Haunted

AGNES MILLER WAS A ZEALOT. SHE WAS ALSO MAD. THE latter, the Nix reflected, often seemed a prerequisite for the former. Or perhaps it was simply an unavoidable result of the former.

Waxing philosophical. Not something the Nix was accustomed to. She blamed it on good eating. When the belly is full, and there's no need to worry about where your next meal is coming from, the mind can turn to the indulgence of philosophizing.

"I need you," Agnes said.

The Nix roused herself from her thoughts and peered out through Agnes's eyes. They stood behind a crumbling wall, looking down at a man sleeping at its foot, a ragged blanket pulled up under his chin.

"Good choice," the Nix said.

Agnes didn't acknowledge her. In Agnes's eyes, the Nix was a tool, not a partner-the only flaw in an otherwise perfect relationship. As flaws went, though, it was a large one, and becoming more frustrating-

"I'm ready," Agnes said.

She stood over the sleeping vagrant, cleaver raised like a guillotine. Not a bad way to go, really. The Nix knew that firsthand, which is why she'd tried to cajole Agnes from the start to change her method, but-

"I'm ready," Agnes repeated.

"Yes, yes."

The Nix concentrated on pouring her demonic strength into Agnes's arms. That was all the woman required from her. When it came to resolve, she was already overflowing with it.

The blade swung down, and the vagrant's head rolled to the side, eyes still closed. Hadn't even woken up. What was the fun in that? But that was one reason Agnes insisted on beheading-it was quick and merciful.

Agnes set about working on the body.

"This time they will pay attention," Agnes whispered aloud.

"As I've said before, if you want them to pay attention, you have to kill more than petty criminals and vagrants, Agnes. Now, if you took a nice girl from a wealthy family… maybe the daughter of the mayor or the head of-"

"That is not the point," Agnes snarled. "The point is this…"

Her hand swept across the festering wound that was the landscape surrounding the Cuyahoga River. Blast furnaces and mills squatted like ogres, belching black smoke. The stink of sulfur was so strong the Nix knew she'd be smelling it on Agnes for days, long after she'd returned to her little house and scrubbed the filth of Kingsbury Run from her skin.

"It's a disgrace, "Agnes said, as she gestured toward the rusted shacks of Hobotown. "A national disgrace. They come here from everywhere, lured by the promise of work. They leave their homes, their families, because they want a job, to work hard, make a living, and contribute to society. And how does society treat them? Tells them there are no jobs. Grinds their self-worth into the dust. And then, when they're too humiliated by failure to return home, it gives them this-this hell to live in."

The Nix started to respond, but Agnes was on a roll, her audience forgotten.

"They leave them here, in conditions not fit for dogs, in the very shadow of that." She pointed to a skyscraper that rose above the squalor, sparkling in the moonlight. "The Terminal Tower. One of the tallest buildings in the world. Such an accomplishment." Her lip curled. "A monument indeed-to the greed of America, lording it over these poor souls, forever taunting them with what they will never have."

The Nix waited another moment to make sure Agnes was done. "But still, killing them doesn't seem to be helping."

"It will. Mark my words. Soon the blind shall see. Even that arrogant boy shall see."

The Nix didn't need to ask who the "arrogant boy" was… she didn't want to sit through another diatribe on the ineptitude and inexperience of Eliot Ness. The year before, Mayor Burton had appointed the young man as Cleveland's safety director, head of the police and fire departments. As good as Ness was at cleaning up mobsters and gambling dens, he-and the rest of his force-were clueless when it came to the serial killer in their midst.

"Six victims, all decapitated," Agnes stormed. "Do you know how rare that is?"

"Um-hmm," the Nix said, stifling a yawn.

"But do they see the connection? Oh, dear me, we seem to have an unrelated rash of beheadings in the city. Fancy that."

"They're starting to pay attention," the Nix said. "Articles in every major paper after that last one. The fear is spreading."

"And spread it shall. Like wildfire, purifying the city."

The Nix smiled. This was more like it. "A veritable feast of fear."

"And well they should fear. The wrath of God is upon them-"

"Um, Agnes? It's getting late. It'll be dawn soon."

"Oh?" Agnes looked into the sky. "So it will. Thank you."

The Nix gave Agnes the strength to cut the vagrant's torso in two.

"Are you taking this one back to Kingsbury Run?"

Agnes nodded and kept cutting.

"May I make a suggestion?"

Another abrupt nod as Agnes began to saw off the legs.

"Throw the pieces in the creek. Someone's bound to see one of them floating along. But hide the head." She paused. "And maybe the hands. Yes, hide the head and the hands. They'll need to call in help to dredge the creek, and that's bound to draw attention."

Agnes rocked back on her heels and stared out into the night, then nodded. "Yes, I think I shall. Thank you."

"I'm here to help."

The Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run. Agnes hated the name the press had given her. The Nix agreed it was rather harsh. Mad? Yes. But "butcher" was uncalled for. Agnes was a qualified surgeon, and the expert dissection should have made that clear.

Several people had speculated that the killer was indeed a surgeon, maybe even a crusader, but the public preferred the image of a raging maniac with a meat cleaver and bloodstained apron. If that scared them more, well, the Nix wasn't about to argue.

Some had even whispered that the killer could be a woman, because the first two victims had been emasculated, but this idea was quickly shot down. No woman would ever do such a thing-to suggest it was to taint the very notion of womanhood. That had made the Nix laugh so hard she'd nearly popped right out of Agnes's body. Clearly these people didn't run in the same circles she did.

As they moved through Agnes's clinic, the Nix basked in the fear that swirled about, thick as the foundry smoke down by the river. In the corner, two vagrants whispered about a shadow they'd seen in Hobotown, a monstrous shadow that had twisted up from the very earth itself, butcher's knife in hand. Two younger men in hobnailed boots swapped "secret" details of the mutilations, each trying to outdo the other. A young mother gathered her two children closer and tried to stop up their ears, her eyes dark with fear.

Agnes was oblivious to the chaos she was causing, intent only on her day's appointments. Cure them by day; kill them by night. The fact that Agnes failed to see the irony-the perversity-of this only made it all the more delicious to the Nix. Of course, it would have been better if Agnes could share the irony with her, instead of trudging through the killings with all the joy of a factory worker putting in a twelve-hour shift. The Nix had held out every hope of converting Agnes, of introducing her to the joys of death and grief and chaos, but she knew now it would never happen, and if she kept pushing, this would be the first time she was evicted by her living partner. She wasn't ready for that-there was still much feasting to come. So she kept silent.

Agnes was in search of victim number thirteen… or so the Nix hoped. They'd finally found the decapitated man and woman Agnes had left in the East Ninth Street dump. At last, the city was in a true panic. To the Nix, there was no question what Agnes should do now. Strike again, while they were still reeling from the last killings. Make this one the worst yet, the most horrific, and she would not only have their attention, she'd own it.

Agnes didn't see it that way. Now that the city had noticed, she wanted to sit back and see whether they understood her message. For two days, they'd been arguing about this. Finally, the Nix had convinced Agnes to take this walk.

As they headed off the street, the Nix saw a shape flicker through the shadows.

"Over there," she said. "To your left. What's that?"

Agnes's gaze swept left so quickly the Nix saw only the flicker of a shadow. Frustration washed through her. For two days she'd been telling Agnes they were being followed. The hunter kept to the shadows, but the Nix had noticed that he failed to cast a shadow himself, which could only mean one thing-their stalker was a spirit. Probably an angel. One had followed her before, and she'd dispatched her easily enough, but the Nix wasn't fool enough to ignore the threat another would pose.

An angel had taken her to that supernatural hell dimension, where she'd spent two centuries, and could do so again with another swipe of those damnable swords. As a demi-demon she'd been impervious to the Sword of Judgment, but she'd lost that immunity when she'd taken over a human form.

But Agnes had shrugged her off with a nonchalance that still sent waves of fury through the Nix. So long as the stalker wasn't coming for her, Agnes didn't care. This only confirmed the Nix's suspicion that she'd outlasted her usefulness to Agnes.

Agnes picked her way down a trash-strewn hill, then paused and inhaled.

"Smoke," the Nix murmured. "Something's burning over by Hobotown."

Agnes hurried forward, stumbling over piles of tin cans and scraps of lumber. When they rounded the next building, the sky turned orange. Distant flames lit the night sky.

"No," Agnes whispered. "No."

She rushed forward. Hobotown was afire, ringed by fire trucks. The firemen were just standing there, leaning on shovels, sitting on upturned buckets, watching the shantytown burn.

The Nix strained to hear the shrieks of dying men. For agony, there was nothing like burning alive. Yet all she heard were the shouts of the police and firemen, laughing and calling to one another as they enjoyed the spectacle. Finally she picked up the sweet sound of sobbing, and traced it to a line of police paddy wagons. Men were being loaded into the trucks.

A young man in an overcoat strode out from the line of paddy wagons. Eliot Ness. The Nix recognized him from the articles Agnes pored over.

"Burn them to the ground!" he shouted. "Leave them no place to return to. That will solve the problem."

"No," Agnes whispered.

She swayed on her feet. The Nix felt a sharp pain.

Agnes clutched her chest, gasping, and sank to the ground.

"No!" the Nix said. "Get up!"

Agnes lay on her back, mouth opening and closing, eyes wide and unseeing. The Nix let out a howl of frustration as she felt Agnes's life slipping away. Involuntarily, the Nix's spirit began to separate from Agnes's body. She tried to throw herself free but couldn't. As Agnes died, the Nix was trapped there, tethered to Agnes's earthly form. As she struggled, a figure stepped through the building beside them. A dark-haired, handsome man.

