Songs of Love & Death (53 page)

if I were not so allergic.

You have lost a great friend,

but at least you let yourself have him,

you took the risk of having a friend,

and he had you,

so you cannot ever really lose each other.

The words rolled steadily up the screen and disappeared into the night, and the stars beyond. Martin wrote on, haltingly, but never looking back.

I have not been as brave as you,

so I have no friend like that,

except you.

We cannot really know each other,

and I suppose we never will,

but I have come to think of you as a dear friend,

and I cannot bear to think of you so unhappy.

He took a deep breath here, paused just for a moment, and went on.

I am very lonely.

I have always been lonely.

It is my fault.

Do not let your grief shut you off.

It is too easy,

and it lasts too long.

Oh, Kaskia, so far away

The screen, with his last words still on it, went abruptly blank. Martin stared. The laptop was vibrating under his hands, making a sound like an old-fashioned sewing machine, or a car about to throw a rod. It stopped presently, and new words began to appear on the screen. They were like the sparkling pixel words that Kaskia had first tried before she began to absorb English, but the hand—and, somehow, the tone—were definitely not hers. Martin typed, as before,
My name is Martin Gelber
, and added, with a touch of defiance,
I am Kaskia’s friend.

That got somebody’s attention immediately. He was answered by what came across the screen as a bellow of fury.

YOU.

Martin repeated,
My name is Martin Gelber. I am a friend of Kaskia’s—

I KNOW YOU.

The laptop seemed to shiver in the face of such outrage, however faraway.

THE ONE TRIES COMMAND MY CHILD.

Martin stared at the screen in bewilderment and horror. He typed back
Child? I’m talking about Kaskia!

The new voice was slower to reply this time, and not quite as accusatory.

MY CHILD. MY DAUGHTER.

Martin thought of Ivan at the supermarket. Then he typed,
I didn’t know.

The voice on the laptop screen still resolved in capitals, but the tone no longer came across as menacing.

WOULD NOT. KASKIA LIKES TALK. STORIES. LIKES STORIES.

“Yes,” Martin said softly, remembering; and then typed,
Yes. So then she is not a famous singer and musician?

LIKES SINGING.

Of course
, he replied.
The sad story about her pet dying?

DEAD. YES. OLDER SISTER’S.

Martin said, “Oh dear.”

GOOD GIRL. GOOD GIRL.

Yes
, Martin typed again.
Smart girl. Don’t punish, please.

The voice did not answer. Martin wrote, slowly now,
Your daughter changed me. I don’t know how, or in what way. But I am different because of her. Better, perhaps—different, anyway. Tell her so.

Still no answer. Martin was no longer sure of the voice’s presence, but he asked,
One other question. Every time we spoke, Kaskia and I, there was an image of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I thought it was a picture of her. Not?

GOOD-BYE KASKIA FRIEND.

“Good-bye,” Martin said softly. “Good-bye, Kaskia.”

The laptop went dark and still. Martin touched the One Key, but nothing happened. He had an odd feeling that nothing would again; the computer had served its purpose, at least for him. He shut it off, unplugged it, wrapped the power cord around it, and put it in a drawer.

After two cups of strong percolated coffee, he called Barry. When his cousin—hungover and grumpy, by the sound of him—answered the phone, Martin said, “Barry? Do you remember the old Prince Albert sting?”

“Prince
Albert
?” Barry was definitely hungover. “Say
what
?”

“You remember. Big fun for bored kids on rainy afternoons. Call up a smoke shop, a candy store, ask them if they’ve got Prince Albert in a can. Remember now?”

A hoarse chuckle. “Right, sure, yeah. They say yes, and we say, ‘Well, let him out right now, he can’t breathe in there!’ Then we giggle like mad, and they call us little motherfuckers and hang up. What the hell put
that
in your head?”

“Just Memory Lane, I guess.”

“Hey, I heard about Lorraine. That really sucks. You okay?”

“I guess. Not really sure what okay is right now. I guess so.”

“Okay means there’s better out there, lots better. Seize the weekend, like
they say in Rome—old Cousin Barry’s going to hook you up with one of his Midnight Specials. Meanwhile you’re crazy free, right?”

“Crazy, anyway.” To his own surprise, Martin realized he was smiling. “We’ll see about the free part.”

There were bathroom-sink noises at the other end. “’Scuse me—trying to make an Alka-Seltzer one-handed. Hey, you still happy with that computer I sold you? I got a buyer, if you’re not.”

