated edition?”

“He was using it for a book code.”

“Well … if it was for the war, I suppose you had no choice.” She paused by the door. “How did he ruin it?”

“He was shot. It stopped the bullet, apparently.” He pushed open the door to the outside, and a wall of warmth met them.

Ginger wore a heavy linen skirt as part of her uniform, and a shawl on top of that to ward off the chill of Potter's Field. It was easy to forget, while locked in the dim and cool warehouse, that France was in the midst of July.

“Perhaps we should put a copy of Chaucer into the standard kit.” She took the shawl off, folding it over her arm. In sticky, humid New York City, this would have been accounted a pleasant day, but it was still overly warm in her uniform.

“I would not object, but the troops already carry nearly fifty pounds in their kit.” He gestured toward the trees that lined the walled yard surrounding the warehouse. “Shall we seek the shade?”

The members of the Spirit Corps broke into knots of twos and threes as they left the confines of the warehouse. Likely, most of the mediums would go back to their billets at the old asylum, to rest before their next shift. If her own fatigue level was any guide, they simply must figure out a better staffing arrangement. With luck, her aunt would have found some new recruits on her most recent trip back to England.

In an odd way, Ginger envied the mundanes who would go on to their volunteer hospitality duty at the Women's Auxiliary Committee's hospitality room. The WAC provided a convincing excuse for the vast number of women who were in Le Havre and would, hopefully, help keep the precise nature of the Spirit Corps secret as long as possible. Serving tea to living soldiers sounded very appealing. Perhaps she could convince Ben to go out. After she had a nap.

Ben settled his hat back on his head and steered them to the long row of plane trees that lined the wall surrounding the warehouse's large cobbled yard. Their papery bark peeled in a thousand shades of brown beneath vast spreading crowns of bright green. Ginger let him carry on in peace for a moment until they had reached some undefined appropriate distance from the warehouse.

He glanced back at the building and sighed. People still thronged around it on the way to and from their shifts. Stopping, he leaned against the trunk of a tree so his back was to the building. “Ginger … pretend I'm trying to wheedle a kiss?”

“Am I to take it that I won't get one, then?” She smiled and turned her back on the building as well, shaking her head as if denying him. They had acted out this ruse before when he needed to listen in on something at a party. She would rather have had a kiss.

He took her hand, running his thumb over the backs of her knuckles. “Assume I've given my standard disclaimer about this being completely confidential, please.”

“Always.”

“We've received reports that the Spirit Corps is being targeted by the Central Powers.”

“Ah…” She resisted the urge to look back at the building. “Do they know where we are?”

“We aren't certain, but they most certainly know about the program.” He let go of her and tugged at the cuff on his uniform jacket. “They've started blinding our wounded.”

“What—”

“We thought that they knew … reports that I can't go into. But one of the reports that I
can
talk about came in today through the Spirit Corps—one you'll hear about at the staff meeting. A soldier was left behind enemy lines, dying—all standard thus far—but when the Germans found him, they put his eyes out.”

She swallowed against nausea. Bad enough that these young men died, but to have their body desecrated in such a manner was an unlooked-for horror. “Surely that's just brutality. They may not have even known he was alive. I mean, that's part of what we count on, isn't it? That our boys can stay behind after their positions are overrun, and report what they've seen.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “The last thing he heard was,
Noch ein gespenstiger Spion …
Another ghost spy.”

 

Chapter Two

During the year it had been in operation, the Spirit Corps had begun to turn the tide against the Central Powers, but it had been too much to hope that they could keep the mediums a secret for the entire war.

If the Germans now knew about the program … Ginger sighed and shook her head. “I'm not certain that there is anything we can do to stop them, but that doesn't mean the Spirit Corps should be discontinued.”

“I don't care about the program—I mean, I do, and we'll talk about this at the staff meeting. The reason I'm telling you now is that I think the Germans' next step will be to target the mediums. I want you to go away for a while.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Just until we can sort this out. Put some security precautions in place, that sort of thing.”

“The rest of the Spirit Corps. What are you doing for them?”

He took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, they're British, aren't they? This isn't even your fight, since America hasn't entered the war.”

“I beg to differ. My mother was British, and since I am also engaged to a British officer, I most certainly have a stake in England's future.”

“And as your fiancé, I have a stake in yours. How many mediums have died from exhaustion or from losing their connection to their bodies? Hmm? And that's before we add a threat to your physical self.”

Ginger gestured back towards the entrance to Potter's Field. “I see the toll of war every day. Every day. And every day I wonder when I will see you report in. Not if, but
when
. Whereas the danger to the Spirit Corps is very much an
if.
Even were that not the case, I am bound by duty as much as you.”

“Not so. As a man, I would be branded a coward were I to respond rationally to the danger of war. As a woman, no one expects you—”

“As a woman—!”

“Ginger—you are raising your voice.” Ben straightened and took her hand, raising it to kiss as a pantomime for any onlookers. At the touch, his eyes widened a little. Though not a medium, Ben was a sensitive and, as such, could see her aura clearly when touching her.

She wanted to yank away from him, but managed to tilt her head and smile. In another setting, the heat in her cheeks might look like a maiden's blush instead of the anger it was, but Ben certainly could not miss that her aura had gone as red as her hair. With as sweet a voice as she could produce, Ginger simpered. “Oh, Captain Harford. You are so brave. I am only a simple girl.”

“That is not—” He stopped himself and bent his head, sighing. “Let me try again? If I were allowed to leave this pointless war, I would. But I would be shot as a coward. The expectations for women are different—I am not saying that they
should
be, only that they are. You have the choice to stay or to—”

An explosion cracked through the air.

Ginger was on the ground, face down in the bottom of the trench. Mud squelched between her fingers and filled her nostrils. Her side burned despite the cold of the mud. She couldn't see for all the mud. Tubby was screaming again. Good God, couldn't someone get the big baby to shut up? She tried to push up, but only clawed at the mud with one hand. The other—her other hand was gone. No—no! She wasn't supposed to die in the bottom of the trench. She hadn't even gone over the top yet. She had to get up, she had to get out of all of this mud. She had to—

“Ginger!” A hand rested against her back. “Ginger, darling … it was just a truck backfiring. Ginger?”