"No!" the Nix shrieked. "I will not go!"

She struggled harder, but was held fast. The man stopped, head tilted, studying her face. As she looked into his eyes, she realized, with a jolt, that he wasn't an angel.

He walked closer and hunkered down beside her spirit form.

"You appear to have a problem, pretty one," he said in Bulgarian.

The Nix snarled and writhed.

"I've been sent to capture you," he said. "And promised a nice reward for your return. All I have to do is call my angel partner, and it's over." He smiled. "Unless you can make me a more attractive offer." He lowered himself to the ground. "She appears to be taking a while to die. Shall we discuss my terms?"

Chapter 16

I FELT A PANG OF GUILT AT HAVING LEFT THE JAIL BEFORE I could find the little boy and say good-bye. Too late to go back now. I hadn't left a marker, so it'd take me hours to walk there again. I'd return and see him when this was all done.

I found Kristof in my house, and told him what had happened.

"Why not just kill her?" he said when I'd finished.

I threw my hands up. "Exactly. Why isn't this dead obvious to everyone but us?"

He put his legs up on the ottoman, resting his feet a hairsbreadth from mine. "This Janah told you to find the latest partner. Is that because she's the only one you can use?"

"No, I think that was just because she'd be the easiest one to find. With the others, who knows if they're still alive…" My chin jerked up, eyes meeting his. "I see. If I don't need to use the latest, then I can check out one who's already passed over, and test my theory, see whether they're connected to the Nix when she's on this side. I'll just need to visit the Fates and get myself a visitor's pass to a dead partner's hell dimension." I looked over at him. "Want to come along?"

He smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

"No," the eldest Fate said, not even pausing in her spinning long enough to look at us. "You cannot go flitting about the other dimensions, bothering ghosts in purgatory."

"We can't bother ghosts in purgatory?" I said. "What the hell is purgatory for, then?"

The middle Fate took over before her sister could answer. "Most wouldn't speak to you anyway, Eve, and those that did would only try to lead you astray with lies and half-truths."

The youngest Fate cut in. "What about-?"

Her sisters cut her short, and the three of them flipped past as they discussed something. Then the middle Fate returned.

"We have a possibility," she said. "Someone who may be inclined to help you, and who will be truthful. However, like the others, she's not a supernatural, so she isn't within the realms we govern. We must make arrangements for you to speak to her, and this may take some time. Leave it with us."

The Fates sent us to my house. I stood on the front porch and looked at the pair of wicker rockers. I'd picked them up shortly after moving in. They conjured up images of lazy afternoons whiled away sipping mint juleps and reading trashy novels. And just as soon as I had time for lazy afternoons, mint juleps, and trashy novels, I'd use them. For now, though…

I looked over at Kris. "The Fates and Trsiel think this is all about following clues like tracks in the snow. But to catch your prey, you need to understand it."

"You want to better understand the Nix."

"Exactly." I waved him to the twin rockers. "I need to speak not to a partner, but someone else who was there, who saw what was happening. Someone who'd have a reason to talk to me. Maybe a victim…"

"Possibly, but outside of movies, I doubt many killers share their thoughts and motives with their victims. Those women the Fates showed you both had male partners. The first man is still alive, but the later one died in prison about ten years ago. From what I dimly recall of the trial, he and his wife didn't present the most united front. After his sentence was read, they dragged him out cursing her name."

I grinned. "So he might be up for a little tattletale payback?"

"Let's hope so."

Jaime lifted her eye mask to peer at me. "The first night off I've had in two weeks, and you're asking me to spend it in a cemetery five hundred miles away?"

I dropped onto the armchair and pulled my legs under me. "Forget the graveside version, then. Let's go for the long-distance ritual."

"You mean the one that will zap my powers for a week, and knock me flat on my back for three days? Even if I cared to do that-which I don't-the long-distance ritual never works on anyone who isn't in a normal afterlife dimension."

"Well, there is an alternative."

"Good."

"We could contact the ghost of Amanda Sullivan's five-year-old daughter, ask her if she noticed anything strange about Mommy before she drowned her."

Jaime glowered at me, then plucked off her mask and tossed it across the room. "I'll pack."

It took me a couple of hours to get to the cemetery, first transporting as near as I could, then walking the rest of the way. While I waited for Jaime to arrive, I laid a marker and returned to the ghost world, to check on the Fates' progress. The wraith-clerk receptionist assured me the Fates were working on my request, but couldn't provide an ETA for results.

I popped over to Portland to check on Savannah. She was at school, poring over a math test. Math has never been her best subject, and I hovered there for a few minutes, trying to mentally communicate the answers, but the truth is that math was never my best subject, either. If I succeeded, I'd probably only guarantee her a failing grade. I kissed her for good luck, and went back to the cemetery to wait for Jaime.

It was a dark and stormy night…

Actually, the skies were crystal clear and, with the three-quarter moon overhead, it wasn't even that dark, but if you're going to conduct a graveside séance, you have to set the scene properly.

I'd been sitting on a grave marker for over an hour now. It was one of those double headstones, for a husband and wife… only the wife hadn't died yet, so the stone just bore her name and date of birth. Downright creepy, if you ask me. The woman's husband died twenty years ago.

Every time she came by to tend his grave, she had to see her name on a tombstone, that blank date-of-death space just itching to be filled in. Talk about a memento mori.

At least they had a tomb. I was buried somewhere in a forest in Maine. The upside to that, though, is that no necromancer could contact me unless they did it the hard way, which, as Jaime said, was damned hard, and rarely successful. So far my afterlife had been interference-free.

At the stroke of midnight, a cowled figure leapt over the cemetery fence. Well, okay, it was probably closer to twelve-thirty, she was wearing a full-length coat instead of a cape, and she more tumbled over the fence than leapt, but I'm really trying for atmosphere here.

Jaime spotted me and strode over, coat flapping. Under it, she wore a black bodysuit. It would have been a great disguise… if not for the flaming red hair that flashed through the darkness like a firebrand.

"Oooh, love the coat," I said as she drew closer. "Is that lambskin?" I looked down at my jersey and jeans. "Hmmm, underdressed as usual."

"I don't think you need to worry about being seen, except by our ghost."

"Ah, but that's the problem. If our ghost sees me dressed like this, he'll know right away that I'm a spook. Better not give him any clues."

I closed my eyes and changed into an all-black outfit-a turtleneck, snug-fitting jeans, cropped biker jacket, and knee-high boots. If you have to skulk around a cemetery, at least you can look good doing it.

I'd found Robin MacKenzie's grave earlier, so I led Jaime straight there and waited while she set up, then spent another hour waiting while she coaxed MacKenzie out. The Fates and their ilk keep a pretty tight lock on the nastier areas of the afterlife.

Finally, a ghost popped through. In my vision, I'd only seen MacKenzie from the back. This spook fit: average size, sandy brown hair, scrawnier than I remembered, but I guess a decade in prison took its toll.

"Robin MacKenzie?" Jaime said.

He looked around, deer-in-the-headlights stunned, then saw Jaime. He gave her a slow once-over, grin broadening by the second. Then his gaze slid to me and his grin widened.

"Hell-o, ladies," he said, running his hand through his hair.

"Robin MacKenzie?" Jaime repeated.

"Uh, yeah. Right." He shook himself and stretched. "Sorry if I'm a bit slow on the uptake. Never been called out by a necromancer before." He paused. "That is what you two ladies are, right? Necromancers?"

Jaime nodded.

"Sweet." He gave us each another once-over, his grin returning. "Very sweet. So… what can I do for you ladies? Looking for a little incubus action?"

I slipped off my tombstone and strolled over to him. "Is that what you think you're here for?"

"Well, heh-heh, let's just say it's what I'm hoping I'm here for. A little ghostly ménage à… uh, a threesome."

I kicked him in the back of the knees. As he crumbled, I grabbed his collar and threw him face-first into the dirt.

Kind of blew my cover, but it was a bit late to worry about that.

"Let me give you a hint," I said, leaning down to his ear. "This isn't foreplay."

He let out a gurgle, and tried to rise, but I ground his face into the dirt. He writhed and coughed.

"Stop faking it," I said. "You're dead-you can't choke. But there are a few other discomforts I can dream up. Any more ménage à trois notions, and we'll put my creative abilities to the test… right before I toss your murdering ass back down to hell. Got it?"

He sputtered, eyes saucer-wide. "Murdering…? Look, ladies, I don't know who you're looking for-"

I glared at him. "You aren't Robin MacKenzie, are you?"

"Shit, no. I saw you ladies hanging around, trying to get hold of this Robin dude, and I figured if he doesn't want to answer, I will. I mean, shit…" His gaze traveled over me. "Can't blame a ghost for trying, right?"

I hauled him over to Jaime's altar, bent over her bowl of vervain, blew the smoke into his face, and watched him fade away. Then I turned to Jaime, who was sitting there, head in her hands.

"Sony about that," I said.

When she lifted her head, she was sputtering with laughter. "Oh, that was too good. I need you around on all my séances."

"It might help if I looked more like I was trying to contact a spirit, and less like I was trying to pick one up." I closed my eyes and changed into a plain black T-shirt and pants. "There. Better?"

"Doesn't matter. Believe me, I've tried. I could shave my head and wear sackcloth and still attract a whole lot of ghostly wrong numbers. Makes me wonder whether there's some kind of ghost-necro porn industry down there."

"Séance Sluts III: Naughty Necros Caught on Film."

She grinned. "Probably. Okay, let's try again. And this time, we're checking ID."

