Plague Cult (9 page)

“I didn’t mean to scare her.” An attractive woman of Ruth’s age, but dressed in the fashion of the 1920s with a Cleopatra haircut, a drop-waisted turquoise dress and Cuban heels, sat in an armchair by the fireplace in the front parlor.

Ruth lay on the sofa, with Shawn perched on its arm.

“It’s been a stressful day,” he said, then noticed Ruth was conscious. “Are you okay? You were only out for a couple of minutes. Just long enough for us to introduce ourselves. Ruth Warner, Carla Sumner.”

Ruth sat up, swinging her feet to the floor. “You’re a ghost.”

“I am.” Carla smiled at her, a wide and joyous grin. “But not bad company, all the same.” Crystal earrings dangled from her ears and matched the long, double-looped necklace she wore. She seemed the essence of a Jazz Age flapper. Apparently, Ruth stared a bit too long. “I don’t always dress up.” Carla waved a deprecatory hand at her outfit. “But for our first official meeting, I made the effort.”

“Huh.”

“If you’re all right for a minute, I’ll just get the bourbon.” Shawn stood.

“I don’t have any.”

“I packed a flask. Be right back.”

Ruth watched him leave the room, her gaze staying on the empty doorway as she listened to him run upstairs. Very slowly and reluctantly, she looked back at the ghost.

Carla smiled, more gently this time, almost sympathetically. “Bourbon first, then we’ll talk. You look like you need a drink. There’s still some moonshine in the secret cupboard—”

“There’s a secret cupboard?”

“Oh yes, in the turret. Just over here.” Carla got up and walked—it definitely wasn’t a ghostly glide—to a side wall behind a corner table. She tapped the wainscoting and it echoed hollowly.

It freaked Ruth a bit more to realize Carla had that much physical presence. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said.

“I know, which is why I didn’t introduce myself earlier.”

Shawn returned with the flask of bourbon, uncapped it and passed it to Ruth.

She swallowed a burning mouthful, suffering it like medicine. She coughed as she returned the flask to him.

He took a swig before recapping it.

“I was worried about you,” Carla said. “So I thought it was time you knew I was here.”

“Why?” Ruth wasn’t being rude. She was honestly baffled.

Shawn sat on the sofa beside her, his shoulder brushing hers.

Warm, real and solid, just what she needed. She leaned into him a bit.

When she flicked into mage sight, the ghost didn’t have an aura. It was deeply unsettling to see a person without their energy haloing them. Perhaps, after death, the energy that sustained an aura formed a person’s ghost?

Ruth released her mage sight. She sighed, and Shawn put his arm around her, drawing her closer.

Carla sat in an armchair opposite them. Its seat cushion didn’t dent, which was disconcerting. “Some of the stories people tell about ghosts are true. We haunt the place where we have unfinished business.”

“And what is yours?”
In my house
, Ruth finished, silently.

“Nothing that will harm you,” Carla responded. “It’s not that as a ghost I’m barred from heaven. I live—and I mean truly live—there, but I have a tie to Rose House that lets me return here. However, it doesn’t allow me to venture beyond it, or to affect events outside it. I didn’t know there was death magic nearby, not until you mentioned it.”

She laughed, relaxed and ruefully amused. “When I was alive, I refused to believe in magic. Now, I am dead, and you use magic, but would like to refuse to believe in my ghostly existence. The irony is perfect.”

“You introduced yourself to us, tonight, for a reason. Do you think you can help us?” Shawn asked.

“You’re a warrior,” Carla said. “My fiancé is like you. He died in the First World War. So many wars, so little learned.” She looked around the parlor. “My father built the house for Mother. Her name is Rose, hence the name, Rose House.”

It was strange to hear the present tense used for people long dead—by someone long dead. But Ruth’s fear was abating. It lessened as Carla talked. The ghost was simply so normal.

“Father made his fortune as a lumber baron. He built this house in 1894 and brought his new bride to it, his gift to her. Mother loved the house. She made her own pot pourri, and a large bowl of it under the stained glass window on the landing filled the house with the scent.”

