Tangled Souls, Page 2

  “You really like him, don’t you?”

  The little boy loosened his grip on the bear and nodded.

  “I’ll ask about him. I’m sure he wants to see you.”

  “He isn’t like me, is he?”

  Gavenia hesitated, caught off guard by the innocent question. She closed her eyes for a second and let the impressions engulf her. “No, he isn’t. Do you know what happened?”

  The little boy nodded. “I got hurt.”

  Her heart tightened in anguish.

  Leave it to a child to make death sound so simple.

  Gavenia took a shuddering breath and fought for control. She had to help this innocent soul understand that something better awaited him on the other side.

  “It’s time for you to go home, to go see your grandmother.”

  Bradley’s eyes widened. “Nana?”

  “She is waiting for you,” Gavenia said in a reassuring tone.

  The little boy thought and then shook his head.

  “Your grandmother misses you,” she said.

  “No!” he snapped, the force of his voice echoing in her mind. “I want to see Merlin!”

  In the distance, beyond the misty veil, Gavenia could see Bradley’s grandmother waiting for him, but the boy was oblivious to her loving presence, too anchored in the temporal plane. He had to make the final journey of his own volition.

  Gavenia had only one choice. “I will find Merlin, and then you can go be with your nana.”

  The little boy blinked through fresh tears and nodded solemnly, as if they’d sealed a sacred pact. Then he gave the bear another intense hug and dissolved into nothingness, leaving Gavenia and the dancing clowns behind.

  Chapter Two

  The triple-belled chime announced Gavenia’s entry as she crossed the threshold into the shop. Out of habit, she inhaled deeply, relishing the strong mélange of incense, dried herbs, and scented candles that enveloped her like an old friend. Crystal Horizons always evoked positive memories, from the weathered wood flooring to the aged tinplate ceiling. She and her sister, Ariana, had grown up playing with the magical ephemera while their Aunt Lucy served customers. Gavenia had been drawn to the same spiritual path as her aunt, embracing Wicca when she turned fifteen. Ari remained indifferent to anything metaphysical—yet another disparity between them.

  The business had start as a bookshop with a small corner of magical curiosities. As the years passed, the books gradually disappeared under the relentless onslaught of the chain stores, and magical items took their place. Though Crystal Horizons still sold a few books, mostly metaphysical in nature, it was now a New Age shop. Gavenia found the term amusing, given that the store had existed for over thirty years.

  She vividly remembered the day her aunt had sold the shop. Privately, she’d wept; it felt like a death in the family. Over the next decade the store had a number of owners, none of whom seemed to have a knack for commerce until Vivian. Though fairly new to the Craft, she had a deep wisdom that heralded an old soul. Applying her unique blend of financial acumen and the ability to relate to people on a personal level, Viv ensured that Crystal Horizons was a vibrant fixture of the Pagan community. While catering to the curiosity of the wannabes, she retained the crucial magical items needed by genuine witches. It was a difficult line to tread, but she’d proven adroit at the tightrope act.

  As usual, Viv wore a shade of burgundy that accented her dark-brown hair, her dress a flowing number that rustled when she moved. At least today Gavenia didn’t feel quite as dowdy in her presence—the long black dress she’d donned to meet Bradley’s father remained in place; there’d been no time for her to retreat to the comfort of jeans. Still, there was no reason for Viv to know she’d borrowed it from Ari’s clothes stash in the spare closet.

  When Gavenia paused near the greeting-card rack, her friend acknowledged her and continued to wait on the portly customer at the counter. The woman was carrying on about the wonders of a particular psychic reader at the Cosmic Connection, a rival shop. The establishment was Crystal Horizons’ leading competitor and located in a trendier neighborhood. It counted a number of celebrities as its patrons and never failed to capitalize on the association.

  The customer gave one of the candles a cursory sniff, shook her head, put it down, and picked up another, then repeated the action eight more times as Gavenia watched in amusement. “I just don’t know which one to choose,” the woman said.

  “Are you a Libra?” Viv asked.