Chapter 17

AFTER ANOTHER FORTY MINUTES OF INDUCEMENTS, hell finally spit out Robin MacKenzie, and dumped him, sweating and shaking, on the ground. It was another fifteen minutes before he'd recovered the strength to hear our questions. Seems the hell dimension had been a bit rough on the guy. And I felt so bad about that.

For confirmation, we asked his wife's name. From the way he snarled the answer, I knew we had Robin MacKenzie.

He could only manage to rise onto his elbows. "Is she dead?" he asked, voice hoarse from disuse. "Please tell me she's dead."

"She is," I said.

His tongue slid across his cracked lips, eyes feverish. "Did she suffer?"

"We'll get to that," I said. "Not very happy with the missus, are you?"

"Do you know what she did to me?"

"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"It was her idea, all of it. Everything we did, she thought of it first. But when they caught us, she cut a deal. She told them I did it. That she was just another victim. The abused wife, forced to go along with everything I said. And they bought it. They bought it!"

"Of course they did. No one wants to believe a woman is capable of things like that."

He pulled himself upright. "That's it exactly! The evidence was right there, on the tapes, her laughing, egging me on."

"You got played," I said. "But I'm here to offer you a chance at another round. See, your wife is dead, right? But she's not in hell."

"What?"

"A serious injustice, I know. But you can set that right."

"You want me to prove she did it? I can-"

"No, we've already established that. What we need now is more detail, to give the celestial court a better picture of the defendant, her state of mind at the time of the crimes."

"State of mind? She was fucked-up. Crazy. Obsessed with that Scottish bitch-"

"What Scottish bitch?"

"Suzanne Simmons. She killed some kids back in the sixties."

Now, that sounded familiar. "This Simmons. Did she have a partner?"

"Yeah, her husband or boyfriend. They killed a bunch of kids and buried them out in these grasslands or something."

"And Cheri was interested in this case."

"Interested? She was fucking obsessed. Wouldn't stop talking about it. She'd always been into that kind of stuff, serial killers and shit. We both were. But then, all of a sudden, she starts going on and on about this Scottish chick, telling me all about her. It was spooky. Almost made me think maybe she was some kind of reincarnation of this Suzanne Simmons, but I looked it up, and Simmons was still alive."

"So Cheri talked about those murders."

"And talked and talked and talked. She kept going on about how this Simmons had found the key. That's what she called it. The key. We had to stop pissing around-talking about it, fantasizing about it-and do it."

"Kill someone."

"Only we couldn't just kill them. If we wanted this key, we had to do it a certain way."

"The way Suzanne Simmons had."

"See, that's what didn't make any sense. The stuff she said, it had nothing to do with Simmons. What we had to do was different. She had these instructions-"

"Is that what she called them?"

"Yeah. Instructions. Like she was reading out of some how-to book. At first, it was okay. The stuff she said, it was all things we'd talked about before. But then she started getting careless, and I said, if we keep doing this, we're going to get caught, but she insisted it was all part of the plan, and we were protected."

"Just like Suzanne Simmons, who was caught and sentenced to life in prison."

"Hey, don't look at me. I'm not stupid. But when I brought it up, Cheri said things went wrong with Simmons, but they were all fixed now."

"Uh-huh." I looked him up and down. "Fixed very well, I see."

"Look, that little cunt-"

"This key. What was it?"

"Oh, mystical bullshit. Magic powers and eternal life. Oh, and really great sex." He paused. "Can't say she was wrong on that last part. The sex was pretty damned good."

I remembered the scene from my vision, the girl crying for her mother. My hands balled into fists. Jaime shot me a warning look, but I didn't need it. MacKenzie was being forthcoming so I had no excuse to beat the answers out of him. Not yet.

I prodded his memory some more, but he just kept going in circles, babbling about the key and Suzanne Simmons and the instructions.

"After Cheri started in on this, how long did it take before you started killing?"

"She wanted to right away, but I held her back. I tried to reason with her."

"Uh-huh."

His head shot up, glare meeting mine. "I did. I said killing went too far. I just wanted to bring the girls home and have some fun."

My nails dug into my palms. "You mean you just wanted to rape them."

"Right. I'm no killer. So finally she says, okay, we'll take a girl and I can have some fun. But then, when we're done, she says we can't just let her go." MacKenzie paused. "I had to admit, she did have a point there."

Jaime laid a hand on my arm. Fat lot of good it would have done, since I couldn't even feel her touch, but I got the point and swallowed a snarl.

Before I could ask a new question, MacKenzie faded, becoming translucent. Jaime whispered an incantation and he popped back into 3-D.

"They're pulling him back, Eve," Jaime murmured.

"One last question." I walked to MacKenzie, towering over him. "Do you like it where you are, Robin? Is it a happy place?"

"W-what? Are you kidding? Do you know where I am? They-"

"Stake you out on a rock in the desert and let buzzards pick the flesh from your bones? 'Cause that's what I'd do. In fact, I think I'll suggest they start doing that, because you're every bit as much a murdering piece of shit as your wife."

MacKenzie inched back. "No, you've got it wrong. I didn't-"

"Oh, and speaking of your wife, while I'm sure she'll get her comeuppance someday, I told a little fib earlier. She's not suffering. She's not even dead. But, you know what, she is enjoying that million-dollar life-insurance policy she took out on you before the trial."

"What?" He jumped up. "No way. No fucking way. I never signed-"

"One word for you, Robin: 'forgery.'" I bent down to the vervain bowl. "Oh, and one other word, too." I blew a puff of smoke on him and smiled. " 'Sucker.' "

Robin MacKenzie fell back into the ghost world, his screams still resounding through the cemetery long after he was gone.

"Slammed the door a little hard there, didn't you?" Jaime said. "Let's hope you don't want to talk to him again."

"I won't."

I watched Jaime leave, making sure she got back to her rental car okay. Sure, if someone had jumped her, there's not a damned thing I could have done about it. But I still felt better watching.

When she was gone, applause erupted behind me. I spun to see Kristof, leaning back against a tombstone.

"Now, that was a performance," he said. "Lying about his wife still being alive was good. But the life insurance bit? Truly inspired."

"A bit cliched, don't you think?"

"It worked, didn't it? Added a few extra logs to his hell-fire." He backed onto the double gravestone and motioned for me to sit beside him. "So your Nix was giving Cheri both a role model and a road map."

"A road map unrelated to the role model, which seems strange." I leaned back and watched the moon duck behind a cloud. "Maybe that's the point. Repetition without duplication."

Kristof nodded. "Another young couple killing kids, but with enough differences to keep things interesting for the Nix."

"Interesting, yes. But maybe more than that. Not just changing the routine but improving on it. Cheri said things went wrong with Suzanne Simmons, but the problems had been fixed."

"Refining her method. So she goes from Simmons to Cheri MacKenzie to Amanda Sullivan, presumably with a few in between."

"Sullivan is a pinch-hitter," I said. "The Nix only stayed with her long enough to help her kill her children, then made sure she got caught. For chaos, comparing Cheri MacKenzie to Amanda Sullivan is like comparing a steak dinner to a Quarter Pounder."

"Fast-food murder."

I straightened. "That's it! When you're starving, you grab what's available, no matter how bad it tastes. The Nix doesn't just want chaos, she needs it. Otherwise, why-"

A bluish fog floated past. Before I could brace myself, the Searchers sucked me under again.

Chapter 18

I STOOD IN FRONT OF A PLAIN NARROW RECTANGLE OF a two-story house, white-sided with dark shutters.

"Doesn't look like the throne room," I muttered.

"Definitely not."

I started, and saw Kristof beside me.

"What am I doing here?" He shrugged. "My guess is as good as yours. Either the Searchers accidentally sucked me in along with you or the Fates want me to start pitching in."

We looked around. The sun had barely crested the horizon, but Mother Nature had turned the dial onto full this morning, and it blazed down, promising tropical conditions by noon. I glanced at the house. Every window was closed despite the heat. Air-conditioning? A horse and buggy trotted past behind me. Okay, probably not air-conditioning.

"Colonial America," Kris said. "Does that sound like any ghost-world regions you know?"

"Boston… but this doesn't look like Boston. And the ghost world is never this warm."

A door opened across the road and a man dressed in trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt hurried out, carrying a hat and a black bag. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a high forehead, and thin whiskers that joined his mustache to his sideburns.

He hurried to the street and, without so much as a glance either way, crossed… and walked right through me.

"Okay," I said. "If he's a ghost, too, how did he do that?"

The man pushed open the gate of the house I stood in front of, and strode through. He climbed the few steps to the front door and rapped. A man opened the door. He was tall and thin, with white hair and a beard. Despite the heat, he was dressed in a black suit, with his jacket buttoned. He grunted a surly hello at the younger man.

"Just stopped by to see if you folks are feeling any better," the neighbor said.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes, your wife came over this morning, said you'd both been up all night with stomach complaints. She thought someone might have put something in your food-"

"In our food? That's preposterous. Abby would never say-"

"Oh, you know how womenfolk are. They get to worrying sometimes. She seemed fine to me-"

"She is fine," the man said. "We're all fine, and if you go charging us for this visit-"

"Now, Andrew, you know I'd never-"

"You'd better not," Andrew said, and slammed the door.

The doctor shook his head, hefted his bag, turned, and walked through me again. There was a movement in one of the main-floor front windows, a young woman washing the glass. Her face was bright red from exertion and the heat. From her simple outfit and the size of the house, I assumed she was a maid.

"Crack open a window," I said. "You got rights, girl. No one should be working in this heat."

The young woman's eyes went round. She dropped the rag and bolted.

"Shit!" I said. "Am I not supposed to do that?"

