Tangled Souls (25 page)

The dog issued a mournful howl, one that set Gavenia’s teeth on edge and made the hair on her arms rise.

“Dwell in the sunshine, Bradley,” she whispered. She set her tears free and they rolled down her cheeks, wetting her shirt. Behind her, Father Elliot prayed in a voice made strong with faith.

Gregory Alliford’s grief overwhelmed him, and deep, aching sobs rolled from his chest. Gavenia knelt beside him, placing her arm around his waist. The priest knelt on the other side of the stricken man, a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“He is with the angels now; he’s safe,” Elliot said. His eyes met hers, and she saw he was barely holding his own grief in check.

“What will I do? There’s nothing left,” Gregory said, looking from Gavenia’s face to that of the priest.

“You have to go on, Gregory,” Gavenia said. A wet nose nuzzled her hand. She pulled Merlin closer to them. “Merlin needs you.”

The bereft father sought her eyes and then gave a quick nod, petting the dog. “I’ll watch over him. I won’t let anything happen to him,” he promised. “I’ll do it for Bradley.”

Gavenia rose with considerable difficulty and moved to where Bradley had crossed over. The wall was solid now, showing no evidence that he’d passed across. Resting her forehead against the wallpaper, she let her grief rain down on the clowns and their jaunty umbrellas.

Her task was complete; Bradley Alliford’s soul was safe.

Then why do I feel so empty?

* * *

Relief warred with an aching sense of loss. Though Gavenia had held it together for Gregory’s sake, it was a near thing. As if understanding her tenuous state, Father Elliot offered to escort her to her car.

“Thank you,” she said. “This one has been so hard.”

“How many others have you helped?” the priest asked.

“Bradley’s the twenty-third. The others were . . . well, mostly older, ready to go on to something better. Bradley was my first child.”

Elliot’s hand lightly touched her shoulder. “You did very well. I can only imagine how hard it is.”

“It doesn’t seem to get easier.”

“Bradley tugged on my stole, didn’t he?”

She looked up immediately. “Yes. Does that sound weird to you?”

“Not any weirder than having Doug tell me you spoke to his father’s ghost.”

Doug?
It took her a bit to connect the dots. “O’Fallon is a hard man to convince.”

The priest scrutinized her closely. “It’s the truth that matters to him.” He looked toward the house. “My faith has been reinforced today.” His head swiveled back toward her with a curious expression. “Have you see it? Heaven, I mean?”

“No, I’m not allowed across, at least not while I’m alive. I’m not in any hurry to make that journey.”

He nodded his understanding. “Neither am I.” He pulled a business card out of a pocket and handed it to her. “Let’s keep in touch, Ms. Kingsgrave.”

“Gavenia,” she said, offering her hand.

“Avery,” he replied, and they shook.

“Thanks for being so understanding, Avery.”

Gavenia watched him walk back up the stairs into the massive house. She didn’t envy him his task.

* * *

O’Fallon rang Gavenia’s doorbell twice but got no response. He turned to leave, then hesitated. Despite the positive report from Avery, he really couldn’t leave.
I just want to make sure she’s okay.

He tried the knob—the door was unlocked. A ball of anxiety formed in his gut.

He knocked again and then shoved open the door, hoping he’d not be met with a loaded firearm. Instead he found himself challenged by a sleek cat with big green eyes. A black one.

“And I’m a walking stereotype?” he muttered, shaking his head. The hallway proved mundane—no inverted crosses, bat skulls, or the like. Even the photographs of the witch’s family looked normal.

“Gavenia?” he called. Silence. He raised his voice. “Gavenia?” A low meow came from the floor as the cat sauntered down the hall ahead of him. Not having any other option, he closed the door and followed the feline. It paused outside a room, sat down, and groomed a paw in a casual manner.

“Is she in there?” he asked, and then felt ridiculous. He was talking to the cat just like he did Seamus. Only lonely people talked to their animals.

He peered inside the room, where a smattering of candles provided the only illumination, their light twinkling off pale-yellow walls. What appeared to be an altar stood at the far end of the room, low to the ground. Incense hung heavy in the air, and it made his eyes sting.

Must be some sort of sanctuary.
“Gavenia?” he called again.

“I’m here.” He hunted through the semidarkness until he found her sitting in a corner, her knees drawn up to her chin, her hair draped around her like a golden blanket. He removed his jacket, hung it over a chair, and sat on the floor next to her.

“He would have been such a great person,” she said in a raw voice, one thick with grief.

O’Fallon gently wiped away a tear as it trickled down her puffy cheek. “He’s at peace now.” He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight despite the twinge in his ribs. She curled into him like a child seeking respite from a hideous nightmare. “You didn’t call. I got worried,” he murmured.

A slight nod against his chest. “I only made it as far the temple. I just couldn’t go any farther.”

They huddled together for a time, neither speaking. He could feel her heartbeat through his fingers. The incense plagued his nose, threatening a sneeze, and he gritted his teeth to hold it back.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked. She wiggled out of his embrace and sat upright. He helped her stand, earning him both a grateful look and a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re a good guy, you know that?”

He shrugged. “I’m okay.”

As she left the room, he noted she was leaning more heavily on the cane. It seemed to be a barometer of her mood.

With nothing else to do, he wandered around and found the cat. It sat on a shelf in the bookcase, curled up on a thick pillow, watching him with those dark-green eyes. He studied the statues flanking the beast and rummaged through his memory for the Egyptian goddess they represented. The name wouldn’t come. He moved closer and found it engraved at the base of the statues.

