Spookshow V: Half-Boys and Gypsy Girls, page 13
“Zero expectations? You’re expecting it to fail?”
Tammy marched over and pretended to knock on Billie’s skull. “Hello, McFly? I’m not expecting anything, like I said. Just casual and no fuss. The way we used to have parties. Remember?”
“Those parties ended in trouble, remember?” Jen mimicked sarcastically. “God, do you remember getting trapped on the rooftop of Kaitlin’s building? In our bathing suits?”
“See? That’s the spirit!” Tammy turned back to Billie. “What nights do you have off this week?”
“Thursday.”
“Thursday it is,” Tammy declared, already dialing her phone. “I’ll tell Kaitlin. Jen, you call Adam. And you, Billie, call your detective boyfriend. It’s a date.”
Jen blew her cheeks out in frustration, but reached for her phone. “I smell a disaster.”
“Let’s hope so,” Tammy grinned.
~
Coming home, Billie made a silent wish before opening her door. She knew as soon as the latch clicked shut behind her that it hadn’t come true. She sensed nothing around her. The Half-Boy hadn’t returned.
Shouldn’t she be happy about that? Doesn’t that mean that he went back to the funeral home and sought out the warmth where he could cross over? He must have, she reasoned. His mission as her guardian angel was accomplished and there was no reason for him to stay. She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, not wanting to contemplate the alternative.
Sitting with her feet up on the chipped coffee table, Billie looked over her small apartment. The party was a go, according to Tammy. Kaitlin and Adam had both confirmed. When she called Mockler she had expected him to be cool to the idea after the fiasco at Jen’s, but he surprised her by looking forward to it. He said he’d make sure he was free that night and Billie reminded herself what Tammy had said about expectations.
Did she really do that to herself, setting expectations on things? No, she concluded, it was the opposite. She inverted expectations, assuming nothing would ever work out. When had she become so negative?
Pushing it aside, she realized that Tammy was right. Don’t expect anything, just dive in and adapt as events change. Surveying the messy flat, she needed to get busy cleaning.
There was a sound at the door, a soft whooshing sound. She turned in time to see something slip under her door.
It was a small envelope of black paper. No name or label on it. She swung the door open but the hallway was empty. Whoever had delivered it was silent and fast. She closed the door, turned the lock and opened the black envelope.
A single slip of white velum, the note written in elegant cursive with black ink.
Dear Sybil,
We need to talk. Call at number 6 Lorca Avenue this evening. After sundown. Please. It’s important.
Regards,
Cordelia
(a friend of the English fraud)
Billie checked the back of the card, but there was nothing there. She inspected the envelope and then read the note again. English fraud? She chewed her lip. Did she really want to meet another friend of Gantry’s? Taking out her phone, she checked the weather to see what time the sun would set tonight. An hour from now. She had time to pay the visit and still get to work.
Chapter 17
SHE HAD TO locate Lorca Avenue on a map, having never heard of it. A street in the old money section of Durand, flanked by the rise of the mountain. She took the bike, despite the cold weather, after finding gloves and the black toque that Jen had given to her as a birthday present last year. At the time, she had thought the cap cute, with its grinning skull motif. Now, it simply seemed apt.
She set off at sundown, cycling through the core to the quieter tree-lined streets of the Durand neighbourhood with its big houses erected in a bygone era by steel barons and industrial tycoons. The pyramid-like monuments to the captains of industry who had built the Ambitious City. Lorca Avenue was a cul-de-sac at the bottom of Hess Street where ancient oak trees canopied the pavement below in a web of spindly branches. The address on the card was a massive Georgian manor set back from the street with a turret topping the gables like a spire. Of the many tall windows in the facade, only one was lit.
Leaning her bike against the stone veranda, she found a brass lion head on the front door with a hoop through its jaws. She rapped the knocker three times and waited. The door creaked open, revealing only darkness within, as if the interior lights were all dimmed.