Martin hesitated only briefly. “No, I’m fine with it. Great little machine.”

Barry cackled triumphantly. “
Told
you it’d change your life, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. But thanks anyway.”

Martin’s smile widened slowly. Standing alone in the kitchen, he closed his eyes and listened to the stars.

Harder even than trying to live in two worlds is being trapped between them, like a bug between sheets of glass…

New York Times
bestselling author Yasmine Galenorn is a mystery and paranormal romance author perhaps best known for her seven-volume Otherworld series, which details the adventures of the half-human, half-faerie D’Artigo sisters, who work for the Otherworld Intelligence Agency, and which includes
Witchling, Changeling, Darkling, Dragon Wytch, Night Huntress, Demon Mistress,
and
Bone Magic.
Galenorn is also the author of the five-volume Chintz ’n China series, including
Ghost of a Chance
and
Murder Under a Mystic Moon,
which straddles the borderline between mystery and fantasy; and she has also written eight books on modern paganism, the most popular of which is
Embracing the Moon.
She also writes under the pseudonym India Ink. Her most recent book is a new Otherworld novel,
Harvest Hunting.

He’d been rambling around the house for years in a fog so thick that he could no longer count the years that had passed. Chained to the house by a chance meeting in a mirror, he was a shadow of his former self, a whisper on the wind, a glint of light against the glass.

The house had sat empty for ten years, although his mother still came in to clean every now and then, but mostly, there was silence. The only way he kept up with what was happening in the world was to listen to the conversations between May, his mother, and the rare friends she brought with her.

He’d come to believe he’d never have another chance to laugh, to smile, to be grateful for what existence he had. And he’d been lonely. So lonely, wondering if he’d ever have the chance to speak to anyone again. If nothing else, he wanted out—wanted to move on.

But today, something shifted—a breeze echoing through the empty rooms swept with it the hint of perfume—the fragrance of hesitation, of anger—and desire. And the scent touched him, woke him fully. Someone new had arrived. Someone he once hated, but now who promised him the chance of life again. The house would become a home again, and perhaps—perhaps he would have a chance.

S
OMETIMES, THE ONLY
way to exorcise old ghosts is to pack your bags and move in with them. And so, on one of those rare clear mornings in the Pacific Northwest—before the clouds had a chance to gather—I loaded my Pathfinder and left Seattle for what I hoped would be the last time. For all its beauty, the city was a constant reminder of the nightmare that had haunted me for over a year.

Three hours and two pit stops later, I pulled up in front of the rainbow-arched trellis straddling the drive leading to Breakaway Farm. Wild rose canes wound around the latticework, waiting for spring, sparkling with early dew. The trellis guarded an iron gate barring the road to the house, and in the moments just before sunrise, mist rolled silently along the ground, an ankle-deep shroud obscuring the path.

I let the motor idle as I slipped out of my seat and wandered over to the
gate, staring at the lock. The key dangled like a promise from my key chain, a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could find some semblance of peace. On the other hand, now that I was actually here, the idea seemed a little crazy. Maybe I was just stirring up trouble for myself.

It was simple, really. All I needed to do was gather my courage, unlock the gate, and drive in. Breakaway Farm was mine now, and nobody but my lawyer knew that I was moving here. There was nothing to stop me. Nothing but my own fear. The question was: Was I ready to face the past and conquer my demons? Or maybe, a little voice in the back of my mind whispered, the question I should be asking myself was really:
Was I ready to face the future?

Could I accept what I’d done, learn to live with it, and get on with my life? Even harder: Could I accept what had been done
to me
? It’s one thing to live with your own sins, quite another to be forced to relive the sins of another every time you looked in a mirror.

I rubbed my throat where the scars lingered. Their crimson brilliance had long faded, but the thin, white lines were still visible, and when I touched them, they burned. I knew it was all in my mind; it had taken only a few weeks for the actual slashes to heal, but every time I thought about them, the images that flashed through my mind were as fiery and painful as they had been that night.

A loud mew from the backseat startled me out of my thoughts. I turned around. Circe wanted out of her carrier.

“You’ve been such a good girl.” I stroked her ears between the bars of the cage. She’d slept for most of the drive over from Seattle. “What a good girl!”

As I stared into her emerald eyes, the calico chirped, her squeaks intermingled with the rumble of a purr.
She
trusted me. Maybe it was time that I learned how to trust myself again.