Carla trailed her fingers over the carved wood of her chair’s arms. “I have two older brothers. We grew up happily here. So many good memories. I was the spoilt little sister. They teased me and looked out for me. They died with my fiancé in the war, and my parents died soon after of the Spanish flu and broken hearts. I was alone, but I had the house.”

“I’m sorry,” Ruth said, touched by the old tragedy.

Carla shook her head, smiling slightly. “I could have travelled East. My mother’s family were in Boston. They invited me to live with them, but I preferred the freedom of Texas and my memories. I was involved in the town, and I had my art. I painted, upstairs in the turret. It makes a well-lit studio. I gardened and—never mind. They were small town pleasures, but real, all the same. I had a good life till I died in a rail accident when I was travelling to California. Of all ridiculous things. I wanted to see Hollywood.”

She walked across to the fireplace.

With a start, Ruth realized that the mirror above it failed to reflect Carla’s face. As a ghost, she had no reflection.

“That was 1934. There was no one to inherit on Father’s side of the family, so the estate went to Mother’s family. No one wanted the house and it stood empty till a cousin came home from the Second World War and couldn’t settle. He took Rose House as his base, did some minor repairs—added the kitchen you hate, Ruth—but mostly travelled. He was a gambler. In 1986 he went back East. Ill-health. It’s amazing how people resist family and home till they’re sick, then the tie grows strong. Rose House stood empty ever since. Till you bought it.”

“Are you sad it went out of the family?” Ruth asked.

“No. The house suits you, Ruth, and you love it. That’s important.” Carla gripped her elbows in a gesture of self-protection and determination. “I wanted to tell you that you’re safe at Rose House. The death magic can’t cross the wards you had that mage lay. But more than that, until my business is finished on earth, this is also my home, and evil will not enter it.”

Carla vanished.

Ruth blinked. “Is she…Carla, are you gone?”

No one answered. Nothing moved.

Shawn yawned and stretched. “I told you your house was haunted.”

Ruth got up and threw a cushion at him.

He caught it and grinned at her.

“I’m going to make a cup of tea,” she said. “That bourbon tasted awful.”

“Twelve year old single barrel bourbon, and you call it awful.”

“I’m not much of a drinker. I guess it warmed me up.” She filled the kettle in the laundry and switched it on to boil. The kitchen was a disaster zone. She wouldn’t be using it for weeks.

Shawn leaned against the doorframe.

She found a packet of chocolate chip cookies, offered them to him and took one herself.

“So, now that you know your house is haunted, and you’ve met the ghost, can you sleep here?” Despite his earlier teasing, his hazel eyes were dark with concern.

Ruth paused with one hand on the kettle, ready to pour it. Steam snaked up to the ceiling. “I hadn’t even considered leaving.” She poured the boiling water into two mugs, then jiggled the tea bags. “I guess I can share my home with a ghost.”

He accepted his mug from her, eying the peppermint tea bag warily. “Carla seemed serious about defending Rose House.” He dropped the tea bag into the trash.

Ruth added honey to her mug, but Shawn waved it off. “Actually, if I had to meet a ghost, Carla was probably as normal and companionable as I could ask for.” She pulled a face, rueful and wryly amused. “But I’d have been happy to never meet a ghost. Did you see that she had no aura?”

“Really?” He sipped the peppermint tea. “I don’t tend to see auras. Magic, yeah. But auras are more a healers’ thing.”

They returned to the front parlor. “My head is so jumbled.” She rubbed her forehead.

“You fainted. That probably means you should rest.”

“It means my brain over-loaded. Honestly, a ghost!” She put her mug down on a coaster on the coffee table, and crossed to the bureau where she’d stowed her laptop. “I need to email a report to the Collegium. What we saw tonight was weird, and I’m not talking about Carla. Hopefully, someone there can tell us more about the variant on the fortune spell Whitney used.”