“Come in,” said a voice from within. A woman’s voice.
Billie brandished the letter. “Hi. This card was slipped under my door?”
“Inside,” said the voice. “Quickly, before you let in the chill air.”
Stepping inside, Billie watched the door bang closed behind her. Engulfed in darkness, she bit her lip. “Uh, can you hit the lights? I can’t see anything.”
“Your eyes will acclimate in a moment,” answered the voice. “Look to your left. Do you see the glow?”
The velvet pitch receded and Billie could make out a soft light framing the outline of a doorway. “Yes.”
“Follow it.”
Okay, Billie thought. The sudden plunge into darkness had startled her and her senses opened up involuntarily, throwing up a psychic web to warn of danger. She felt no threat from the woman in the darkness, so she moved toward the light from the other room. A library of sorts, from what she could make out. A fire blazed in a massive stone hearth, warming the space, but its light didn’t carry far. Billie picked out two tall wingback chairs and a Persian rug before the fireplace, a wall of bookshelves on either side.
“This must seem strange to you, Sybil,” said the woman, still invisible in the darkness. “Please, come near the fire where you can see better.”
The flames rippled up the flue in a cascade of orange and yellow, the wooden logs crackling and popping in the hearth. Standing before it, Billie felt its heat thaw the chill in her hands.
“Thank you for coming,” said the woman. “I apologize for the mysterious invite.”
The woman stepped into the light and Billie felt herself gawking. She was taller than herself and, at best guess, a decade older, but mesmerizing as she moved into the light. Her eyes were heavy lidded, as if sleepy and her dark hair was streaked in strands of grey. Her pale hands clutched at a black shawl around her shoulders, pulling it tighter to keep warm. The woman made a slight bow, but did not offer her hand. “I’m Cordelia. Welcome to my home, Sybil.”
Billie fumbled to reply, but felt herself numbed into gawking at the woman’s features. She had to tear her eyes away to clear the fog in her thoughts. “Call me Billie. Everyone does.”
“I know.” The woman motioned to the tall chairs before the hearth. “Have a seat.”
Billie sat before the fire and pulled off her hat and gloves. She studied her host as the woman took the opposite chair. Draped in black from head to toe, the woman named Cordelia looked as if she was headed out to some posh affair. Or a funeral. Billie surveyed the room around her, the walls stacked to the rafters with books. Potted ferns near the tall mullioned windows, a layer of dust over everything. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Can I get you anything?” Cordelia asked. “Some tea to warm up with?”
“I’m fine.” Billie unbuttoned her jacket, already too warm sitting this close to the fire. “I feel a bit disadvantaged here. You seem to know about me.”
“I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while now. Your reputation is growing.”
Billie stiffened up, her mind going immediately to an adolescent’s understanding of the word. “My reputation?”
“As a medium,” Cordelia said. “Your arrival has caused no small amount of stir within a certain community of people.”
From the moment she had stepped across the threshold, Billie had felt a vague uneasiness nag at her. It now tilted into a clanging alarm of danger. She should have known better than to come here. The spookshow, it would seem, was not about to let her go without a fight. “I see.”
“Are you still working at the tavern?”
The warning bells clanged on. “Yes,” Billie replied. “Why?”
Cordelia folded her arms tightly as if chilled, despite their proximity to the open fire. “I’m surprised. I thought you would have set up shop by now.”
“As a medium?” Billie shook her head. “No thanks.”
The woman in the black shawl tilted her head, puzzled. “Why the reluctance? A seer as powerful as you would be in high demand. You need to hang out a shingle, my dear.”
Was that what this was about? Another nutjob wanting her to contact a lost relative? Billie regarded the woman in the chair again. With her pale skin and dark hair, she seemed almost spectral. Cordelia was clearly no ghost, but something about her ragged at the periphery of Billie’s senses, arousing it in spite of herself. “I’ve put all that behind me,” she said.
Cordelia smiled. “I doubt that’s possible. Besides, you’re too young to retire.”