An exterior door slammed. Kristof gestured toward it and we both took off, following the sound around the house, past the side stoop. There we found the maid puking into the back garden.

"Oh, geez, they really are sick," I said. "They're making her work when she feels like this? Isn't there a labor board in this town?"

"Not in real Colonial America," Kristof murmured. "Which is where I suspect we are."

"In the past?"

Before he could answer, the maid retched and hurled. I patted the poor kid's back, but I knew she couldn't feel it.

"You sick again, Bridget?" a voice asked.

Another young woman, also simply dressed, leaned over the side fence. She shook her head. "That's what you get, having to dump those slop buckets every morning. Bound to make anyone sick. Cheap old bugger. He can afford a water closet. Just too bloody cheap."

Bridget moaned and wiped her sleeve over her mouth. "It's not the slop buckets. It was supper last night. I told him that mutton stew wasn't no good no more. Not after three days sitting out in this heat. But he said-"

"Bridget?" A plain dumpling of a middle-aged woman appeared on the side stoop. "Bridget! What are you doing out there, chitchatting the day away? I want these windows cleaned."

"Yes, ma'am."

Bridget accepted a sympathetic nod from her colleague, and trudged back inside. Kristof and I followed, through the kitchen and into a room with a sofa, several chairs, and a fireplace. The man of the house-Andrew-adjusted his jacket and headed toward what I assumed was the front foyer. With a curt nod to his wife, and another to a round-faced, dark-haired woman on the sofa, he strode out the door, evidently unaffected by the bad stew.

I followed Bridget into a more formal version of the room we'd just left. The parlor. Until I'd moved into my Savannah house, I'd thought parlors were places that sold ice cream. Wiser spirit that I was, I now recognized a real parlor when I saw one.

Bridget picked up her discarded rag and resumed cleaning the front windows.

"What the heck am I supposed to be doing here?" I asked Kristof. "These people can't hear me, can't talk to me. What am I supposed to see, and why?"

I walked back into the other sitting area, where the two women were. The younger woman-the daughter?-continued to do needlepoint on the sofa, while the older woman, Abby, shook out a tablecloth from the side table.

The younger woman was definitely old enough to be married, especially in this time period, but I couldn't see a ring on her finger. As she worked, she kept her head bowed, and her shoulders pulled in-the natural posture of a woman who's accustomed to hiding from the world. Her light-blue dress had been washed too often, and she looked bleached out against the dark sofa. Yet, despite this outward timidity, she poked the needle through the fabric with quick, confident jabs.

Abby had moved on to dusting the mantel clock. Both women worked without an exchanged word or glance, as if each was in the room alone. After a few minutes, Abby walked into the front foyer. Her shoes clacked up a flight of steps. The younger woman lifted her head, tilting it to follow the sound of Abby's shoes across the upstairs floor. As she tracked Abby's path, her eyes flicked past mine and I blinked. In that gaze I saw something as coolly confident as her strokes with the needle. She waited until Abby's footsteps stopped, then resumed her work.

"Okay, this is going nowhere," I said. "Maybe I was supposed to follow Andrew."

The young woman's eyes flicked up, gaze meeting mine for a split second. Then it dropped back to her needlework.

"Hey," I said. "Did you see-"

Bridget tore through the sitting room so fast I felt the breeze. She raced for the kitchen. The side door banged shut. A moment later, the retching began. The woman on the sofa shook her head and poked her needle through the fabric again; then, after the first stroke, she stopped. Her gaze lifted to the ceiling, where we could hear Abby bustling about. Then she tilted her head toward the back of the house. The sounds of Bridget's vomiting continued.

The woman cautiously rose to her feet, looked around again, laid down her needlepoint, and headed for the front hall.

"I swear she looked right at me a minute ago," I said to Kristof.

I hurried after her, with Kristof at my heels. In the hall, the woman stopped and latched the inner bolt. Then she turned and climbed the stairs.

"You!" I called after her. "Hold on!"

She didn't pause. At the top, she walked across the hall and through an open bedroom door where Abby was making the bed. A man's trousers hung over a chair, and shaving implements littered the bureau, next to a washbasin filled with scum-and-whisker-coated water. On the floor was an open suitcase.

"Make yourself useful and dump that water, Lizzie," Abby said.

The younger woman-Lizzie-didn't move. "I heard Uncle John talking to Father last night."

"Eavesdropping?" Abby said.

"I hear Father is going to change his will."

"That's his business. Not yours."

Lizzie circled the bed, staving across the room from Abby. "But it is my business, isn't it? You don't think Emma and I know what you're doing? First persuading Father to let your sister stay in the house on Fourth Street, then persuading him to transfer ownership of that house to you, and now a new will."

"I don't know anything about a new will," Abby said.

Lizzie crossed the room and looked out the front window, turning her back on the woman I assumed was her stepmother. "So there is no new will?"

"No, there isn't. If your father has written one, he would have told me."

Lizzie nodded. She walked to the bureau and picked up the water basin. A few moments later, she returned the empty basin to the guest room. Then, without a word to her stepmother, she headed for a bedroom farther down.

Downstairs, the side door banged again. I looked toward Lizzie's bedroom, but whatever fire seemed to have been starting up here had sputtered out. Better check out the situation below.

We found Bridget back in the parlor, washing the side windows now. From upstairs came the sound of footsteps. Then a few muffled exchanges. Bridget paused her cleaning and looked toward the dining room, as if the voices came from in there.

"At least they're talking again," she murmured.

She hoisted the pail of wash water and headed through the sitting room and around to the side door. I trailed her outside and watched her dump the water over her puddle of vomit. Then she walked to a pump and refilled the bucket.

"Pumping your own water?" I said. "Thank God I was born in the twentieth century."

Kristof shrugged. "A hundred years from now people will probably be amazed that we cooked our own meals."

I jerked my chin at the house. "They'd be amazed that we cooked our own meals, too."

When we got back inside, someone was banging at the front door. Bridget hurried to answer it. She grabbed the door to pull it open and nearly fell over backward when it didn't budge. She grabbed it again and twisted.

"Bolted?" she murmured, reaching for the lock. "In the middle of the day?"

The banging grew louder. Bridget fumbled with the lock. The moment she got it undone, the door flew open and she toppled backward to the floor. A laugh floated down the stairs.

"That was quite a pratfall," Lizzie called from the top.

Andrew strode inside and handed Bridget his hat. Clutching a white parcel beneath his arm, he marched into the sitting room and took a key from on top of the mantel. As Lizzie watched him, she fixed a hook that had come unfastened on her dress.

"Back so soon, Father?" she said.

He grunted something about not feeling well, then walked through the kitchen to the side foyer. Instead of heading out the door, he climbed the rear steps. I followed. At the top of the stairs was a landing with a single door, then more steps leading to the attic level. Andrew unlocked the door and went into what was obviously his bedroom. After dropping off the parcel, he locked the door behind him and headed downstairs.

"Where's Abby?" he asked his daughter as he walked into the sitting room.

"She had a note from a sick friend and decided to pay a visit."

Andrew harrumphed and, without so much as loosening his tie, stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes.

Note? Sick friend? When had this happened? Oh, wait, I'd been out back with Bridget for a few minutes before Andrew got home. Still, Abby must have left awfully fast…

Bridget walked in, carrying her bucket. Her gaze slid to Andrew. Lizzie shooed her into the dining room and followed, as did I. While Bridget washed the windows, Lizzie set up a board and began ironing handkerchiefs. They chatted quietly about whether Bridget was going out later that day, but Bridget confessed she was still feeling poorly. I only caught snatches of the conversation. My attention kept wandering back to the "note" and the "sick friend."

I left the two women, peeked in on Andrew, who was now snoring, and headed for the front stairs. The moment I got to the top of the stairs, I saw Abby. She was still in the guest room, and the door was still open. She was on the floor, facedown, as if she'd fallen to her knees, then slumped forward to the floor. A pool of blood surrounded her. Her head and shoulders had been… hacked. There was no other word for it. I've seen death before, and I've seen violent death, but this made even my gorge rise.

"Jesus," I swore. "How-what-?"

Kristof strode past me, and surveyed the room with a prosecutor's eye. As I walked inside, still struggling to understand what I was seeing, I nearly trampled a piece of Abby's scalp. I stepped over it, then looked down at the body.

The first blow must have killed her. If it hadn't, Abby would have cried out and Bridget or I would have heard her. But the killer hadn't stopped with one blow. There were ten, twenty, maybe more cuts, deep cuts. The fury that had gone into this killing, the absolute rage… I stood there, and I stared at the body, and I couldn't fathom the degree of hate that had done this.

"Who?" I said, wheeling on Kristof.

As his eyes met mine, I knew the answer was obvious. Dead obvious. But I thought of Lizzie, standing at the top of the stairs, laughing at Bridget's struggle with the door lock, then calmly ironing handkerchiefs while her dead stepmother lay one floor above them. To switch from this kind of rage to that kind of calm within minutes, well, it made no sense. What kind of monster-

I looked back at Abby. As I did, in my head I heard a skipping song from childhood.

Lizzie Borden took an axe

And gave her mother forty whacks;

When she saw what she had done-

"Oh shit!" I said, and raced for the steps.

I took them two at a time, turned at the bottom, and dove through the closed door.

Wearing her father's overcoat, Lizzie stood behind her sleeping father's head, with her back to me. She lifted a bloodied hatchet, then swung it down.

She gave her father forty-one.

Chapter 19

WE STOOD THERE GAPING AS LIZZIE BORDEN HACKED apart her father's head. Then she laid down the hatchet. Her eyes closed, and her body went stiff as she rose onto her tiptoes.