Shawn ate another cookie. He sat in an armchair, legs stretched out. Relaxed. The prowling, predatory anticipation that had characterized him before the hunt was gone. “Tomorrow will be interesting. I couldn’t detect any evil in town. If that was because Whitney was away, I should sense it, tomorrow.”

“Unless she manages to mask it,” Ruth said, opening her email and beginning a quick recap of the night’s events—although she’d leave out mentioning Carla, for now. First, she had to come to terms with ghosts being real. That definitely wasn’t taught at the Collegium. Perhaps magic and supernatural knowledge didn’t always overlap.

“Masking evil is possible, but it’s damn difficult to fool my hollerider instincts.” Shawn finished his tea. “If you’re sure you’ll be okay here, I’m going for a run.”

“Not back to the cult’s compound?” she asked, instantly alert.

“No, I’ll follow your fence line.” Follow her wards, double-checking them, was what he meant.

She smiled at his protective tendencies. “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

The house ought to have felt empty with his departure; or else, eerily haunted by Carla. Instead, Rose House’s usual atmosphere, a friendly tranquility, gathered gently around Ruth. That morning, she’d wound the grandfather clock, and its stately tick-tock provided a backdrop to the composition of her email.

She finished her brief report, sent it, and massaged the tight muscles of her neck. A hot shower and bed sounded like the perfect prescription.

Thirty minutes later, she was snuggled in bed when she heard Shawn’s return. The front door opened and shut.

He climbed the stairs. “If you’re awake, it’s just me.”

She smiled. “Good night, Shawn.”

It had been an eventful day. She’d reconciled with her parents, encountered death magic, learned a variant on an old fortune spell, met a ghost and cleaned way too many windows, only to follow that up with a hike through the woods. Oh, and she’d kissed Shawn.

Ruth hugged her pillow and slept.

“Thank you for the text, last night.” At the diner, Helen greeted Ruth with a kiss to the cheek and sent Shawn a warm smile. Before sending her report to the Collegium, Ruth had sent her mom a quick text,
home safe
. “Now, what would you like for breakfast?”

“Buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup.” Ruth didn’t even need to think about it.

The kitchen had a quiet breakfast bustle going on. Shawn waited out of the way near the door from front-of-house to the kitchen. “Sounds good. And bacon, please.”

“Ugh.” Ruth wrinkled her nose. “I hate mixing sweet and savory.”

“You always were fussy.” Peggy walked into the kitchen, making a point of how she had to walk around Shawn, and sighing about it.

“Ruth simply knows what she likes,” Helen defended her daughter. “Just like Mason won’t eat his fried eggs if the yolks are broken.”

Peggy took a step back at Helen’s vehemence.

Shawn caught Ruth’s wide-eyed gaze, and grinned faintly. He ambled out to claim a table.

Ruth just hoped he’d choose a table in Erica’s station, not Peggy’s. She patted her mom’s arm.

Helen ceased glaring at her sister-in-law. Apparently, after yesterday, she’d decided to stand up for Ruth more. “Your dad’ll be out some time later this morning. He has a few more things he thinks you—or Shawn—could use at Rose House.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Ruth didn’t need her mom protecting her, but it felt good.

Out front, she found Erica pouring coffee for Shawn. There were dark circles under the woman’s eyes, dark enough that the concealer she’d used failed to hide them. Ruth checked Erica’s aura. It was dim, but not magically-compromised or attacked. It seemed Erica had simply slept badly.

Unlike Ruth, who had slept like a baby in her haunted house. She thanked Erica for the coffee and watched the woman move away to top up other customers’ coffees. “Dad’s going to bring some more stuff, tools or something, to the house this morning,” she said absently.

“I’ll get his opinion on what to use to get the lino up. Whatever they glued it down with is tenacious, but judging by the floorboards in the rest of the house, they’re worth saving, so I don’t want to destroy them.”

“If Dad doesn’t know, he’ll have a friend who does.” Ruth smiled suddenly. “I’d better pop into the supermarket before we go home. I’ll need more cookies for the Duct Tape Club.”