“So you know Gantry?” Billie asked, changing the topic.
“I do,” the other woman said. She shivered. “What happened to you? Why would you deny that part of yourself?”
“It’s caused nothing but trouble. Did Gantry tell you about me?”
“He did. I was intrigued.” Cordelia took the poker from the stand and prodded the embers in the fire. “Are you cold? I can put another log on the fire.”
“I’m fine,” Billie said. The room was almost stifling, but the woman in the shawl continued to shiver. “How do you know Gantry?”
“We’re old friends. Occasionally enemies.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
Cordelia looked up. “That he’d been killed in the prison? I’d heard. That seems highly unlikely.”
Billie agreed without saying so. “It sounds like one of his vanishing acts.”
“Gantry was one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you. Did you see his body in the morgue?”
“I didn’t get a chance,” Billie said. “It disappeared.”
“Leave it to Gantry to foul up his own demise. He should have pulled his vanishing act before getting stabbed in the back.” The woman leaned forward, propping her elbow on her knee. “Sybil, what do you think happened to him?”
“I honestly don’t know. With Gantry, anything’s possible.” Billie watched the fire crackle. “I hope it was all a trick and that he’s sitting in a pub somewhere having a good laugh over it.”
“As do I.” The woman’s gaze lingered over the flames, her eyes darkening as if she didn’t believe her own words.
Billie studied her host. Her features were flawless, almost classical in their beauty. A face that launched a thousand ships. The phrase popped into Billie’s head, but she couldn’t remember where she had heard it before. “How did you know Gantry?”
“He came here one night,” Cordelia said. “To the house. This was years ago. He came to kill me.”
That snapped Billie’s attention like a plucked piano wire. “Kill you? Why?”
“It’s a long story. Gantry was a bit unstable back then.” Cordelia rose from the wingback chair and swept forward, the fabric of her dress making a slithery sound.
Billie tensed, as if the woman was going to attack her. Or swoop down over her in an amorous drape. Either way, Billie felt her pulse quicken in a heady confusion of fear and anticipation. She noted, almost idly, the woman’s bare feet peeking out from the cascading hem of the long dress. An oddly rustic touch to the refined sleekness of her attire.
“Sybil.” Cordelia settled onto the ottoman at Billie’s feet, tugging the black shawl tight again. “Give me your hand.”
The dizziness amplified with the woman’s proximity and Billie shuddered, unable to tear her eyes from Cordelia’s. Their colour seem to change under the flickering light of the hearth, one moment blue, the next green, then orange. Cordelia held out her hand, palm up like a penitent waiting to receive the Eucharist.
Voltage crackled at the touch of her skin, followed by a numbness so cold it stung. Not quite the same chill that Billie experienced from the dead, but close. Akin to but something other.
The woman turned Billie’s hand over and traced her finger down the lines of her palm. “Your lifeline is interesting. It splits off at several points and then fades away.”
“What does that mean?”
Cordelia tilted her hand to the light from the fireplace. “Do you have children?”
“No. Does that mean I will?”
“Possibly, but there are so many of them. I believe it has more to do with the souls you encounter in your life, each one taking a piece of you with them.”
Billie shivered, the chill from the woman’s touch was leeching up her arm. “Your hands are cold.”
“I am always cold.” Rather than releasing her guest’s hand, Cordelia tightened her grip. “Did Gantry ever talk to you about an impending darkness?”
“Darkness?”
“Something he feared,” Cordelia said. “Few things truly frightened that man, but that was one, this looming threat that he insisted was coming.”
“He mentioned it, but never said what it was.” Billie tugged her hand back. “You’re hurting me.”
The woman’s grip locked more, her nails digging into the flesh. “He must have said more than that. He said he’s preparing for it, that he needed to be ready.”
“Let go.”
Cordelia’s eyes hardened, the irises changing colour again. “I believe you were part of his preparation for what was coming. Tell me what you know.”