  “Why, yes. Triple-aspected,” the woman announced. “How did you know?”

  Viv nodded in understanding. “I thought so. Let me help you.”

  Gavenia struggled to keep a smile off her face. Most born under the sign of Libra were indecisive at the best of times, but a triple-aspected one was, well . . . triply inclined to dither. Though wonderful people, they often found decision making a problem, even when choosing something as simple as scented candles.

  Knowing she had plenty of time, Gavenia headed for the bookcase and her personal ritual. To the casual observer, it appeared she was looking through the book stack, but she had another purpose. She removed two particular books from the shelf and set them aside, as the tomes held no interest—she was fairy hunting. And there she was, just like the day Gavenia had painted her.

  Aunt Lucy had commissioned a wall mural, and the artist had made the painting extra special, at least to Gavenia. Nestled in the middle of a pastoral scene depicting the God and Goddess holding court, her wee fairy was one of many fey hidden in trees and peeping around blades of grass. Gavenia’s fey looked exactly like her: flowing blond hair, cobalt-blue eyes. In her hands, she held a tiny mouse sporting a gold crown.

  Now it was all hidden behind the big bookcase, courtesy of a previous owner. Gavenia kissed her index finger and pressed it against the fairy for luck and then replaced the books, the ritual completed. She would continue to do so until the building no longer stood.

  “Yes, these are perfect,” the customer announced, and before she could change her mind, again, Viv rang up the candles. The woman trundled to the door, a beaming smile on her face. In the end she’d bought six candles instead of one.

  Viv appeared at Gavenia’s elbow. “Finding what you want?” she asked.

  “I’m having trouble deciding between all these,” Gavenia replied in a mischievous tone.

  “Don’t start with me!” Viv warned, and then grinned. “I love Libras, I really do. But sometimes . . .”

  Gavenia picked up one packet each of Dragon’s Blood and Temple Blend incense. She debated over the one labeled Tibetan Tiger. After another deep inhalation, she added it to her stack, as it claimed to provide clarity of thought. She doubted there was enough in existence to make a dent in her sluggish mental processes, but it was worth a gamble. “So how are things going?”

  “It’s slow today, but that’s often the case on Thursdays,” Viv replied, rearranging piles of incense on a spotless shelf.

  “Is the homeless shelter affecting sales?” Gavenia asked. The shelter located next door was Lucy’s baby, staffed by members of the Wiccan community, offering one meal a day to a minute fraction of the thousands who lived on LA’s streets. In time they hoped to offer beds as well.

  Viv shrugged at the question. “Most of my customers aren’t upset. The ones that are I can live without.” She collected the incense packets and headed toward the counter with Gavenia in tow. “Nice dress, by the way. Your blue jeans in the wash?” she teased.

  “I didn’t have time to change.”

  “Looks good on you. You should try real clothes more often.” Gavenia shot her an irritated look. “So how’s it going?”

  “Okay.”

  Viv gestured, demanding more information.

  “I have a particularly tough client right now,” Gavenia explained.

  As she leaned against the counter, her elbow jostled a plastic container. The sign on it described the plight of a fellow witch who had broken her leg and didn’t have ins
urance. Gavenia fished a few dollars out of her purse, and dropped them inside the collection jar.

  “So what’s different? You used to enjoy doing Light work,” Viv said, a serious note to her voice.

  “It used to be easy. You’d show them the next stop and off they’d go. No problems.”

  “And now?” her friend prompted.

  “I have a six-year-old boy, and he won’t go anywhere until he sees his dog one last time.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable request.”

  Gavenia shook her head. “They’re getting harder each time.”

  “You thought they’d always be easy?” Viv asked, deftly wrapping the incense in newspaper and securing the bundles with a Crystal Horizons sticker.

  “There’s so much I don’t understand,” Gavenia responded. She still wasn’t being totally candid, even with Viv. Most folks didn’t know about her ability, and those who did couldn’t fathom the personal toll she paid for the ability to commune with the dead.

