Council of Souls

by Jen Printy

  Grady casts a discouraged eye in my direction. Apparently, he hasn’t forgiven me for my lack of information. Back in York, after I told Grady I was immortal, born in 1841, as a history teacher he was full of questions, asking me about every detail from the Crimean War to the Irish famine. Shamefully, I had to admit that I’d been less than observant throughout the years.

  “When do I get to meet him?” Grady eyes a loose thread hanging from his sleeve as if he doesn’t care much about my answer.

  For the first time since Artagan took off, I’m glad he’s not here. “I’m afraid you won’t,” I say. “His job calls him away a lot, and I fear he won’t return until after Christmas. Maybe longer. He’s an antiquities dealer in France,” I add, making a mental note that should Artagan return before Grady goes back to England, I must tell him about his new profession and nickname. I fight a chuckle at the thought of his expression.

  “Another time, then.” Grady brings his hand to his mouth to smother a yawn.

  “That’s our cue,” Leah says. “We’ll let you settle in. You must be exhausted from the flight.”

  “Nah.” Grady shakes his head. “Let’s get takeout. I’ve been craving the Lotus Blossom for weeks. Just one bite of Mr. Chang’s egg rolls, and I can die a happy man.”

  Over boxes of General Tso’s chicken and sweet-and-sour pork, and two large orders of egg rolls, we immerse ourselves in catching up with each other’s lives. Leah shares what she can, telling Grady all about her ever-growing list of museums she plans to visit. Grady chats about his life in England, my favorite story being the first time Charlotte talked him into playing cricket.

  “Cricket’s a tougher game than I gave it credit for,” Grady says. “I learned the hard way about the necessity of quality protective gear. That’s for sure. Unless I want to sing soprano for the rest of my life.”

  I laugh.

  “I would have paid money to see that,” Leah says.

  “I’m sure Charlotte has a video she’d love to share.” His attention drifts for a moment. “She’s perfect for me, Lee-lee. She laughs at all my jokes, even the awful puns. Weird, I know.”

  “Brave woman.” I grin.

  “Or foolish. I’m not sure which. I think I’m rubbing off on her, though. She told me this one on the way to the airport. Why did Karl Marx dislike Earl Grey tea?” Grady says, chuckling.

  Leah rolls her eyes. “Oh, glory. God help me.”

  “Come on, just humor me.”

  “Fine. Why?” I hear the defeat in Leah’s voice.

  “Because all proper-tea is theft.”

  Leah and I groan in unison.

  Grady ignores the reaction. “How about this one? A Roman walks into a bar and asks for a martinus—”

  “No more. That was my one for the day. You better treat Charlotte right,” Leah says. “I’m pretty sure she’s the only woman on the planet that can bear your brand of humor.”

  “You’re right. It takes a special woman to handle all this,” he says, displaying himself as if he’s a prize to be won.

  I laugh and shake my head. “Yeah, too much class and sophistication there.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Grady says.

  By the time we break open the fortune cookies, the conversation has come full circle, with Grady chattering on about his first love once again—history.

  “That reminds me. I need your expertise,” Leah says to Grady, stacking the dirty plates. The corners of her mouth twitch as she fights a smile. “Back in college, you wrote a thesis on name trends, didn’t you?”

  “It was a little more involved than that.” He seems genuinely offended. “I charted the history of given names in Britain, and how their fall from popularity reflected social cues. Like, for example, any name connected with Catholicism became wildly unpopular after Henry the Eighth separated the Church of England from the pope’s authority. Why?”

  “I’m searching for a Victorian name beginning with F.” She gives me a sheepish glance and heads for the kitchen. Grady grabs the glasses and follows.

  I stifle a groan. I should have seen this coming.

  “That’s a bit vague. I’m sure Jack would be a better resource than I am,” Grady says, glancing at me as I enter the room, but then goes on. “Let’s see. Florence or Felicity. They were both popular back then.”

  “No, I need a boy’s name.” Leah flashes me a wicked grin as she turns on the faucet, filling the sink with sudsy water.

  I grab a dish towel, feigning disinterest.

  “Fredrick—” Grady stops short, casting a suspicious eye first to Leah and then to me. As he jumps to conclusions, his face turns as red as a beet, big-brother mode galloping into overdrive. “You said you weren’t—”

  “Pregnant?” she says, offering him a bemused smile. “No, I didn’t. I said it was none of your business.”

  “Shit! I was right. You are expecting!” He spins to face me, his hand doubling into a fist.

  Leah bounds in front of me, arms spread wide. “Oh my god! What are you going to do? Hit him?”

  “Damn straight if he knocked up my baby sister.” He glowers at me over her shoulder.

  “Grow up, please,” Leah says. “What are you? Twelve? It’s just a stupid misunderstanding. I’m one hundred percent not pregnant. The reason I want to know about Victorian names is because I’m trying to figure out Jack’s middle name, and he won’t tell me.”

  “Oh.” Grady chuckles with nervous undertones. He then clears his throat, looking in my direction. “Sorry, man. No hard feelings?”

  I laugh once at his shamefaced expression. “No blood, no foul. Besides, I would have done the same thing if I were in your shoes.”

  “Great. I have two adolescents on my hands. Now that’s all cleared up, back to my question. Names beginning with F, please,” Leah says, face beaming. Grady’s eyes flash to mine.

  I give a noncommittal shrug and force a grin.

  “No way,” he says. “I’m not helping you. Remember Jimmy Lowe.”

  “Oh, him,” Leah says with a roll of her eyes. “He deserved what he got.”

  “When you found out his middle name was Carol, you were ruthless.”

  “I was eleven.”