Kristof nudged my arm.

"Look," he whispered.

There, on the sofa, lay Andrew Borden, intact and unblooded, reading the morning paper. Lizzie had backed up to the doorway between the kitchen and the parlor. She blinked, then walked through, needlepoint appearing in her hand.

The doorbell rang.

"Who is it at this hour?" Andrew grouched, slamming his paper to the floor.

"I'll get it, Father."

"No. Go help your mother."

Lizzie nodded, then laid down her needlework and disappeared into the kitchen. In the front foyer, Andrew threw open the door, and barked a greeting at the man there-the doctor who'd come to the door before.

"Just stopped by to see if you folks are feeling any better," the doctor said.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes, your wife came over this morning, said you'd both been up all night with stomach complaints…"

The two continued, having the same conversation they'd had when we'd been watching from the front lawn.

"It's looping back to the start," I said. "Did we miss something? Are the Fates playing it again for me?"

"Someone is replaying it, but I don't think it's for you."

Andrew stormed back into the parlor, sniping to his wife and daughter. A moment later, Bridget rushed past, hand over her mouth. I started going after her, but Lizzie stood in the door, peering through the kitchen toward the back window. I kept going-and bumped into her, hitting so hard, I bounced back.

"She's real," I said, looking over my shoulder at Kristof. "Solid."

Without waiting for his reaction, I strode across the room, reaching out to both Abby and Andrew. My hand passed right through both. As with the doctor outside, I was the corporeal one here. They were the spirits.

"So Lizzie is real," I said. "But only her."

Kristof nodded, as if he'd reached this conclusion already.

"If she's real, then I can talk to her. I saw something in her eyes earlier-"

"She looked at you."

"Yes, but I think I also saw the Nix-or some leftover bit of her. Lizzie Borden must have been one of the Nix's partners. This must be the one the Fates wanted me to speak to, so let's-"

Kristof laid a hand on my arm.

"Don't rush her," he murmured. "Try it again when she's sitting down."

When Lizzie finally sat with her needlework, I plunked down beside her.

"I know you can hear me," I said.

She kept stitching, the needle sliding through the fabric, dragging a blue stream of thread after it.

"Look-" I began.

"Wait," she said.

She looked up at her father, who was adjusting his jacket, preparing to leave.

"Have a pleasant day at work, Father," she said.

He responded with an abrupt nod, and another for his wife, then walked out the front door. Abby and Lizzie worked in silence, as they had before. When Abby headed upstairs, Lizzie's eyes slanted toward me. My cue.

"Good," I said. "Now stop sewing."

"I cannot."

I glanced at Kristof. He motioned for me to ignore the needlework and continue.

"I need to talk to you."

She said nothing, just kept working with swift, determined strokes.

"Look, I am going to talk to you, whether you-"

"Hurry."

"What for? You're not going anywhere. Well, except to kill your parents again."

Her cheek twitched, eyes filling with genuine guilt and remorse, the kind Amanda Sullivan couldn't imagine, much less feel.

"So this is your punishment, then," I said, my voice softer.

"Punishment?" A confused glance my way. "This is what I deserve."

"A hell of her own making," Kristof murmured.

I looked up at him.

"I think this is her doing," he said. "She's created her own hell, and trapped herself in it. No need for anyone to punish her. She does it herself."

Lizzie had returned to her needlepoint, face expressionless. As much as I wanted to jump right in with direct questions, I knew I had to be careful. The Fates must have considered Lizzie Borden a credible witness, but that didn't mean she might not try to trick me, or tell me what I wanted to hear.

"Before you… did it," I said. "Did anything happen? Anything unusual. Maybe you… heard something."

"The voice, yes. I heard it."

"Telling you to kill them."

She kept her gaze down. "She didn't tell me to do anything."

"Encouraged you," I said, remembering Amanda Sullivan's confession.

"Yes, she did embolden me. But I wielded the hatchet. These fingers-"

She clenched her hands, the needle stabbing into her palm. When she opened her fists, a single drop of blood fell on her needlework. She stared at it, transfixed, as it disappeared into the fabric.

"The blame is mine," she said. "I'd thought of it, dreamed about it-killing them. No beau was ever good enough for my father. Those men weren't perfect. I know that. But they would have been kind to me, taken me out of this place. Except he wouldn't let me leave. And her-" She spit the word. "Always conniving. First she gave her half-sister the house that was supposed to be ours, Emma's and mine-"

She stopped, head dropping again.

"No excuses. It cannot be excused."

"Maybe, but I can see how-"

"No!" Her gaze shot to mine, filled with a vehemence approaching fanatical. "There is no excuse and no justification. Honor thy father and thy mother. Honor thy father and thy mother." She repeated the phrase, voice dropping to a mumble.

"Excuse me," she said, laying her needlework aside.

She headed into the foyer and up the stairs. I tried not to think about what was happening up there, but when I heard Abby's body hit the floor, I couldn't suppress a wince.

A few moments later, the scene with the locked front door replayed itself.

Lizzie and Andrew came into the parlor. Andrew took over the sofa, sprawling out and closing his eyes. Lizzie went into the dining room and set up an ironing board. The maid, Bridget, came in to begin cleaning.

"Are you going out today?" Lizzie asked her.

"I don't know. I'm not feeling very well."

"If you do leave, be sure to lock the front door behind you. Mrs. Borden has gone out on a sick call, and I might go out later as well."

Lizzie turned her attention to ironing handkerchiefs. As she worked, I stood beside her, Kristof staying across the room, listening but staying out of the conversation. Lizzie knew he was there, but had yet to say a word to him or even glance his way.

We returned to the subject of the Nix, and I asked Lizzie whether she ever sensed her or saw images of her.

"I see her… what she's done. Sometimes it stops for a while, but when it starts again-" Her hands quivered. "When it starts again, there are always more."

More killings. The images stopped while the Nix was in the world of the living, then she returned bearing fresh nightmares for her dead partners.

I asked Lizzie what she'd seen recently, whether she had any idea where the Nix was or where she was headed.

"She seeks a teacher," Lizzie said. "A man named Luther Ross."

My head jerked up. "Luther Ross?"

"You know him?" Kris whispered.

I glanced over at him. "Heard of him. A poltergeist teacher."

Kristof snorted. "Another charlatan."

"No, Ross is actually…" I motioned that I'd explain later and turned back to Lizzie. "What does she want with this teacher?"

"I don't know. I never know. I only see."

Lizzie glanced over at Bridget, who was almost finished cleaning the dining room curtains.

"There's a sale on at Sargent's today," Lizzie said. "Dress material at eight cents a yard."

"Oh," Bridget said, smiling. "Then I will indeed be going out. I'm done here. May I leave now?"

"Certainly."

When Bridget was gone, Lizzie peeked into the living room, where her father had drifted off to sleep.

"Excuse me," she murmured.

While she went to get the hatchet, Kristof and I decided we'd learned all we could from Lizzie Borden, and transported ourselves out before the gore started to fly… again.

Chapter 20

I LANDED IN A POOL OF WATER.

"Your aim, my dear, is excellent," Kristof said.

He was submerged up to his armpits in muddy water. He looked over at me, the water barely reaching my knees. As he opened his mouth, something jumped from the water, splashing a sheet of brown ooze over his face and into his mouth. I bit my cheek to keep from laughing.

"Sorry," I said as he spit the water out. "I told you I only have one travel code for Honduras."

He spit again, then swim-walked over to me. As he drew close, he gave a wet-dog shake, water spraying in all directions, including mine. I yelped, stumbled back, and fell flat on my ass, with a splash that drenched any part that hadn't fallen under the waterline. He grinned and held out a hand to help me up. I took it, and yanked him down beside me.

He rolled onto his side. His gaze traveled across my wet clothing, and his lips parted.

I cut him off. "If that sentence contains the words 'mud wrestling,' I'd strongly suggest you reconsider them."

"I wasn't going to say anything about mud wrestling. Now, mud bathing, that's a whole other matter. Plenty of people pay good money to do this." He lifted a handful of mud and squeezed it through his fingers. "It would be… interesting, don't you think? A new sensation. You always love a new sensation."

"So you're suggesting this for my benefit?"

"Of course. I won't touch you. Won't even try. I'll just watch." A quick grin. "That'll be enough."

I pushed to my feet.

"God, you're sexy when you're flustered," he said.

"Please. It would take more than you to fluster me, Kristof Nast."

"Oh?" He swung to his feet and sidestepped into my path. "Then, if you don't want to try a mud bath, you won't mind waiting while I do."

He unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

"You take that off, and I'm leaving," I said.

He grinned. "Flustered?"

"Exasperated. And too busy for games."

"Oh, you can spare a minute or two. You wait right here, watch me, and I'll be done before you know it." The grin broadened. "You know how much I liked it when you watched."

I turned fast, and slid in the mud. An overhanging vine slapped my face. With a muttered oath, I shoved the vine out of my way and stomped toward the shore.

"Flustered," Kris called after me.

As I turned to answer, something splashed beside me. On the bank lay a huge alligator.

"Enjoying the show?" I asked.

He blinked and gave a lazy flick of his tail. A mini-tidal wave of mud splattered over me. Kristof laughed. I glowered at the beast. He yawned, showing off teeth as big as bowie knives, and twice as sharp.

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Very impressive. And I'd be even more impressed if you could use them, ghost-gator."

Once on the bank, I gave my head a shake. Mud flew everywhere, but when I stopped, every strand of hair fell into place-shiny, clean, and brushed. Gotta love the afterlife. I closed my eyes and murmured an incantation. When I opened them, I was dressed in worn jeans and a T-shirt. The alligator harrumphed. I flipped him the finger and started walking, leaving Kristof to catch up.

