Possession

  Also by Kat Richardson

  GREYWALKER

  POLTERGEIST

  UNDERGROUND

  VANISHED

  LABYRINTH

  DOWNPOUR

  SEAWITCH

  ANTHOLOGIES

  MEAN STREETS

  (WITH JIM BUTCHER, SIMON R. GREEN, AND THOMAS E. SNIEGOSKI)

  ROC

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Kathleen Richardson, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Richardson, Kat.

  Possession: a Greywalker novel/Kat Richardson.

  p. cm

  ISBN 978-1-101-61406-8

  1. Blaine, Harper (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—Fiction. 3. Psychic ability—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.I3447P67 2013

  813'.6—dc23 2013007272

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Kat Richardson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  In memory of: Arthur Carpenter and Lois Alnutt

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Seems there’s always something crazy happening the past few years, and this book had to dodge a lot of angst and problems to get into your hands, so I’m indebted to a lot of people for various chores in that respect. Many thanks to: minions Thea and Eric Maia (Thing One and Thing Two); Nancy Durham and Elisabeth Shipman; the fabulous Cherie Priest; Robin MacPherson; Rhiannon Held, who provided all sorts of information about archaeology in Washington, and the tunnel and seawall projects, as well as beta reading, advising, and being a stellar friend and wonderful writer; Mary Robinette Kowal for writer hang-outs online and encouragement in person even in the face of freakish weather and cross-country moves; Dr. Martha Leigh for medical information; Sally Harding and the whole crew at Cooke International—you guys rock; my long-suffering husband for sticking with me through all this; my totally amazing team at Roc—especially Anne Sowards and Rosanne Romanello—for continuing to make these books such a success; Anton Strout, who made me laugh at Comic Con when I wanted to scream; Paul Goat Allen, who continues to say nice things.

  And to my mother-in-law, Sandra Carpenter: Thanks for being here—I love you very much.

  PROLOGUE

  I don’t like dying. No one does and no matter how many times I’ve done it and how much I know about what lies beyond that thin edge of existence, I still dread it enough to wish for no more—or at least only one more and stay down for good. I’ve died three times that I’m sure of and that’s enough for anyone. I shouldn’t complain—I’m still alive at the moment. I seem mostly normal, I suppose—I have a boyfriend and a pet and a job—but even those things aren’t quite ordinary: The boyfriend is an ex-spy, my pet is a ferret, and I work as a private investigator. I sometimes think it would be nice to just be normal and have a normal job and a normal family, but that isn’t going to happen. I have been down to death and back and whether that is the reason or whether it’s the other way around, I am a Greywalker—one of the rare few who can move through the overlapping fringes of the world of the normal and that of the paranormal. That here / not here world is the Grey and it lies just beside everything you see and contains everything you don’t and never want to. Magic streams and sings through the darkness and the mists of the possible as hot neon light in lines and tangles that burn with power; spirits, monsters, and nightmares are its native inhabitants and I am one of its naturalized citizens. I have been called the Hands of the Guardian—the eldritch creature that prowls the borders of the Grey—and the paladin of the dead. I remain in the “real” world as the go-between, negotiator, troubleshooter, and general fixer for all things Grey. I dance on a hair-thin high wire, balancing between the uncanny and the mundane while trying to keep myself alive a little longer, because I’m sure that my next death will be my last.

  The thing about this twilight freak show is that I sometimes know more about the dead than I know about the living, and the ghosts and monsters just keep coming around. They all have problems and the problems seem to be stranger with each new case. Sometimes the Grey things impose themselves on my life with such force and vehemence that the world changes, even if only a few of us can see it. It’s part of my job to make sure these changes don’t destroy the balance between this world and the next without destroying myself or the people I hold dear.

  ONE

  I don’t usually acquire clients in secondhand stores. Books, jackets, furniture, knickknacks—yes. Clients—not so much. I was lurking in the nook at Old Possum’s Books ’n’ Beans where the volumes about music, theater, and philosophy were currently kept—more a comment on the owner, Phoebe Mason’s, sense of humor than any practical filing system—when a woman approached me. Even before I saw her, I felt the touch of her desperation and fear like a cloud of bad perfume.

  Her footsteps stuttered as she walked across the scarred old wooden floor, and I looked around and down to find the source of the uncertain sound. Thus, the first thing I actually saw were her shoes: good-quality leather loafers with low heels that had become unevenly worn so each step wobbled just a bit, the dark brown leather scuffed along the sides and toes as if they’d been scraped repeatedly through rough stones. Her designer jeans were baggy at the knee, cinched in at the waist with a belt that didn’t match the shoes, and fit like they’d been meant for a curvier body, while her blouse was so rumpled it appeared she’d misbuttoned it.