Taking a deep breath, I looked at the gate. It was now or never. Either go forward and risk the unknown, or admit failure. I couldn’t very well return to the dead-end life I’d left behind in Seattle.

My stomach in knots, I fit the key into the lock. The gate creaked open, protesting years of disuse. As it swung wide, I latched it to the post to keep it from crashing shut, and then, with one last look at the highway behind me, climbed back into the SUV and slowly edged along the graveled road bordered by tall cedar and fir trees.

Huckleberries littered the ground, along with fallen trees covered with moss and toadstools. A flicker of movement caught my eye. A fox? A coyote? A neighbor’s dog? It had been a long time since I’d set foot in the country. Unnerved, I rounded the curve. The drive opened into a semicircle parking
space in front of a footpath leading to a three-story house hidden behind a veil of tree limbs and bushes.

I turned off the ignition and squinted at the tangle of vegetation. It would be nice if my Muse would give me a sign—any sign—that I was doing the right thing. I waited.
Nothing.
Why couldn’t she reassure me that I was making the right decision? But no lightbulbs appeared over my head, no sibyl sang her song for me. This was my journey, and my journey alone.

As I climbed out of the car, exhausted by the turmoil of the past few months, all I wanted to do was to sleep. But I hadn’t slept through the night since…
hasty backpedal
. No, not ready to go there. Not yet. A glance at the eastern sky showed dawn giving way to day. Thin clouds blended into the pale blue that passed for morning.

I poked my head into the backseat. “Hold on for just a few more minutes longer, babe. I’ve got to check out the house first.” Circe stared at me, blinked slowly, sniffed the stirring of fresh air, then promptly curled up and fell asleep.

Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I set out for the house.

The path was crowded on both sides by a thick row of late-blooming herbs. They grew wild and tall, gone to seed, but still their fragrance lingered in the air, musty and old. Dizzy from the scent, I stumbled and almost blundered into a spiderweb that an orange and black striped argiope had spun across the path. It reared, crooking its jointed legs in the air, and I pulled back as it scuttled away into the lilacs. Spiders made me nervous, with their quick, darting movements.

Breathe deep, calm the soul.
That’s what the doctor had ordered. I inhaled slowly, holding my breath for a count of four, then let it out in a slow stream. As the stirrings of panic subsided, I plunged through the arbor to the end of the drive and out.

And there it was…
Breakaway Farm
.

Framed by two spectacular cedars, the house looked part castle, part cottage. Toss in a southern front porch and five acres of thickly wooded land and… bingo… Breakaway Farm.

I sucked in a deep breath, staring up at the old house. She might be lonely and abandoned, but she still had life to her. That much, I could feel. The morning light reflected off an unusually clean pane of glass on the second story as a gust of wind elicited a ringing peal from a set of wind chimes.

A flash… was someone staring at me from behind one of the third-floor windows? I squinted, looking closer, but the image vanished.
If it had ever been there in the first place
.

I made my way around back, wading through the knee-high grass and ferns that blanketed the ground. Another glance at the upper stories told me that there had to be a roof up there somewhere beneath the thick layers of moss and lichen, but the vegetation was so thick, it was hard to see. Ivy wound around the chimney, tendrils waving down at me. I completed the circuit and returned to the porch, staring up at the door, the key clenched in my hand.

It all came down to this. Could I go through with it? Unlock the door, and go in? I glanced back at the driveway where my Pathfinder sat, crammed with everything I possessed. No, there was no going back—but how could I go forward?

I held the house key up to the sky. When the lawyer had given it to me, it had rested in a black velvet box. Large and old-fashioned, an engraved R curled down the shaft, surrounded by delicate roses, and it hung on a black satin ribbon. R for rose… R for Jason Rose… the man who had almost ended my life.

A
WOMAN WAS
on the porch.

With difficulty, he pulled himself out of his foggy cocoon, and, by sheer habit, dusted off his jeans. His shirt was a cardigan—too warm for the summer, but he felt neither warmth nor cold. A glance in the mirror told him that he was probably out of style, but with his straight back, slightly gaunt but not unappealing face, wheat-colored shoulder-length hair, he cleaned up pretty good. The pallor in his cheeks would be a giveaway, but only in the brilliant light. If he kept to the shadows, she need not notice at first. And she would be his ticket out. His ticket to freedom.

