Tangled Souls (27 page)

O’Fallon pondered on that. “Are . . . were you psychic?”

Not like you or the Shepherd, but I sensed things.

“Did you kill yourself because you heard voices?”

Yes.

O’Fallon’s mouth fell open. “But how could you . . .” He searched his heart and knew the bitter truth: he’d have done anything to stop those voices sucking at his very marrow, even commit suicide. He raised his eyes, and Ben’s ghost smiled faintly.

Now you understand.

“That’s why Avery wanted me on the case, so I’d make the connection. I doubt he figured I’d be meeting you in person.”

The ghost nodded.
He couldn’t tell you directly, so he did it in the only way he knew how.

“Thank you for being there tonight,” O’Fallon said. “I wouldn’t have made it on my own. I’m sorry there wasn’t someone there for you.”

There was someone, but I was too blind to accept their help. That was my mistake.

Overwhelmed, O’Fallon placed his head in his hands. After some time, he leaned back in the pew, blinking his eyes in the dim candlelight. The dead man was gone, his task apparently complete.

O’Fallon crossed himself, rose, and fell on his knees in front of Saint Bridget’s statue. “Bless you for watching out for this stubborn Irishman,” he whispered. “And thank you for giving me friends who know when I need help.”

So there it was—become a lush, and it all went away.

Nothing is that easy.

“What’s the downside? A rotten liver? An early grave?” she taunted.

He didn’t reply, but vanished in an instant with a distinct snap. She took that as supreme disapproval.

“So there is a way out.”

Gavenia smoothed a finger over the uneven surface of the cross. Now was not the time to make that decision; O’Fallon came first. She closed her eyes, cleared her mind, and began the ritual. At least the Irishman would be safe.

* * *

Avery’s eyebrows ascended at record speed. There was a witch on the church’s doorstep, clad in an emerald-green Kinsale cloak.

“Sorry, we don’t have midnight mass,” he joked, trying to lessen the tension.

Gavenia chuckled nervously. “And I’m sorry for coming so late, but . . .” She glanced behind her as if uneasy. “I don’t want O’Fallon to know I’m here.”

He’s turned in for the night.”
Collapsed
was closer to the truth.

“Good. He needs to rest after . . .” She seemed to be struggling for words. The blue eyes reached his. “I have a rather unusual request to make.”

“Well, it’s been a rather unusual night.” He welcomed her inside and then locked the door behind them. “We can talk in the library.”

As they negotiated their way through the church’s hallways, Avery took a quick glance at his watch, pressing the button to illuminate the dial. It was nearing midnight—his joke had been closer to the mark than he’d realized. Sleep was going to be at a premium the way folks were lining up at his door.

As they sat in the library’s two armchairs, flanked by walls of books, Avery scrutinized his visitor closely. His first impression of her at the Alliford’s had been correct—she had intelligent eyes and a bearing that spoke of an old soul.
No wonder Doug is intrigued by her.

Gavenia gingerly rearranged her position in the armchair, apparently trying to get comfortable.

“Sorry, the chairs here aren’t very well padded, even for a library,” Avery apologized.

“No, it’s okay. My hip gives me problems every now and then.”

“Old football injury?” he joked, testing the waters.

She smiled instantly. “No, a wayward broom.”

He returned the grin, pleased she was beginning to loosen up. “I was hoping you could explain what happened to Doug tonight.”

The witch nodded. “He touched Bradley’s penknife and collapsed. I thought he was having a heart attack. He never told me he was psychic.”

“He’s very uncomfortable with that.”

She chuffed. “No kidding.” Gavenia hesitated, and then continued, “I’m trying to figure out how to explain this you.” She gave a wan smile. “It’s . . . rather strange.”

“I’ll try to follow along,” Avery offered.

“By experiencing such an intense a vision, O’Fallon opened himself up psychically. Suddenly he sensed all sorts of stuff that scared the hell out him. Worse yet, all sorts of things noticed him.”

Avery leaned forward. “What sorts of things? Do you mean devils?”

She shook her head again. “Nothing to do with Satan or demons or anything like that. These are earthbound forms. Some are souls that haven’t crossed over and others are, well . . . just entities. They haven’t been enveloped by the Light. They don’t belong here and so they seek energy to feed on.”

“So Doug has the kind of energy they want?”

“Yes. His gift attracts them. Tonight he glowed like a lighthouse after the penknife incident. That’s the only reason I didn’t call the paramedics.”

“Do you appear the same to these . . . entities?”

“Not as much anymore. I’ve learned how to shield my gift from them, but they’re still out there and I consider them a threat.”

Avery sighed and studied his hands. “None of my professors at the seminary ever got into this sort of thing.”

“I suppose not.”

“Did one these things come after Bradley in his room?”

She stilled. “Yes. Gregory told you about that?”

Avery nodded. “I thought maybe he’d had too much to drink, but now . . . How would you know if you were being targeted by these things?”

“You’d feel paranoid; you’d see visions and hear voices.”

Avery shifted awkwardly. “What happens if you try to ignore them?”