  Some thought the souls just showed up every now and then, like uninvited house guests. They were everywhere: in the supermarket, standing in line at the post office, reading a book on a park bench, at the gas station. Some had crossed over and made the return journey, no doubt on some quest to aid a loved one or a friend. Others had never crossed, but remained on the temporal plane, stuck for whatever reason. Bartholomew Quickens, her ethereal Guardian, said her job as a Shepherd would get better over time. She didn’t believe him.

  “Isn’t Bart supposed to help you?” asked Viv, one of the few who knew of his existence.

  Gavenia’s eyes swept the store; he wasn’t present, no doubt figuring she couldn’t get into much trouble while inside the shop. Viv handed her a cup of hot tea without asking if she wanted any, and the lush scent reached Gavenia’s nose in an instant.

  “It’s Moonbeam,” she exclaimed. Moonbeam tea was one of her personal addictions, like fresh-baked cinnamon rolls and ice cream.

  “I got Branwen over at Earth, Wind, and Fire to let me brew it here, providing I rebate a certain amount for each sale.”

  Gavenia grinned. “She can be as mercenary as you are.”

  “Worse.”

  As she inhaled the tea’s aroma, allowing them to calm her mind, she belatedly remembered her friend’s question. “No, Bart’s not helping. He’s pretty mum about things right now.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Viv always had a plan, whether it was for the business or for her life.

  “You know me, I don’t have one.”

  “Then it’s time you get one,” was the swift reply.

  Gavenia shrugged.

  “Okay, then, if you could have anything, what do you really want?” Viv shot back.

  Gavenia blinked in response. She’d not expected an inquisition during a routine incense run. Agitated, she downed the remainder of the tea in one big gulp. Regret crept through her for not having savored it for as long as possible.

  “Someday I want the Head Office”—she paused and pointed upward—“to show me a copy of the script so I know what I’m supposed to do with my life.”

  Viv leaned over the counter. “You’ve been looking for your purpose, as you call it, for as long as I’ve known you. Have you ever thought that maybe you’ve already found it?”

  Gavenia shrugged again, unwilling to commit to the idea. It sounded too easy.

  “How much for the incense and the tea?”

  Her friend took the hint and rang up the sale, dutifully deducting the Craft discount reserved for those who were genuine practitioners.

  “Thanks, Viv,” Gavenia said, handing over the cash. She glanced at her watch—two and a half hours before her sister’s flight landed at LAX—and headed for the door, wishing she had time for another cup of tea.

  “Bright blessings,” Viv called, “and good luck.”

  “Thanks!”

  The triple chime heralded Gavenia’s reentry into the real world—the dirty streets, the graying sky. More rain was forecast, and that might delay Ari’s plane.

  “Another problem,” she muttered. As she passed the shelter on the way to the car, she dropped coins into the foam coffee cups of three scruffy bums, whispering blessings as she did.

  “Thanks, lady,” one said. Their eyes met, and Gavenia glimpsed the humanity buried beneath the urban grime. Unsettled, she hurried down the street. Did she really want to read her life’s script? What if the final scene found her living on a piece of discarded cardboard, clad in tattered clothes, begging for change?

  “Goddess forbid,” she whispered, and fumbled for her car keys.

  * * *

  O’Fallon leaned against the dirty, pockmarked wall to catch his breath as rivulets of sweat ran down his back, sticking his tan shirt to his skin. He was in a surly mood after the unexpected six-story hike from the hotel lobby. A tattered notice stuck to the elevator had announced its demise, and added to the note were misspelled obscenities, no doubt penned by the patrons of this half-star hotel in a futile attempt to vent their frustration. O’Fallon was less inclined to be poetic—a call to a building-inspector buddy was already on tomorrow’s agenda.

  The hallway was dimly lit, every other bare bulb illuminated, with cobwebs hanging from them in streaming gray trails like dusty curtains. A dark-brown mouse nosed its way down the hall, threading a path through the debris on the floor. It paused for a moment as if scenting danger and then continued to maneuver through the rubbish.