  I looked up to study her face and saw a once-lovely middle-aged woman with shoulder-length black hair, the gray roots leaving an undyed band about an inch wide along her part. Her cheekbones stood in high relief, hinting at some mix of Asian ancestors with taller Europeans, under skin that was dry, fine-lined, and too tight, as if she’d given up eating and was subsisting on nerves and dry toast. She stopped, her eyes widenin
g as she bit her lip and stared at me for a second. Then she drew a deep breath and asked, “Are you the detective? A friend of Phoebe’s?”

  Her question seemed to hang in the air and I took a beat before I replied, frowning a little at the weight it seemed to add to the room. Phoebe had been my first friend in Seattle, but I answered hesitantly, not sure which role this woman expected me to fill: detective or friend. “I . . . am.” The fading ghost of a former customer wafted obliviously down the aisle and through the pair of us as we stood there.

  The woman didn’t see it, but she twitched at its cold passage and gave me a deer-in-the-headlights stare, while a drained shimmer in shades of olive and charcoal around her told me she was terrified. For another moment we just blinked at each other, until I prompted her to tell me what she wanted.

  “What can I do for you?” I held back my desire to frown or look sideways at her to see whether she was entangled in the Grey, since I thought either would seem unfriendly and drive this skittish creature away.

  “I need—um, I have a sister—” She stopped and shook her head as if she could shake her words into the right order. “I need help. I came here because I’m desperate to find out what’s happening. I was told I should talk to you—” She wrung her hands as she babbled, her body slightly bent, stooped forward as if her chest ached.

  I touched her hand and felt a chill of distress twine up my fingers like the tendrils of a climbing vine. I didn’t jerk away, though that was my first impulse. “It’s all right,” I started, patting her hand very lightly and then closing mine over it to stop her churning motion. “Let’s sit down and you can tell me about it.”

  She returned a jerky nod, her hands stilling as she let her gaze slide away from mine. I led her down the aisle and around the corner to the coffee nook, where there were a few cushy armchairs set between a fake fireplace and the espresso counter. A one-third-scale replica of a Triceratops skull looked down on us from the wall above the espresso machine, just a few feet from a round traffic mirror that showed the alcove to whoever was manning the front desk. We were alone, but not unobserved, and that was fine.

  One of the chairs was occupied by a massive golden feline that laid claim to being a house cat only because we’d never been able to prove it was a mountain lion. “Hump it, Simba,” I ordered, with a dismissive jerk of my head.

  With impressive languor and a yawn that showed off white fangs and a long tongue of barbed pink velvet, the cat flowed out of the chair and prowled off to intimidate one of the lesser cats from its sleeping spot. I waved to the two now-empty chairs nearest us and watched the woman stumble and nearly fall into the one just vacated by Simba.

  I got a cup of water for her rather than coffee, since I figured that although she looked exhausted, she didn’t need to be any further wound up. She clutched the cup in both hands, her shoulders hunched. Her skin had a sallow cast over its natural lightly bronzed color, and blue shadows of worry smeared her eye sockets. She peered at me like a frightened cat from under a bed.

  I sat down and started the conversation since it seemed like she wasn’t ready to. I did my best to give the impression I was earnest, honest, and safe to talk to. “I’m Harper Blaine and I am a friend of Phoebe’s. I’m also a private investigator and I help people with problems. What’s your name and what can I help you with?”

  “I—my name is Lillian Goss,” she said. “Lily. Phoebe says . . .” Her gaze darted around, looking up at me, then down, then side to side in nervous jumps. “She says you see ghosts.”

  I was a little surprised: Phoebe hadn’t seemed entirely convinced when we’d had “the talk” about my weird abilities and the grief that they had caused her in the past. Of course, she might have still been mad at me; it was hard to tell precisely what Phoebe was thinking when she was displeased. “Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked.

  “I don’t. Or I didn’t. Or—I don’t know. But I believe in God and I believe in the Devil and I believe that whatever has my sister isn’t either one of those.”

  I blinked, but I didn’t balk. “‘Has’? I’m not sure I understand. Something . . . that isn’t God or the Devil has . . . taken your sister? Is your sister missing?”

  “No. Or yes. She’s . . . not home anymore. But someone else is.”

  “Someone else is in your sister’s house?”

  “Not her house—her body.”

  “You’re talking about possession.”

  “Yes.”

  I felt . . . well, the British would say “gobsmacked,” but I wasn’t sure that was quite right, either. I just sat still and tried to get my brain around it.