He had reached the point of no return, and like the others, had been trapped in the house. The mirror had kept his spirit here, chained to the walls in which he’d once lived. The others walking in his world didn’t like him, they stayed
away, finding him strange and unnatural in their dark and endless night. But he… he was just who he’d always been. Except, he was alone. Or had been… until his dark twin had returned. Now he had hope, something he’d never thought he’d have again.

He’d spent a lot of time watching the seasons pass as the years went by. When his mother came to clean each week, he’d pray she’d see him. And yet, when it came time to make himself known, he’d hide. She’d try to free him. And to free him, she’d risk her own life. So he watched from a distance and listened. Now and then she’d talk to him like she had before the
accident
, before he’d unleashed the djinn. Once it was unleashed, you could never recork the bottle. That much he’d learned, the hard way.

After a quick calculation, he headed for the mirror. He hated the thing, and yet, from here he could travel to any room with mirrors or windows. He could look out on the world and watch the world pass by, but the living couldn’t look
in
, unless they were gifted with the Sight. They could see only the shallow surface, the image reflected in them.

As the tumblers of the lock began to turn, he slipped into the antique mirror that stood against one wall in the bedroom. After all, what better place to first lay eyes on your new bride?

“E
XCUSE ME
.”

Startled, I turned, almost twisting my ankle. I found myself facing an elderly woman who might have been fifty, might have been eighty. Her hair shimmered white under the early streaks of sun, and she wore it in a tight chignon, held by a butterfly barrette. Her dress was a tidy periwinkle, with an apron tied at her waist. She smiled and I caught a glimpse of myself in her brilliant blue eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, her gaze flickering over me again. “But are you Laurel Rose?” She held out her hand, a smile creasing
the ancient topography of her face.

Wary, I nodded and glanced around, wondering where she’d come from. I hadn’t heard her approach.

As if reading my mind, she said, “Out of the woods. Where else?”

For a moment, I stood disconcerted, uncertain what to say next. I had the feeling that she could see right through me, as if I were made of light, fractured by a prism. I gathered my wits enough to say hello.

“I’m May. May O’Conner.” With a gentle bob of her head, she added, “Jason’s aunt.”

I leaned against the newel post, a stab of pain knifing through my forehead. The headache that had been looming all morning suddenly hit full-force.
Jason’s aunt
was not who I needed right now. The man who almost murdered me had never been complimentary when he spoke of his family. But then again, he’d never said a good word about anybody but himself. I searched May’s face, scanning for a resemblance, but to my relief found nothing.

“How do you do?” I stammered.

“Oh, fit and tidy, fit and tidy.” May winked at me, then pointed to the door. “I’ve come to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

I fingered the key, surprised by her friendliness. I’d expected a stormy confrontation when I finally met her, accusations for defending myself, tearful threats, but not this welcoming matter-of-factness.

She motioned to the door. “Shall we go in? I’ll show you around.”

This was it, no more room for procrastination. Either I claimed Breakaway Farm or left defeated. And if I left here… I held my breath and inserted the key into the lock.

The door, carved with figures too weathered to discern, swung open with a faint creak. I stepped back, allowing May to enter first. Our eyes locked as she drew me in and flipped on the lights. I was relieved to see them flicker to life—the lawyer had said he’d take care of the utilities, but you never knew whether tasks would get done when you delegated them to other people.

“Breakaway Farm is a solid house, and will take you through the years.” May’s words echoed through the long hall. “She’s been empty for around nine years, since… since my Galen died. I’ve kept the house up, hoping that perhaps Jason might change his mind and want to return home. But I think I knew he never would. Then, when I found out that you were moving in, I came over and spiffed it up with a lick and a spit.” She turned to study my face and added, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Why would I mind?” I wanted to hug her in relief. No brewing storms, no callous remarks, just that unrelenting smile. “I’m just grateful that
I won’t be facing corners filled with cobwebs and mold growing on old furniture. I’m glad someone took care of it all these years instead of letting it go to ruin.”

Then it hit me—how did she know I’d be moving in? The lawyer had promised he wouldn’t tell anyone. So much for confidentiality.

May stopped in the hallway, where photographs lined the walls. People I didn’t know, places I’d never been, but they were beautiful and melancholy and incredibly sad in a way I couldn’t define.

I raised a finger and hesitantly traced the frame of one that stood out among the rest. Protected by glass, a man and woman were curled together on an iron settee in the middle of a garden.