Shawn raised an interrogatory eyebrow.

“It’s what Mom calls Dad’s friends. Any home repairs, and they start showing up, giving opinions on how the job ought to be tackled, and in the end—”

“Duct tape,” he finished.

“Exactly. The temporary fix that endures forever.”

Shawn’s expression lost its laughter and Ruth had to fight the urge to turn around. But when she listened, she could just hear the whisper of Mason’s wheelchair tires and the slow swoosh of the door closing.

“Good morning, cousin. Shawn.” Mason stopped at their table.

Erica had been about to put down their plates of pancakes, and had to detour around him.

“Morning, Mason,” they all chorused.

“I’ll get your order in,” Erica added.

“No hurry.” Mason’s gaze was fixed on Ruth.

She looked back at him, more objectively than she’d seen him in years. She let go of the boy he’d been when they were growing up. He’d never been cruel to her, just disinterested in his younger, female cousin. Staying with her own healing, she released the accident, and the memory of how badly hurt he’d been, how terrified she’d been, and how helpless. Finally, she let go of the memory of his anger and fear in hospital, and later, the relentless negativity of the weeks and months as he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.

I wasn’t to blame.
It had been bad luck, the worst of luck.

It only took seconds, but it was the final shift to seeing things as they truly were. Ruth looked at Mason and saw the lines of bitterness around his mouth, the puffiness of ill health under his skin, and the extra weight on him. He wheezed faintly, allergies or something else?

She slipped into mage sight and studied his aura. Aura-reading was only a rough guide to diagnosis. It showed if anything major was wrong.

For the first time, she didn’t flinch from the clouded aura from his hips down. As tragic as the consequences of the accident had been, at least he’d retained bladder and bowel control.

But there was a lack of vitality in his overall aura, and a clouding of liver and pancreas that hinted at pre-diabetes.

“What are you staring at?” Mason demanded. “You’ve seen me in a wheelchair often enough.”

A few heads turned.

Peggy abandoned the table she was serving and hurried over.

Ruth glanced from her aunt’s worried face to Mason’s scowl. “Was I staring? Sorry. I was thinking.” She hesitated, but now, with customers listening, wasn’t the time to recommend to Mason a discussion with his doctor about diet and blood sugar, and exercise. “I have to design a new kitchen for Rose House.”

Mason’s scowl remained suspicious, but he rolled on to his corner table.

Peggy turned her back to the customers. Her lips barely moved. “What did you see?” She wasn’t family by blood, but with Mason’s accident she’d learned of Ruth’s healing talent. And like her son, she’d blamed Ruth for not healing him completely.

“Pre-diabetes,” Ruth murmured.

Her aunt’s eyes closed a moment, even as her mouth firmed, lines of worry deepening. “I’ve told him. His diet…” She walked off into the kitchen.

“The pancakes are good,” Shawn said.

Ruth stared hopelessly at her own plate. “I don’t ordinarily eat like this. Fruit, yoghurt, whole grains.”

“Everyone’s allowed a treat, occasionally. Enjoying your mom’s home cooking is good for the soul.”

She cut a piece of pancake and dipped it in a pool of maple syrup. “Wise words.”

He didn’t look up from his plate. “Always easier when you’re not the one in the emotional minefield.”

“Yeah.”

He smiled at her then, a rueful, sympathetic grin—that vanished into the harsh, battle mask of a soldier.

She felt his magic surge, and without thinking, slipped into mage sight. The silver of his magic, that he’d released last night from meshing with hers, had woven into her aura again. Instantly protective. Her magic was completely masked. As was his.

“Zach! Whitney, you’re home.” Erica’s exclamation provided the explanation of Shawn’s action.

Ruth decided it would be normal enough for her to look around.

She saw an attractive couple in their early forties, recognizable from the mission briefing she’d received.

Zach smiled in a friendly fashion at Erica. “We got an early start. I couldn’t wait to be home.” His smile included everyone in the diner.