  She watched me absorb the idea and took my well-schooled poker face as rejection. She looked at the floor, her hands squeezing the cup so hard that the plastic sides deformed with a popping sound that made her start and gasp. “You don’t believe me!”

  “Yes, I do. But why have you come to the conclusion that someone or something other than her own self is occupying her body? That’s quite a leap for most people. In fact, most people wouldn’t even consider that it might be the action of demons or the Devil. . . .”

  “It’s not the Devil! God—my God—wouldn’t let that happen! He doesn’t just—just throw people away. He is loving and forgiving and Julie loves him just as I do. He wouldn’t—”

  I stretched my hand out toward her, placating. “Ms. Goss, it wasn’t my intention to offend you. I’m only surprised. Please tell me what makes you think some entity has control of her body.”

  She bit her lip, clamping down on sobbing breaths. She wheezed and snorted for a moment before she regained some control and was able to speak. “My sister is in what they call a persistent vegetative state—a PVS. She’s not really awake, even when she has her eyes open and seems to be looking around. She breathes on her own and sometimes she laughs or cries, but the doctors and nurses tell me it’s not real joy or sadness, just an involuntary function of whatever’s still working in her brain. She can’t do anything but lie in bed or sit in an armchair. The doctors say if her state doesn’t change soon, it never will; she’ll just deteriorate slowly until she dies.

  “But a while ago she sat up on her own and she started drawing or painting something on her bedspread—”

  “With what?” I asked. “With her fingers?”

  “Yes, at first. I thought she was getting better, but that’s not it. She just paints. She doesn’t improve. The machines indicate that she’s not doing anything—that her brain isn’t sending these signals that move her body—but she’s sitting up and painting. I started bringing her brushes and supplies so she wouldn’t use food or blood on the bed. . . . Now she just sits up at random times and paints. And then she lies down and whatever spark she had in her goes away again. The machines say she never did anything. Her blood pressure and breathing go up, but that’s all. But these paintings . . . they’re real paintings—not crazy smeary things.”

  “Is it the paintings themselves that distress you?”

  “No. She paints landscapes but they’re . . . they’re odd. Someplace you almost know but can’t name. She paints them—it’s not a hoax or a prank. But it’s not her . . . it’s not her doing it.” Goss gulped a sob and tried to drink from the crushed cup, getting water down the front of her blouse for her pains.

  I took the cup from her hand and fetched her a new one along with some paper towels to mop up the mess. Flustered, she patted at herself, looking embarrassed and finally hiding behind her cup of water for a few sips. Once she’d settled down again, I encouraged her to continue her tale.

  “You’ve seen her do this?” I asked. “The painting.”

  “Yes. She lives with me now—if you can call what she’s doing ‘living.’ I sit with her all the time. Night and day. Everything is falling apart, but I don’t know what else to do. Nurses come twice a day to help me, but she doesn’t move or do anything unless she’s painting. There are so many machines . . . but they all just beep quietly away as if she’s only
lying there like always. And now it’s getting worse.”

  “In what way?”

  “She paints all the time, so many hours, and not all the same kind of paintings anymore. Now it’s like there’s more than one person painting. Even when she should be sleeping, she sits up and paints. If I take the brush away from her, she just grabs something else—or uses her fingers—and goes back to painting. Some of the nurses don’t want to come anymore—it freaks them out to be with her. The doctor said I was imagining things, until she started doing it in the exam room. Now even he’s spooked. And all the time she’s doing it, it’s as if her arm is moving without the rest of her doing anything. She’ll move her head around, open and close her eyes, laugh, cry . . . wet herself . . . and keep on painting. It’s like she isn’t the one painting at all. It’s just her body being moved around by someone else. Like a puppet.”

  “Does she finish the paintings?”

  “Not always. But she paints faster now, like she’s racing—or whoever is inside her is rushing to finish before they have to leave again. If she doesn’t finish one the same day she starts it, she’ll never finish it at all. She just goes on to the next painting. Sometimes she’ll do three in a day.”

  “I think I need to meet your sister.”

  Lily Goss’s face seemed to flower with hope. “Then, you’ll help me? You’ll find out who or what is possessing Julianne?”

  I had to shake my head. “I can’t guarantee that. I don’t know what’s happening to your sister or if it’s really in my purview. There are some things I can’t do anything about. If this really is some kind of possession, then you need to talk to your priest.”

  She gaped and looked on the verge of crying, her aura turning a bleak, muddy green that seemed to drip downward like rain. “No . . . I already talked to Father Nybeck! He can’t help me! It’s outside his role or something. He said he can’t help me . . . won’t. Don’t—don’t say you won’t, either. Please.”