“Stop!” Ripping her hand free, Billie shot up and backed away from the woman. She tried to rub her numb hand back to life, but that only made the pain worse. Cordelia rose from the ottoman, her dress slinking up a slithery sound. Billie took a step back, eyeballing the doorway in case she needed to run. There was something wrong with this woman with the cold hands and it was wrong all the way through her. “What are you?”
“I’m no pale apparition, if that’s what you’re asking.” Cordelia crossed to the fire and spread her hands before the flames to warm them. The study was tropical from the fire, but still the woman pulled the shawl tight like she couldn’t get warm.
Billie gathered up her jacket and gloves from the chair. She no longer cared what this woman’s secret was, she just wanted to get out. “I’m leaving. Don’t call on me again.”
Cordelia looked up as her guest strode for the door. “Something is loose in this city, Sybil. Something dangerous.”
Billie stopped. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. But I believe it to be part of this threat that Gantry was so maddeningly vague about.” Cordelia folded her arms and turned to face the young woman. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
The pain in Billie’s hand subsided to the throbbing of pins and needles. “How do you know this thing is loose?”
“Can’t you feel it?” Cordelia spat, shocked. “Out there in the dark, slithering through the streets?”
“I don’t feel anything,” Billie replied, neglecting to inform the woman that she had kept her talents strangled and muted. “Goodbye, Cordelia.”
Cordelia remained still, listening to the young woman’s boots rap against the marble. “Be alert, Sybil,” she called out. “And keep your back to the wall.”
Chapter 18
WHEN THURSDAY NIGHT came, Billie felt like a hypocrite. After admonishing Jen for needing to have everything perfect, Billie had spent the day sweating every detail. After cleaning the apartment, she rushed out to a handful of shops for food and booze. Back home, she fretted over the playlist, the lighting and what to wear, wishing she had planned this better. When Jen and Adam arrived, punctual as ever, Billie wasn’t even dressed. Jen shooed her from the kitchen, telling her to get ready.
Kaitlin, Kyle and Tammy arrived together. Jen had rearranged the food on the coffee table and soon everyone was tucking in, drinks in hand.
Billie lit a few more candles and dimmed the overhead light. She turned to Tammy. “I thought you were bringing a date?”
“So did I,” Tammy said. “Turns out my date is an idiot who can’t read a calendar.”
“Is this someone new?” Jen asked, her wine glass held daintily at the stem. “Or someone we know?”
“His name’s Clive. He’s in a band.”
“Of course he’s in a band,” Kaitlin chided. “Let me guess, he’s playing later tonight and wants you to go.”
“Worse,” Tammy groaned. “He has band practice. He wanted me to come by the rehearsal space.”
“Eew!” Jen cringed. “I thought we’d outgrown that phase, being the groupie girlfriend.”
“We did,” Tammy confirmed.
Adam looked at his date with disbelief. “You used to be a groupie girlfriend?”
“What girl hasn’t?” Jen shrugged. “It’s the worst, hanging out on a stinky couch watching your boyfriend’s crappy band mangle a song. Double-eew.”
Billie hovered over her guests from her perch on the arm of the sofa, sipping a beer and feeling completely disconnected from her own party. So far, everything seemed fine, but she kept fretting that she’d forgotten something and, checking the time, wondering when the rest of the food should be brought out. She still needed to prepare the croquettes and sling them into the oven. She figured that would go over well in an hour or so, once her guests were into their cups. And, then, there was the matter of her own date. Glancing at the clock again, she crossed to the window and looked down at the street.
“Billie?”
She turned around to find them all looking at her. “What?”
“You okay?” Tammy asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“We were just wondering where your date was,” Jen chimed in. “He’s the guest of honour, isn’t he?”
“He’s on his way,” Billie said, stepping away from the window. A white lie. Mockler had assured her that he would be there when she had spoken to him earlier in the afternoon. He was now an hour late and hadn’t returned any of her texts. “Who needs a refill?”