Luther Ross lived on the island of Roatan, just north of Honduras. Even in the ghost world, this is well off the beaten path, which is why someone like Ross would choose to live here. The ghost world, like any other, has its laws. Poltergeist activity breaks most of them.

A poltergeist reaches into the living world and manipulates objects. Fortunately for the Fates, it's not a major problem because few ghosts can do it. Most so-called poltergeist activity isn't ghosts at all-it's earth tremors and faulty construction and bad wiring and bored teens.

The few true poltergeist ghosts find their services in high demand as teachers. When something is rare, it's always cool to be one of the few who can do it. There's only one problem. Most poltergeists haven't learned their power at all; they're born with it.

Almost all poltergeists are really telekinetic half-demons. Something about the power of telekinesis allows it to transcend dimensions, so after death, some find that they can continue to mentally will objects to move in both the ghost world and the living world. Yet they can't pass on this power to a nontelekinetic any more than I can teach a binding spell to a non-spell-caster.

That doesn't keep telekinetic half-demons from selling their "services" on the black market. To disguise the true source of their powers, they pose as druidic or Vodoun priests, or other supernaturals with minor, easily faked abilities. They'll pretend to teach a student, all the while manipulating the objects themselves.

Luther Ross was different. When I first heard of him a year ago, I also heard that he was half-demon and dismissed him as someone too stupid to even hide the source of his powers. Then, a few weeks ago, I discovered that he was a Gelo, an ice demon, not a telekinetic. It's damned near impossible to fake the powers of a Gelo. So it would appear Luther Ross might be the real deal, someone who truly had learned how to move objects in the living-world dimension.

Getting into Ross's classes wasn't easy. To evade the Fates and their Searchers, he holed up in remote locations like Roatan, and gave out the transportation code only to students he personally approved. At least a dozen of my contacts had tried to get into his class, and failed, so I'd decided that when I had time to take his classes, I'd skip the application process. I'd tracked down someone who had directions to his latest school location, and I'd paid a pretty price in spells and transportation codes to get them.

I told Kristof all this as we trudged through the swamp, taking turns blasting the vines from our path. I skipped that part about bartering for the directions, though, and made it sound as if they were common knowledge. Kris wasn't fooled. He knew me, and he knew I must have been investigating Ross as a potential teacher, someone to help me in my quest to help Savannah. But he let the matter drop without comment. My "Savannah project" was one subject guaranteed to start fireworks, and neither of us wanted that. Not today.

We headed north, knowing we'd eventually reach the Caribbean. We came out near Puerto Cortez, or so we were informed by the first person we came across, a young man with the bleached-blond hair and dark tan of someone who'd spent his life near the ocean, and wasn't about to leave it after his death.

"Good surf?" I asked, pointing at his board.

"Nah. Great snorkeling, but no freaking surf unless you make it yourself." A quick flash of white teeth. "Good thing I can."

"Tempestras," I said.

"Whoa, you're good."

"Aspicio," I said, extending my hand.

He shook it sideways, fingers hooking around mine, thumb up. "Cool. You guys have the X-ray vision, right?"

"Something like that." I looked at his board. "So where do you conjure up your surf?"

"Over by Tela, near the National Park."

"Is that anywhere near Roatan? That's where we're heading… or trying to."

"Roatan?" His gaze flicked over Kristof and me, then he shrugged. "Whatever floats your boat. Easiest way would be to stick to the coastal route. Eventually you'll come to La Ceiba. That's the gateway to Roatan. Got quite a ways to go. Nice hike, though."

"Great. Thanks."

"No problem. You folks enjoy yourselves over there."

He started to leave, then stopped and gave us another once-over. "Just, uh, make sure you change before you get to La Ceiba. They like to keep the place, you know, pure."

After he left, I turned to Kristof.

"Pure?"

He shrugged. "Guess we'll find out."

I certainly wasn't about to catch up to the half-demon surfer and ask, no matter how friendly he'd seemed. I'd landed myself into trouble doing that before. In the ghost world, it's one thing to admit you don't quite know where you're going, but it's another to admit you don't know what to expect when you get there. Opens you up to a whole world of grief.

In my first year, I'd been given the name of a potential contact in Stanton, Texas, and so I'd asked the referrer what to expect there-what the period was. The guy told me Stanton was set in the Old West, and my contact lived in a brothel. Naturally, I showed up in a costume appropriate for the period and the setting, and found myself in a nineteenth-century Carmelite monastery dressed as a whore. Lucky to get my ass out of there without a nice coating of tar and feathers. Oh, but the guy who sent me there had himself a good laugh. In a long and often monotonous afterlife, sometimes that's really all that counts.

I'm sure the scenery was lovely, but it had been ten miles since we'd seen any of it, trudging along in the darkness, under the glow of my light-ball spell. Finally, we saw another glow lighting the night sky.

"That's gotta be La Ceiba, but I think it's too late to get a boat to Roatan."

"Legally, yes. But there are bound to be plenty lying around."

"Good plan." I sniffed the air. "Do you smell that?"

"Wood burning. Campfires, I think."

"A Boy Scout town?"

"I wouldn't bet against it. They have everything else here. Just name your fetish."

I knocked his arm. "It's called an alternate afterlife-style choice, remember? Or did you sleep through that part of orientation?"

Kris snorted. "When you choose to spend your afterlife living in a Southern manor, that's a lifestyle choice. When you spend it playing Confederate soldier or Billy the Kid, it's a fetish."

"Hmmm. I seem to recall a certain someone playing Billy the Kid sixteen years ago."

"It was Pat Garrett," he said. "And one night is not a 'life-style choice."

"No, it's a fetish."

He slapped me on the rear and growled, "Watch it."

"Hey, I said it was a fetish." I grinned over at him. "Didn't say I objected."

We crested a small rise. Just below, in the glow of moonlight, lay the town of La Ceiba, a ramshackle collection of houses that were little more than huts-and decrepit huts at that. From the town came the raucous laughs, whoops, and catcalls of men trying very hard to have a good time, and downing massive quantities of alcohol to help them find it. The waver of candlelight blazed from the windows of a few of the larger buildings. Wood-fire smoke hung in a blue-gray haze over the town.

"Nineteenth-century frat party?"

Kris shook his head and guided my gaze to the waterfront. There, crammed into the small harbor so tight they were double- and triple-parked, were a dozen or more boats. Not just boats, but spectacular wooden galleons, each with a dozen or more sails, and decks that were a veritable jungle of ropes. High atop the masts, flags fluttered in the breeze. From here, they looked like little more than brightly colored scraps of fabric. When I sharpened my sight, I could make out markings and designs-an arm bearing a scabbard, a skeleton raising a toast, several national flags, and on more than half, the ubiquitous skull and crossbones of the Jolly Roger.

Pirates.

Chapter 21

THIS EXPLAINED LUTHER ROSS'S RELOCATION TO Roatan: the only route to the island was guarded by a pirate town. We now knew why that half-demon surfer had advised us to change our outfits before visiting La Ceiba. No part of the ghost world is off-limits, but just because you're allowed in doesn't mean you'll be encouraged to stay. Waltz into a themed afterlife town wearing your civvies, and you'll find yourself as welcome as a Mormon at Mardi Gras.

Themed afterlife towns were indeed a ghost-world Mardi Gras, a nonstop costumed paean to some romanticized bygone era. If you come to visit, you'd damned well better get yourself into the spirit of things… fast.

We slipped behind an abandoned hut on the outskirts of town and changed into more appropriate outfits. Kristof tried his damnedest to convince me to let him dress me, but I made him wait around the corner while I fashioned my own outfit.

"Still working on it?" Kristof called after a few minutes. "If you need help…"

I stepped around the corner. A slow grin swept over Kris's face. I'd dressed myself in hip-hugging calfskin breeches, knee-high boots, and a tight white laced bodice cinched at my waist with a jaunty black sash. Add oversize gold hoop earrings and a red bandanna, leaving my hair falling down my back, and I probably looked no more like the real Anne Bonney than Elizabeth Taylor looked like Cleopatra, but historical inaccuracy wasn't an issue-not in a place like this.

I surveyed Kristof's ensemble: a white linen shirt, black trousers tucked into low black boots, and a black naval jacket with brass buttons.

"Looks good," I said. "Now-Whoops. Forgot something."

I closed my eyes and conjured up two cutlasses.

"Hardware," I said, handing Kris one. I raised mine and sliced it through the air. "Think we'll get a chance to use them?"

"Only if we're lucky. But just in case we do, I'd better switch to this…" He closed his eyes and transformed the cutlass into a straight sword. He hefted it, spun it in his hand, then smiled, and lunged. "En garde."

"Uh, pirates, Kris, not the three musketeers."

"Close enough." He thrust the sword at an imaginary foe. "I always told my father those fencing lessons would come in handy someday."

"So you can really use that thing?"

He grinned. "Try me."

I raised my cutlass into something that vaguely resembled Kris's "en garde" position.

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded. He lunged forward and knocked the cutlass so hard it flew from my hand, and left my wrist vibrating.

"Hey!"

I ducked to grab my cutlass, then stopped as I felt the tip of his sword pressed against my throat. Still crouching, I looked up at Kristof.

"It would seem, sir, that you have me at a disadvantage."

"So it would."

He slid the sword tip down my throat to my chest, and traced a line down my cleavage, caught the edge of the bodice, and plucked it off my breast. The moment his attention was diverted, I flipped backward, grabbed my cutlass, and sprang to my feet. Kris lunged, sword raised. I feinted and swung around him, then lifted the cutlass blade to the back of his neck.

