Embers
Anya gestured to the symbol on the floor, the mark of the Horned Viper. “Did you
see him do that?”
Virgil nodded.
“Damndest thing. He drew on the floor with his finger, and it glowed,
bright as coke in a steel mill.”
The spirit was messing with her, or he’d lost his grip on reality over the years, or. . . her logical mind refused to contemplate what the alternative meant, if he told the truth. She crossed her arms over her chest. “He didn’t have a torch or welding equipment?”
“No, ma’am. He came in here with empty hands. He set that mark on the floor, and then.
. . this wave of fire rolled up from the floor. It was like looking at the ocean, only red, the
way it moved. . .”
Virgil made curving shapes with his hands.
“It was beautiful,”
he admitted.
“Thank you, Virgil. I appreciate your help.”
Virgil tipped his hat and melted into the wall.
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Anya. Good luck.”
Anya turned to look at Brian. “Did you get any of that?”
Brian showed her a voice recorder. “We’ll see. I take it from your end of the conversation that he positively ID’d your suspect?”
“Yeah. But it’s not exactly the kind of evidence that will stand up in court. I can’t put a ghost on the stand.”
Brian surveyed the wreckage of the basement. “Somehow, I think that’s going to be the least of your problems.”
Embers
is also available as an eBook
Embers
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Copyright © 2010 by Laura Mailloux
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ISBN 978-1-4391-6765-6
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Dedicated to my infinitely patient husband.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANKS TO MY WRITING GROUP, the Ohio Writers Network: Linda, Michelle, Melissa, Rachel, Emily, Tracy, and Faith.
Thank you to my editor, Paula Guran, for teaching as you work.
CHAPTER ONE
TRUTH BURNED.
It always burned, even in the dark, cold hours of the morning when nearly everything slept.
Anya stood on the doorstep of the haunted house, hands jammed into her pockets, stifling a yawn. She’d taken a cab, not wanting her license plates to be seen and recorded in the vicinity. The cab had peeled away, red lights receding down the gray street. The twostory brown brick house before her looked like every other house on the block, windows and doors ribboned in iron bars. Cables from the beat-up panel van parked curbside snaked under the front door, but no light shined inside. Empty plastic bags drifted over the cracked sidewalk until trapped by a low iron fence.
She poked the doorbell. Inside, she heard the echo of the chime, the responding scrape of movement. Anya wiped her feet on the doormat duct-taped to the painted stoop, waiting.
A lamp clicked on inside the house, and the door opened a crack. “Thanks for coming,”
the masculine voice behind the door said.
“It’s not like I could say no.”
That was the truth; it was not as if she could turn down what they asked, even if she wanted to. She held back a larger truth that scalded her throat:
And I wish you would stop
calling. I wish you would stop asking me to do this
.
Anya stepped over the cords into the circle of yellow light cast by a lamp with a barrelshaped shade in the living room. The shade’s wire skeleton cast dark spokes on the ceiling, illuminating a water stain that had been carefully painted over. But the water had still seeped through, yellowing the popcorn ceiling. A wooden console television sat dark and silent as a giant bug in the corner, rabbit-ear antennae turned north and east, listening for a dead signal. A shabby plaid couch dominated the room, covered with out-of-place pieces of tech equipment: electromagnetic field readers, digital voice recorders, compact video cameras. Laptop computers were propped up on TV-tray tables, casting rectangles of blue light on the walls.
Anya’s gaze drifted to the video cameras, then shied away. “I don’t want to be recorded.”
“We know.”
Jules, the leader of the Detroit Area Ghost Researchers, leaned against the wall, nursing a cup of coffee. No one would ever suspect Jules to be so deeply interested in the paranormal that he would lead a group of ghost hunters. He was the epitome of an ordinary guy: early forties, slight paunch covered by a blue polo shirt, well-worn jeans. A tattoo of a cross peeked out underneath his sleeve. Exhaustion creased the mahogany face underneath the Detroit Tigers baseball cap. Judging by the amount of equipment and the rolled-up sleeping bags in the corners, DAGR had spent a number of nights here.
Anya perched on the edge of the couch and rubbed her amber-colored eyes. “What’s the story?”
Jules took a swig of his coffee, creamer clinging to his dark moustache. “We first took the case two weeks ago. . . the little old lady that lives in the house was convinced that her dead husband was coming back to haunt her. She described lights turning off of their own accord, dark shapes in the mirrors.”
“Did she come to you or did you find her?”
“I found her.” Jules worked as gas meter reader in his day job. He had a knack for easy conversation, and people instinctively trusted him. Anya suspected he might have some latent psychic talent in getting a feel for places and people. He had an affinity for most people, anyway. Jules seemed wary of Anya. She didn’t think he liked her much or thought very highly of her methods. But she got the job done when Jules couldn’t.
“She’s got a basement meter and was afraid to go down there all by herself. Neighbor lady who used to do her laundry won’t do it anymore. . . said a lightbulb exploded while she was loading the washer.” Jules took a sip of his coffee.
“What evidence have you found?” Anya asked.
Brian, DAGR’s tech specialist, peered over one of his computer screens and took off a pair of headphones. “Come see.”
Anya sat beside him on the sagging couch, which smelled like lavender. Brian scrolled through some digital video; she assumed it had come from a fixed-camera shot of the basement stairs. A flashlight beam washed down the steps, green in the contrasting false color tones of night-vision footage. The glow from the screen highlighted the planes and angles of Brian’s face. Anya noted the circles under his blue eyes and his mussed brown hair. She thought she smelled the mint of the caffeinated shower soap he favored still clinging to him.