“They keep working on you like termites on a log, sucking energy, draining you, taking over your thoughts.”

“Could it lead you to consider suicide?”

“Perhaps.”

“Good God,” he said. “Did you tell Doug all this?”

Gavenia shook her head. “He wasn’t listening. He was too afraid of what’d he’d seen. I know how that is.” She lowered her eyes and with a slight movement she placed her left hand over its quivering mate.

“You said you had an unusual request for me?” Avery asked.

Gavenia reached into a pocket, pulled out a satin pouch, and handed it to him.

“Doug needs some sort of talisman, something tied to his faith that will shield him. His rosary will help, but he needs a bit more than that.”

Pulling open the drawstrings, Avery slid the pouch’s contents onto his palm and blinked in surprise. It wasn’t what he had expected. “It’s a Saint Bridget’s Cross,” he said, looking at the witch in astonishment.

Gavenia gave him a nod. “Our two faiths have her in common, even though we spell her name differently. Since O’Fallon’s Irish, I asked Brigit to empower the cross, to protect him as a Celtic goddess would one of her own.”

“What do you want me to do with it?” Avery asked, intrigued.

“As O’Fallon’s Catholic, I’d like you to ask your Saint Bridget to do the same. By combining our strengths, maybe we can keep him safe.”

Avery puzzled over the unusual proposal; it definitely wasn’t in line with church doctrine.

They gauged each other for a moment.

“Doug and I have argued about his psychometric ability for the last five years. He’s fought me all the way,” he said, buying time.

“Apparently they did cover some of this in seminary.”

Avery gave a shrug. “I’m an avid reader.”

The witch exhaled deeply. “I made a vow to Brigit that I will not compromise Doug’s faith in any way.” She gestured toward a statue of the saint that sat in the corner of the library in a lighted niche. “
She
is his strength. I have no right to interfere.” Gavenia abruptly rose, as if she’d run out of arguments. “I leave the decision in your hands, Father,” she said, indicating the cross.

“I’ll pray on it,” Avery said, slipping the item into the pouch and tucking it into his shirt pocket.

After locking the rectory door behind her, he felt in his pocket for the cross. How would he reconcile the witch’s request with his faith? With a low sigh, Avery headed toward the private chapel. He had a number of hours of prayer ahead of him, and only God and Saint Bridget could show him the way.

* * *

The smell of fresh coffee beckoned to Gavenia only a moment before Ari drew open the curtains and flooded the bedroom in brilliant, burning light.

“Goddess, what are you doing?” Gavenia mumbled, pulling a pillow over her head.

“Time to get up.”

She raised the pillow sufficiently to see that it was just past seven. Ari always started the day at the crack of dawn. “Go away,” Gavenia ordered.

A heavy plop made the bed shake.

“Page ten, left-hand column. The picture sucks.”

Gavenia slowly maneuvered herself upright and tugged the morning paper closer. She flipped to the designated page, sought out the article, and swore at the headline:
QUEEN OF THE PSYCHIC CHARLATANS.

She skimmed the article, praying it wasn’t as bad as she feared. It proved worse. Bill Jones had faithfully transcribed every word and added a few dramatic embellishments. His summary of her
performance
, as he called it, was scathing.

In a spectacle unworthy of a B-movie actress, Ms. Kingsgrave hysterically spouted a blood-soaked tale about my mother’s brutal murder. While I admit this is Hollywood and some poetic license is allowed, my mother is alive and approaching her sixty-fifth birthday. I didn’t hang around long enough for the hook, but I knew it was coming. Charlatans like this want money. Despite her protestations, I knew the scam was in play the moment she channeled my dead mom.

“You lying bastard,” Gavenia growled, slinging the paper across the room, where it descended in a flurry at her sister’s feet. Ari adopted their aunt’s favorite stance, leaning on the doorjamb, her arms crossed over her chest.

“So, what do you intend to do?” she demanded.

“What can I do? By tonight Letterman will be doing a Top Ten list with my name on it.”

“Fight back.”

“With what?” Gavenia snarled, rising out of bed. Her left thigh immediately cramped, and she rubbed it furiously.

“With whatever it takes,” Ari replied, straightening up and dropping her hands to her sides. “Talk to Llewellyn. He’ll help you.”

“Suing the paper isn’t going to make this go away. I just have to ignore it, and in a few weeks—”

“Stop it! Just stop it!” Ari gave the papers at her feet a furious kick, and they hurtled into the air, then settled to the floor like massive leaves. “Don’t you see what you’re doing?” she challenged.

“I’m admitting there’s nothing I can do.”

“No, you’re playing the victim,
again
. You used to be the strong one, the one who stood up to bullies, the one who always kept me safe. Now you’re—” Ari waved a hand and gave the papers at her feet another vicious boot. “Now you duck and run.” She grabbed Gavenia’s cane from the door handle and held it up. “This is a prime example. There is no reason you need this. I know your leg hurts, but you’ve refused physical therapy and you hobble around like an old woman. Hell, even Lucy walks better than you do, and she’s had her hip replaced.”