When he felt the blade shift, he ducked and spun, sword raised. We sparred for a few seconds. Then he caught the underside of my cutlass and knocked it from my hand. I quickstepped backward-and slammed into a wide tree. Kristof lifted his sword tip to my throat again.

"Mercy?" he asked.

"Never."

Kristof laughed and slid the blade down my chest again. This time, he snagged the first lace on the bodice, and sliced through it.

"Kris…"

He caught the second lace on his sword tip.

"Kris…"

"Oh, you know I wont do anything," he said. "Won't even try. Not until I know you're ready. I just like to…" A small smile as he pressed against me. "Remind you. In case you've forgotten what it was like."

That was one reminder I never needed. I'd had lovers before and after Kristof-never many, I was always too particular to share my body with just anyone-but Kris was the only man I'd ever lost control with, the only one I'd never been able to get enough of. And now, feeling him hard against me…

Oh, to hell with this.

I tilted my hips up. Kris pressed closer, letting me lift my legs and wrap them around him. I wrapped my hands in his hair and kissed him. Kris moaned and slid his hands into my breeches, and grabbed my rear, pulling me tighter against him.

Then he tensed, resisting. After a moment's hesitation, he tugged my arms down and stepped back.

"You aren't ready," he murmured.

"No?"

I took his hand. He let me slide his fingers under my waistband, then jerked his hand away and took another step back.

"I don't mean ready for a five-minute bang against a tree, Eve. That's not good enough. I want you back. For now and forever. I mean that."

"Kris, I've told you-"

"You don't want that kind of relationship. Yes, you've said it. Over and over. We couldn't make it work the first time, so we shouldn't try again. A nice, pat excuse-"

"It's not-"

"Since when have you ever failed at something once and given up? It's an excuse, Eve-a simple excuse for avoiding the very complex problem that's you and me, and everything we did and didn't do once upon a time. You aren't ready yet. I know that. And I'll wait until you are." He gave a small smile. "It's not like I'm going to run out of time."

"I-"

"Speaking of time, though, you have a job to do, so I'd suggest we stop screwing around-or talking about why we aren't screwing around-and get back to work."

Our goal was, of course, to get passage to Roatan, preferably that night. So we started down to the wharf. The first three pirates we passed did double-takes at my outfit, but only murmured greetings and kept walking. When we drew within twenty yards of the harbor, we had to pass a grizzled old salt with an eye patch. He heaved to his feet and blocked our path, hand on his sword. Unlike the others we'd seen-who'd had the look and dental work of men who'd never seen the Jolly Roger outside a movie theater-this guy could have been the real deal, with blackened teeth, swarthy battle-scarred skin, and serious hygiene issues… which probably explained why he'd been consigned to harbor duty.

"Avast!" he growled, voice thick with a near-impenetrable accent. "Who ye be?"

"Visitors," I said. "We just arrived, and we wanted to see the ships-"

"Not dressed like that, ye ain't, missy."

"Our outfits may be somewhat anachronistic," Kristof said. "Yet certainly no worse than others we've seen so far." He glanced over the pirate's stained and ragged ensemble. "Excepting your own fine attention to period detail, of course."

The pirate's lip curled. "Don't give a damn about yer britches, lad. It's hers that's t'problem. No wimmin pirates allowed here. Only wenches."

"Wenches?" I said.

"That may be your usual policy," Kristof said. "It may also explain the notable lack of female companionship available in your fine town. Might I suggest you reconsider-"

"I'm not reconsidering anything, lad. Either she changes herself into a proper wench, or ye best be reconsidering staying in La Ceiba. "

Kristof opened his mouth to argue, but I shushed him with a look. Flexibility is the key to progress. So I slipped behind the nearest hut, and made a few minor alterations to my costume. The shirt, boots, and earrings stayed. The breeches gave way to a peasant skirt. A few necklaces and I looked as darned wenchy as I was getting. As for the cutlass, well, as much as I hated to part with it, I reminded myself that I could conjure it up anytime I felt the need.

I stepped from behind the hut.

The old pirate ogled me with a gap-toothed grin. "Now, that's more like it, ma beauty." He elbowed Kristof in the ribs. "Got yerself a damned fine wench there, lad."

"Uh, thank you."

"So, sir," I said. "Perhaps, if you have a moment, you'd be kind enough to tell us how we could get to Roatan."

"Roatan?" His face scrunched up. "Why ye want to go to Roatan? All faction be here, on this side o' the bay."

"Perhaps," Kris said. "But we really must get to Roatan. Is there a ship we could charter?"

"This ain't t' Yacht club, lad. Ye don't charter a pirate ship. Ye wants passage, ye gots team it, by going on account."

"Going on account?"

The pirate slapped Kris on the back. "Joinin' a crew, lad. Joinin' a crew."

"I… see. Well, thank you very much for your time. Mind if we take a stroll along the harbor?"

"Stroll away. Ye wants to be joinin' a crew, now, ye lets me know, an' I'll set ye up." He slid a sly smile my way. "And I'll look after yer wench while yer at sea."

We thanked the old pirate and headed to the wharf. If we couldn't charter a ship, we'd need to steal one. Unfortunately, it quickly became obvious that every ship was guarded by at least two men, and the galleons were packed in so tight that the moment we boarded one, we'd be beset by attackers from the others.

I turned to Kristof. "They might not encourage rentals, but I bet we can find someone willing to bargain."

"Up to the taverns, then?"

I nodded.

We picked the largest of the three taverns along the main road. A sign at the door warned against the use of weapons, magic, and supernatural powers of all kinds. Kristof vaporized his sword, then pulled open the door and ushered me inside.

Chapter 22

INSIDE, THE CLATTER OF STEEL MUGS COMPETED WITH the roar of voices raised in laughter and anger. The air was thick with cigar and wood smoke. Did pirates smoke cigars? Didn't look authentic, but obviously someone had decided it was, and that was good enough for them. A themed afterlife town should never be mistaken for a historical reconstruction. It's a theme-park version, like Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean ride… before they sanitized it for the age of political correctness.

As we stepped inside, all conversation near the door stopped. The silence rolled across the room until every mouth had closed, every eye turned to check out the new arrivals. They went first to the male half of the party, and the testosterone wafted up thicker than the cigar smoke. In a dive like this, when a new man walks through the door no one wonders what kind of conversationalist he'd make or sizes him up as a potential poker dupe. No one even wonders whether they could con him into buying a few rounds of grog. Instead, the thought going through every man's mind is "Hmm, wonder if I could take him in a fight." And, as most turned away without so much as a second once-over, the overwhelming decision was "yes." This wasn't a contender-good size, good structure, but too old, too soft, and, my God, look at those hands-is that a manicure? Only the smallest and oldest of the men let their gazes linger, but even those soon recognized a Wall Street wimp, no matter what costume he chose to cloak himself in.

Attention went next to the living, breathing piece of potential pirate booty. A few looked away after the briefest glance. They liked their women smaller, cuddlier, blonder. But most kept looking, a few perking up enough to slide off their stools.

"That yer wench?" barked a big man, spattering rum in his thick black beard as he spoke.

"Uh, er-" Kristof glanced at me, checking to see how much trouble this would get him into later, then responded with a gruff "Aye" and steered me toward the dark end of the bar.

"Bit tall, ain't she?" the man called after us.

"Not for me."

A tall, rangy blond with a red bandanna slid off his stool and dropped into Kristof's path. "Not for me, either."

Kris led me around him. As we passed, the man glided behind me and grabbed my ass. Didn't pinch and duck out of the way. Just grabbed with both hands and held on, chortling. I slowly looked over my shoulder, meeting the man's grin with a baleful stare.

"Uh-uh," Kris whispered by my ear. "Can't break character. Allow me. Please."

Kristof turned his best stare on the idiot. "Please remove your hands."

The guy just gave a big "make me" snigger.

"And apologize," Kris said.

A roar of guffaws rose from the audience.

"Hey, Pierre," a pock-faced man called. "Are ye shivering in yer boots yet? I know I am."

Another round of whoops and catcalls. Kristof waited for the laughter to wane, as calm and steady as a seasoned substitute teacher faced with an unruly class.

"One last time," he said. "Please remove your hands and then apologize to the lady."

"Oooh," someone called. "Better listen, Pierre. He might-"

Kristof grabbed Pierre by the collar and hurled him along the bar, sending rum bottles flying like bowling pins. For the next five seconds, numbed silence fell over the tavern as the men picked their jaws up off the ground. The pock-faced pirate recovered first, snatching the stool nearest him and charging. Kristof caught the stool and swung it. The man on the other end was a bit slow on the uptake, not letting go of the stool even when his feet left the ground. For a big guy, he sailed over the bar with remarkable grace, though his crash landing sounded pretty awkward.

By then, Pierre had rolled off the bar and was coming at Kris. Kris swung the stool into the side of Pierre's head. The pockmarked pirate stumbled from behind the bar and turned on Kristof, but a wiry old man jumped the pirate from behind, obviously deciding this seemed like a good opportunity for some personal payback.

Before you could say "bar brawl" the place erupted. I hopped onto the bar for a better view, using knock-back spells to stave off any stray bodies that flew my way.

As much as I prefer playing over spectating, there's something to be said for sitting back and enjoying a good brawl. Especially if Kris was doing the brawling. Diving, ducking, fists flying, bottles smashing, wood splintering, he plowed through the room, grinning like a kid in his first schoolyard dustup, grinning through every blow-delivered or received.