Whitney was more constrained. Her smile was small and she stood tensely. But she was beautiful. Her hair shone a rich golden blonde, her blue eyes sparkled, her teeth were white and even. Her aura didn’t quite blaze with such health, though. It was muted. That did happen when you employed death magic. It left a taint; like a greasy sludge over your own energy.

But what had Ruth’s eyes opening wide—before Shawn nudged her foot under the table and she remembered to look away, back at her pancakes—was Zach’s lack of aura.

She always saw people’s auras! Well, not Carla’s, but Carla was a ghost.

Zach…no, he wasn’t a ghost. She could see his shadow as morning light streamed in the window, and the chrome trim on the counter dimly reflected his image.

If she couldn’t see his aura…
Why can’t I see his aura?

“What time did you say your dad was coming over?” Shawn asked, his drawl a tad more pronounced.

“No special time.” Her mom’s delicious pancakes were an effort to eat. She sipped some coffee to ease her dry throat.

For Shawn to mask her magic as well as his, he must have sensed evil. Otherwise, it was an over-reaction to an ordinary witch. What would it have hurt for Whitney, one magic user encountering another, to have vaguely sensed Ruth’s healer’s talent? It wouldn’t have spooked Whitney or put her on the alert that she was suspected of cursing someone. Ruth’s cover story for this mission was the strongest it could be: she was coming home.

But Shawn had evidently decided to keep Ruth completely off the witch’s radar. Which meant Whitney was more than a misguided witch out of her depth with a spell she’d used. Whitney had to have embraced the destructiveness of death magic, and could, potentially, extend it into a plague.

There was a bitter reason for Ruth’s sudden loss of appetite.

Zach pulled out a chair for Whitney at a table three away from Ruth and Shawn. He ordered a “full breakfast” for himself and, without consulting her, granola for his wife.

Whitney fidgeted with stowing her handbag and adjusting the long, elegant skirt she wore.

Shawn finished his breakfast and caught Erica’s attention, signaling for a refill of coffee. Evidently, he wanted to stay a while.

Ruth cut a small square from her last pancake, but refused more coffee. “I’ll be bouncing off the walls.”

“Sounds like you might need it,” Erica said with the practiced friendliness of a good waitress. “Helen says you’re doing up the haunted house down by the river.”

Once, Ruth would have objected to calling her beautiful house haunted. Now, she forced a smile. “That’s right. Rose House.”

“Zach!” Mason called across the restaurant. “Good thing you’re back. The Chamber of Commerce meeting is this afternoon. It got moved up when Peter realized his grandma’s hundredth birthday party is tonight.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there.” Zach waved acknowledgement, and added a charming grimace of apology directed at the other customers. Calling across the diner wasn’t the politest action.

Whitney had a withdrawn, stoic expression for the rudeness, and sipped milkless tea.

“It looks like a nice house,” Erica said wistfully.

“You’ll have to come out and see it,” Ruth invited her impulsively. The loneliness she’d sensed in the diner yesterday was a shimmer of blue washing through Erica’s aura. The woman was lonely and, although she didn’t know it, her trust in the Moonlit Hearts Club had been betrayed. An offer of friendship would help heal her.

Erica flushed. “I wasn’t angling for an invitation.”

“You’re welcome all the same.” And because she knew that an open invitation was often a meaningless one, Ruth added. “When is your day off? Come out for afternoon tea, if you’re interested?”

“I have Mondays off. If you really mean it…”

“Three o’clock next Monday.” Ruth made the commitment. Even if they’d finished the mission by then, she had holiday leave owed to her. She’d take some time, and since William had obviously hoped she’d resolve her issues with her family, she doubted he’d mind her taking an extra week or even two.

Erica smiled as she returned to work.

Shawn pulled out his wallet and put money on the table.

Ruth swallowed her last bite of pancake with relief, finished her coffee with forced casualness, and fled.

“What did you sense when Whitney and Zach walked in?” she asked the hollerider ambling beside her across Main Street to the supermarket.

“Evil,” Shawn said briefly. “Sly, amused evil.”