“‘Bastet,’” he read. The cat trilled in response. “Must be your name, too.” The cat rose from the cushion and allowed him to scratch her head, purring appreciatively.

“You’re rather friendly for the devil’s minion.”

He heard a low chuckle from the doorway.

“Trademark of a good minion,” his hostess observed. She handed him a steaming cup of tea.

“Just trying to figure out if my mortal soul is in danger,” he joked, testing the waters.

“Not from us. We only like virgins,” she bantered back. “You wouldn’t know any, would you?”

“No, not a one.” He delivered a few more scratches under Bastet’s chin, and the cat ratcheted up her purring.

“Is she your . . . what do you call them . . . ?”

“Familiar? Nope, just a cat. She appeared on my doorstep about eight months ago.”

“A black cat just came to your door?”

“All sorts of strays find their way to my door, O’Fallon,” she jested with a glint of mischief. “Come on, sit down and enjoy the tea.”

He settled into an overstuffed chair and sighed appreciatively. The chair was comfortable, just like the room. It felt like the sanctuary at Saint Bridget’s, safe and sacred—as though the outside world didn’t exist. He eyed the witch as she perched on a cushion she’d positioned next to the wall. She seemed to like to sit on the floor.

“What?” she asked. He’d been caught staring.

“Just wondering why you sit on the floor all the time.”

“Makes me feel connected to the earth.”

“No other reason?”

“My hip seems to be less cranky down here.”

He shifted gears. “What kind of room is this?”

“It’s my temple, my magic room.”

“It feels like a church.”

Gavenia nodded. “It’s a similar kind of energy. If the worship you offer is positive and loving, the energy will feel the same.”

“The only witches I’ve encountered have been the scary ones, the Satanists.”

She shook her head immediately, her hair shifting in time to the movement. “Satanists aren’t Wiccans. They cultivate the darkness, revel in it.”

“And you?” O’Fallon came right back. For some reason the question seemed vital, as if a bridge needed to be crossed, even if just in his own mind. She studied him with those deep eyes. Did she sense the doubts raging within him?

“There’s enough evil in the world. It doesn’t need any more power. I only do Light work.”

He took a sip of the tea and pondered her comment.

“So if someone was threatening your family, you wouldn’t slap a spell on them?”

A reflective expression appeared. “Ah, that old question. I’ll turn it back at you. If someone threatened Seamus or your grandmother, would you shoot them?”

“In a heartbeat.”

She didn’t seem surprised at his reply, but nodded as if she’d expected it.

“I won’t use dark magic, but I will use offensive magic if someone I love is threatened.”

“How dangerous is this offensive stuff?”

“Just as nasty as a gun.”

“Really.” He took another sip of the tea. It was licorice, some sort of herbal blend. “Needs sugar,” he muttered, and set the cup on the table next to him. Gavenia rose to her feet, using the wall as support. Realizing she’d heard the comment, he shook his head. “No, no, it’ll be fine. I didn’t mean for you to get up.”

“It’s not a problem. I should have brought the sugar anyway.”

She disappeared out the door. As he waited, he noticed a small penknife on the end table. Curious, he picked it up. It felt cool within his palm. He flipped it over with a thumb. It was engraved—
Bradley.

His hostess returned, bearing a sugar bowl. When she saw him holding the knife, she explained, “Gregory gave it to me as a remembrance along with one of Bradley’s bears,” she added, pointing toward a furry astronaut located on the shelf one level lower than the cat.

O’Fallon closed his palm without thinking. The moment his hand encircled the knife, he knew he’d made a mistake. Sweat burst on his forehead and his eyes burned as if sprayed with acid. He tried to pry open his fist, but failed. It clenched convulsively, as if the knife refused to be set free. He opened his mouth to beg for help. No words came.

O’Fallon thought he heard the witch call his name, felt her touch him, but he wasn’t sure. As a black abyss opened in front of him, he fell out of the chair, onto his knees. The darkness pulled on him, swirling, hauling him down into its gaping maw.

Images tumbled: the little boy playing, his brown eyes twinkling in the sunlight, his baseball hat crooked at an angle, one of his shoelaces untied and dragging on the pavement. Merlin bounded around him, barking in excited tones. A man’s voice called the boy by name. Bradley answered, the smile still on his face.

“No, don’t,” O’Fallon shouted, as if he could stop the drama playing out in his mind. Hands grabbed at Bradley, pulling hard. The boy struggled and cried out. There was deep snarling and then an oath followed by a high-pitched howl of pain.

“Run,” O’Fallon called. “Run!”

The boy broke free and dashed away in blind panic. The images accelerated, streaming before O’Fallon’s eyes like torrential raindrops: the little boy running, the limping dog, the SUV accelerating in an effort to catch the fleeing pair.

“Oh, God, no!” he bellowed. He felt the blinding moment of impact, the crushing blow to the chest, the sensation of weightlessness as the small body arced into the air and careened off the side mirror in an explosion of glass. The body tumbled over and over like a leaf and crumpled to the pavement. The stench of burning rubber stung O’Fallon’s nose. A low, mournful howl filled his head.

The scene abruptly disintegrated like a sand castle in a heavy wave. O’Fallon slumped to his left side, despite the injury to his ribs, curling into a fetal position. Tears burned down his cheeks. He sucked incense-laden air deep into his lungs in thick gulps, choking in the process. With each hammer beat of his heart, his head roared like a jet engine. Hands touched him and he fought them, striking, connecting. The darkness returned, and he welcomed its embrace.