The fight petered out as most brawls do, the instigators sneaking away or being dragged off by friends, everyone else crashing from that first adrenaline explosion, unable to remember what dragged them into it in the first place. Kristof emerged from the fray. He sauntered toward me, hair rumpled, shirt torn, a wide "damn, that was fun" grin on his face. When I smiled back, he picked up his pace, then swooped me off the bar and onto a stool. As he pulled another intact stool from the debris, a tankard was slapped onto the bar and we both jumped.

There stood a plump, dark-haired woman a few years older than me, squeezed into a barmaid costume several sizes too small, her breasts barely contained by her tight bodice. She smiled and held out a second tankard and a dusty bottle of rum.

"House tradition," she said. "Victor gets the last bottle left unbroken."

Kris murmured his thanks as she opened it.

"Not bad fighting," she said. "For a sorcerer."

Since Kris hadn't cast any spells, there was only one way she could know he was a sorcerer.

"Blessed be, sister," I said.

Her grin broadened, revealing a missing canine. "Haven't heard that in a while. They still use that up there?"

I shook my head. "Only the humans."

"Well, blessed be, sister." She patted my hand. "Been a long time since I saw a witch, too." She glanced at Kristof. "So that's all over, then? The feud?"

"Between witches and sorcerers? Nah. They're just as arrogant and nasty as they ever were." I smiled at Kristof. "But sometimes you can make an exception."

She poured our drinks.

I looked around the tavern. "Have you… been here long?"

She let out a long whoop of a laugh. "You mean, what the hell am I doing in a shit-hole like this?"

"I wasn't going to say it."

She leaned over the bar, lowering her voice. "You wanna know why I'm here, hon? Take a look around. See the male-to-female ratio? This place is Alaska without the snow." She capped the bottle. "So are you folks visiting? Or passing through?"

"Passing through. We were hoping to visit someone over on Roatan, but…" I glanced around. Most patrons had either scurried off into the night or were still finding a place to sit, free of broken glass and splintered chairs. No one was paying any attention to us. "Seems we've run into a problem renting a ship. I don't suppose you know any way we could rent-or 'borrow'-one."

"Borrowing's your best bet." She lowered her voice and set about wiping the counter. "Not easy, but there's one possibility. The Trinity Bull. Owned by Pierre, the half-demon with the wandering hands. He keeps it in a bay west of here, down the coast a bit. Secluded spot. Usually only one guard-a new guy."

We thanked her and she slipped away to tidy the bar, conjuring up a fresh stock of rum and making the broken bottles vanish.

As anxious as we were to get that ship, we couldn't seem to be in too much of a hurry to leave. So we hung around for a half-hour before slipping out. We headed down to the wharf, this time giving a wide berth to the triple-parked galleons at the main dock, and instead slinking through the empty huts lining the beach to the west. We cut through a stand of tropical forest. On the other side, we found the bay the barmaid had mentioned. In it was a boat, not much bigger than Kristof's houseboat. Didn't look much like a galleon. More like a yacht… with a Jolly Roger flag on the mast, I sharpened my sight and read the name on the side. The Trinity Bull.

The bay was a pretty place to dock your boat, if you didn't mind the security risk. As I scanned the deck, I bit back a laugh. There was indeed only a single guard, a slight red-haired man sitting on a chair on the deck, his feet propped on the rail, a bottle at his side.

"Easy pickings," I murmured to Kristof.

We advanced on the boat, sticking to the shadows. When we drew close enough to see the deck without Aspicio-boosted vision, we both stopped short. The guard was talking. I saw no sign of another person. Kristof motioned for me to listen.

"… weeks in this fucking town and I'm still guarding this fucking ship," the guard was saying." 'Sorry, Danny-boy, them's the rules, Danny-boy.' He let out a snarl. "Next son-of-a-bitch who calls me that…"

The rant fell to a mutter. There was no one else on the ship, just one very bored, very angry, slightly drunk guard. So much for any hope of a sword fight.

Danny-boy leaned back in his chair, tipping the front legs off the deck, and closed his eyes. Kristof and I crept along the shore, keeping out of the guard's sight in case he opened his eyes. I considered blinding him, but if he did open his eyes, he'd panic and know something was wrong.

We reached the dock. The slap of the waves against the boat's hull covered our footsteps as we trod across the wooden boards. We made it all the way up the gangplank and the guard didn't so much as twitch.

"Asleep?" I mouthed to Kristof.

He waggled his hand, giving it fifty/fifty odds. Then he motioned for me to circle around and approach the guard from the rear. I had taken one step in that direction when the guard let out a soft sigh.

"Are you guys almost on deck?" he said, eyes still closed. "Take much longer and I really will fall asleep."

Kristof charged, sword raised. The guard sprang to his feet and feinted out of Kris's path. I swung behind the cabin before he saw me. As Kristof wheeled, the guard yanked his cutlass from his belt. He parried Kris's first thrust, but missed the second and danced out of the way seconds before being slashed.

The two men sparred for a minute. Kristof was obviously the better swordsman, but the smaller man had an easy agility that kept him out of sword's reach. Finally, when the guard's back was to me, I slid from my hiding place and pressed the tip of my cutlass between his shoulder blades.

"Take another step and I'll skewer you like a shish kebab," I said. "Won't hurt, but it could be damned uncomfortable."

He glanced over his shoulder, gave me a slow onceover, and smiled.

"Always was a sucker for a girl who can take care of herself," he said. "Let me guess, you two want this boat."

"Yes," Kristof said. "And either you let us or-"

"Take it."

When Kris hesitated, the man shrugged.

"What the fuck do I care? It's not mine. If you take the boat, I can take my leave of this dump, and believe me, I don't mind having the excuse. Don't mind seeing Pierre and his bunch lose this barge, either. Serves them right. Fucking pirates. Not nearly as much fun as you'd think."

"So you'll just leave…?" I said.

"Sure. But I will ask for one favor, though. Give me twenty minutes before you cut 'er loose. Once you set sail, someone in town will see, and I want a good head start before Pierre and his buccaneers come after me."

Kris looked at me. I shrugged. We set the guard loose. True to his word, he loped off down the shore and disappeared into a patch of jungle. While Kris checked out the boat, I stood watch, making sure Danny-boy didn't circle back to town to warn the pirates.

"We good?" I asked Kristof when he returned to the deck.

"Very good. It's a modified cabin cruiser. No motor, of course, but she'll run fine on wind and spell-power. Dad bought me one just like it when I went to Harvard."

"You took a yacht to college? Most kids get a car, Kris."

"Oh, I got a car, too. Two, actually. The Lotus wasn't made for Northern winters."

I shook my head. "Can we shove off, then?"

"Just let me check a few things, then we'll-" He stopped and squinted into the darkness. "What's that?"

At first glance, all I saw was what he did-a flash of something running from the woods. I concentrated, invoking my night and distance vision, and saw that the something was a ginger-red dog running full out along the shore.

"Some kind of dog," I said, frowning. "Big one, too. More like a wolf. That couldn't be… Oh, shit! It's the guard!"

"He's a werewolf?" Kris squinted at the fast-approaching canine.

"Cut the ropes!" I yelled, running for the front of the ship.

"What?"

"The ropes, the lines, whatever. Cut them!"

Kristof hesitated only a second, then he lunged forward and sliced through the rope at the rear of the boat. I cut the one at the front. The boat didn't budge.

"It's anchored," Kris yelled, leaning over the side.

He grabbed hold of the anchor chain. I sailed across the deck and grabbed it from him. "I got this. You get the sails up and shove off, or whatever you need to do to get this baby moving."

As Kris raced around the cabin, the wolf reached the dock. The gangplank was still down. I dove for the ropes, seized them, and heaved. The wolf's forepaws landed on the edge of the gangplank, jerking the line from my grasp. I grabbed the rope, heaved again, and yanked the gangplank out from under him. He stumbled back, snarling.

"Double-crossing son of a bitch!" I shouted down at him.

Don't know whether he understood me, but it made me feel better.

The wolf gave a soft chuff of a sigh, and headed back down the dock.

"Yeah, you'd better run," I muttered.

I walked back to the anchor chain. I'd just gotten a good hold on it when a blur of motion caught my attention. I looked up to see the wolf tearing back down the dock, running hell-bent for the boat. Oh, shit. He was taking a run at it.

"Eve!" Kris shouted.

"I got it! You just get us moving!"

I wrapped the chain around my hands and pulled. The anchor barely budged. Where the hell was the windlass on these things? The wolf was almost at the end of the dock now, running full out, tongue hanging, green eyes fixed on the rail. I threw myself backward and felt the anchor lift just as the wolf launched himself. He shot toward the rail. I dropped to the deck, dragging the anchor higher.

A strong wind whipped around from the south-a magical wind. The sails billowed, the boat lurched from the dock, and the wolf's leap fell short. His front paws hooked the railing, but only for a second before the weight of his falling body sent him plummeting into the dark water below. I hauled the anchor over the side, then looked into the swirling dark water below.

"Hope you can swim, ya scurvy cur!" I shouted down at him.

Kristof laughed behind me. I waved at the wolf as he surfaced.

"Do you believe that?" I said. "He double-crossed us."

"Shocking. Absolutely shocking. Pretty clever, though."

"Damned clever… for a werewolf." I eased back against the railing. "So do you need to navigate this thing or what?"

"I've set her on a course for Roatan. My wind spell won't last long, but we'll get there."

"No rush. We can't visit Luther Ross until morning. We should probably keep watch for a few minutes, though, make sure we aren't followed."

"I'll cover that, if you don't mind covering us with a fog spell."

I cast the sorcerer spell. Fog billowed up around the boat, and we sailed out to sea.