  While making a mental note to get more exercise, O’Fallon mopped his forehead with a limp handkerchief. He’d been in fairly good shape when he’d been on the force, but the PI lifestyle hadn’t proven to be so healthy with its late night stakeouts and too much fast food. It’d been bad enough when he’d been a cop.

  While he waited for his heart rate to calm, he realized the hotel should be bustling with all sorts of illicit activity—dopers and winos and a few down-on-their-luck prostitutes working the halls. Instead, it was unusually quiet.

  O’Fallon fished the tarnished brass room key out of his jacket pocket. That key had cost him a ten spot, and he’d still needed to bully the manager to get it. As he paused in front of the room denoted by the tattered crime-scene tape, it was easy to imagine the scene on the day Benjamin Callendar’s body had been found. A couple of uniformed cops would have kept the curious at bay while the homicide detectives interviewed the tenants and traded dark humor. A suicide in a dive like the Hotel LeClaire didn’t make for a compelling case, despite the fact that the kid was too middle-class to be here.

  He slipped the key in, but before he could turn it the door fell open, the lock broken. He muttered an oath for the wasted ten bucks.

  O’Fallon hesitated at the threshold and dug into an inner pocket to retrieve his rosary, his armor against that which was not of this world. He clutched it in his right hand and, after whispering a short prayer, he edged into the room. His pulse pounded in his neck. A streetlight cast a thin trail through a grimy window, one of its panes broken, the edge of the ragged glass glowing from the faint illumination. The buzzing whine of a mosquito echoed near O’Fallon’s ear and he swatted at the insect in irritation.

  A flick of the light switch yielded a harsh glow that did nothing to mitigate the squalidness of the surroundings. O’Fallon’s eyes glanced around the room, taking inventory out of habit. The drapes were threadbare, the carpet of questionable pedigree, and a scratched table sat near the window. A dilapidated wooden chair was only inches away from the lumpy twin bed. His eyes settled on the tightly braided white rope and followed it from the ceiling down to where it had been severed, no doubt to remove the body. The chair sat beneath it, tiny bits of plaster flecked on the seat and the carpet beneath. The remnants of a shoe print remained, visible testimony to the victim’s last moments.

  He stepped closer and reached out his hand to touch the chair, the contact like a bolt of lightning through his body. O’Fallon felt the vision coming, though he had no real name for what would enco
mpass him. Sweat sprang to his forehead and his temples pounded in time with his heart. His head burned, on fire from within. Vision and hearing collapsed, tunneling inward as if he were sitting in a darkened movie theater. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to let go. To fight it meant failure.

  He was entirely vulnerable during these moments, and that frightened him witless. As with a seizure, there was no control, no sense of what was happening around him, only the grand movie playing in his head. He saw images, heard voices, sounds on a scale that made a pin drop exquisitely painful. The film was not whole, but sliced into fragments and then thrown high into the air as if by a capricious child. He only saw the bits that floated by his eyes, and they were pitifully few. The rest streamed toward the dark cutting-room floor, untouched by his gift.

  He’d never been able to explain it, even to another psychic, for the vision process seemed to be unique for each seer. Some came by the gift in a series of gradual revelations, each vision building on the next. Others hit the wall, hard. His had been the latter, the Morelli crime scene the trigger. He’d seen what no man was meant to see—the torture, violation, and slaughter of two innocents; the fragments in vivid color, no intimate detail spared. That was the hell of his gift, his curse.

  As O’Fallon’s mind grew dark, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, hoping he’d be less likely to fall that way. The first piece drifted by: murmured prayers for forgiveness. He saw the powder-blue eyes of the deceased, heard Hail Marys, and smelled greasy pizza. He felt the man’s remorse, how he knew he would never grow old, never see his family again. Icy fear gripped O’Fallon’s heart as voices tumbled over each other, calling the dead man’s name.

  He saw a flashing image of a rosary, intricately carved and of considerable age, clasped in pale, shaking hands. Then he saw Benjamin’s face—tears washing down reddened cheeks, a thick strip of white at the neck.