“This is going to be a long recovery,” I murmured, taking a seat on the end of the couch.
“Good Ombuds itch their partners,” Theo said, sitting beside me.
“That’s not even remotely true, and you just got to second base with that coffee stirrer. She’s your partner now.”
Connor snorted, leaned against the arm of the sofa near me as Petra sat on the floor, legs crossed.
Ariel pulled ceremonial objects from a black leather backpack: a candle, a silver bell, a piece of indigo silk. She placed the silk on the coffee table—around which hundreds of bridal shower guests had probably gathered—and put the candle, the bell, and the vial we had given her atop it.
She sat cross-legged in front of the table, rolled her shoulders, then looked at each of us. “Quiet and still,” she said. “I cannot stress that enough.”
“No distracted ghosts,” Petra said. “Got it.”
With a mild smirk, Ariel looked back at the assemblage on the table. Then, with careful, intentional movements, she lit the candle, uncapped the vial, and rang the bell. The candle’s scent was light and floral, and the bell’s sound was clear and harmonic, and echoed nicely around the room. But it still creeped me out; our interaction with the coven had ruined me for bells, even though I understood the good intentions of this magic.
“My name is Ariel Shaw,” she said, eyes closed and voice clear. “I seek an audience with any of those whose essence is contained within the vial presented here.”
Magic began to gather in the room. This was her power, calling out to the place where spirits resided, facilitating their appearance in our plane. We all waited for a response, watching the space above the coffee table for a sign of life.
And then the air began to grow cold, heavy. The vial shook on the tabletop, the ooze now faintly luminescent. Instinctively, I looked down at Theo’s cast, was relieved to find it wasn’t pulsating with green light.
“Come forward,” Ariel said. “Come forward and claim your audience and be heard.”
Another wash of magic from her end, and the temperature dropped more, enough to have our breath fogging the room. The old magic was stronger now, although I wasn’t sure if that was a remnant of the magic from the gate or a ghost that was eager to have its say.
Light began coalescing above the coffee table, pale and green and shimmery as good nail polish.
Theo grabbed my arm with his noninjured hand, fingersdigging in. The former cop who’d faced down all manner of monsters was definitely over ghosts.
“Ow,” I murmured.
“Sorry,” he said, but didn’t let go or loosen his grip. Granted, his last encounter with a ghost had him in the emergency room, so I could understand the apprehension.
“Claim your audience,” Ariel said again, and the floating light became more distinct, swirled, and pulsed until a figure appeared.
She was a woman with pale skin, a slightly uptilted nose, and lips that were currently pursed into displeasure. Her hair was curly and arranged in a complicated updo, with a small hairpiece of lace and flowers—I think it would be called a “fascinator”—cocked at an angle atop the pile of it. Her dress was high-necked, big-shouldered, and narrow-waisted, and definitely from another era.
Victorian, I thought, from the late 1800s; 1872-ish, probably.
I was a little surprised the ghost appeared female and was so nattily dressed. I’d had the sense the human ghosts at the gate had been male, and they certainly hadn’t worn fancy clothes. If she hadn’t been at the gate, maybe she’d been the one to work the magic?
“Well,” Petra whispered, “I did not have ghost-in-a-fascinator on my bingo card this year.”
“Right?” I whispered.
“What’s a fascinator?” Connor asked quietly.
“The little hat,” Theo said, gesturing, and earning a sharp look from Ariel.
When we were still and quiet again, she looked back at the ghost. “State your name, spirit.”
The ghost’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Ariel swore quietly, rolled her shoulders, and stared more intently at the woman. Whatever magic she’d passed along in that instant did the trick.
“I am Patience Minerva Gillicutty,” the ghost said. The words still had a tinny quality, but given she was speaking to us From The Beyond, or whatever, it sounded pretty decent. Vinyl quality, at least.
“Date of birth?” Ariel asked.
“I was born in the year of our lord, 1848, in the city of Chicago, Illinois. Why have you summoned me?”