  “Ruth-less,” he says, overemphasizing the syllables.

  “He called me tinsel-teeth for months. I was already self-conscious about my braces. He made it ten times worse.”

  “No, he called you that for a week before I told him to knock it off.” Grady regards me with a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry. I got your back. She won’t get any information out of me. Band of brothers and all.” He raises a fist.

  Leah’s eyebrows scrunch together, annoyed. “Band of brothers? Oh, please. Two seconds ago you were ready to rip him a new one.”

  Grady opens his mouth to say something, something argumentative from his expression, but he stops himself, takes a quick breath, and begins again. “So how’s all the wedding planning going?”

  “We haven’t even started, not really,” Leah says a little apprehensively, pulling the plug out of the sink.

  “The adjusting and all?” That suspicious gleam returns to Grady’s eyes.

  Leah nods. “I need to find a dress. Then there’s the guest list and the invitations, not to mention the date. I was talking with Rachel yesterday. She said when her sister got married, most churches book a year in advance.”

  “A year!” I swallow hard.

  “Don’t panic,” Leah says. “After the holidays, I was thinking of asking Mom if we could get married under the trees in her backyard. Granted, they aren’t elms, but still kinda fitting for us. Don’t you think? I know it’s not a church, but think about it,” she goes on, not waiting for my answer. Her hand gestures become more pronounced as her excitement builds. “We could hang paper lanterns in the branches, ropes of lilacs and daisi
es lining the aisle. It would be beautiful. I bet Mom will let us have the reception in the barn. Plenty of room for dancing.”

  Warmth ignites in my chest, and visions of Leah walking down the aisle of some country church—like one you’d find in the Cotswolds—dressed in white satin and French lace fill my mind. She’ll be such a beautiful bride. My bride, I think, smiling at her.

  “I see you haven’t been thinking about this at all,” I say.

  “Just a little.” Leah bumps my arm with her shoulder.

  “So when is this dream wedding taking place?” Grady asks.

  “June, maybe. How about the fifteenth?” She glances at me and then to Grady. “You will be on summer break, right? Can you be back by then?”

  “With bells on,” Grady says. “And since I won’t be around to help out with any of the planning, let’s go wedding dress shopping tomorrow.”

  Leah stares.

  Grady raises his hands, confused. “What?”

  “You’re kidding,” she says. “Do you remember the last time you went dress shopping with me? For prom? Mom forced you against both our wills. It was six hours of hell and complaining. The whole time, I thought about strangling you with a clothes hanger. Why would you want to put either of us through that again?”

  “Because you’re my baby sister and tormenting you is my job.” Grady grabs a hold of Leah with one hand and musses her hair with the other, laughing at her annoyed expression when he releases her.

  Grady’s presence brings a bit of normalcy back into our lives. To my relief, Leah and I become expert jugglers, able to keep the world of family and the world of the reapers from colliding. During the day, Grady drowns himself in research, and with his innate fear of haunted places, he has no desire to tour the mansion. So when Leah isn’t training, we spend our evenings at my old apartment, eating takeout and watching football or old movies with Grady. But with Christmas on the horizon and Leah’s mother insisting we spend the holidays with family, I hope our juggling abilities are strong enough and Leah doesn’t crack under the added pressure.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I have no idea what to give your sister for Christmas,” I confess, stuffing Grady’s newly purchased book, The Social Milieu of the Middle Ages, in a plastic bag.

  Grady clears his throat, the corner of his mouth lifting upward. “You realize Christmas is a little over a week away?”

  “I do realize that. Thank you,” I grumble, scowling at him. “You’re one to talk. Wasn’t it you who showed up the day of his sister’s birthday, looking for a rare, out-of-print book? If I remember right, I saved your ass.”

  “Might have been. Sounds like me.” He laughs. It echoes in the empty shop, ringing among the bookshelves. A cough chases his amusement away, and he covers his mouth with the inside of his elbow until the fit subsides. “You could always buy her a book,” he suggests after excusing himself. “She loves Austen. Pride and Prejudice, maybe.”

  Mr. Darcy. I roll my eyes.

  “Or not.” Grady chuckles. “Oh, that’s right. My sister mentioned once you aren’t a member of the Darcy fan club.”

  “I thought of a book. Maybe not that particular book. If there was one she really wanted, that would be the perfect choice. But she hasn’t given me any hints, and I want whatever I get her to be special.”

  “Well, you’ll never beat mine. Warm, cozy, the forever hug. The Snuggie. Best gift ever. I got Charlotte one, and she loves it. But be warned,” he says with a bit of forbidding in his tone. “As memorable as the perfect gift can be, the wrong one can be equally as devastating. I know someone who gave their girlfriend an ironing board. I guess she had mentioned she needed one a few times. Poor Tyler thought it was a hint. It wasn’t. That was their one and only Christmas. But no pressure.”

  “You’re an ass.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Grady’s smile grows at my dubious expression, and then he glances at his watch. “Now that I’ve caused enough trauma here, I’d better get back to the grind. We’re still on for tonight, right? The Patriots are on at seven,” he reminds me, snatching the bag off the counter.

  I grimace. “Er, Leah didn’t call you?” This morning Leah informed me she and Kemisi would be going out tonight. She gave me no details, but I glimpsed something in her eyes that told me it wasn’t a night with the girls. For about a half a second, I consider telling Grady neither of us can make it. Deep down, I’m still hoping that Kemisi will relent and allow me to go with them. However, I know that possibility is as likely as Artagan giving up Scotch. And since the thought of another night alone sounds less than inviting, I change my mind.

  “The coffee shop Christmas party is tonight,” I lie. “Rachel didn’t tell Leah about it until yesterday. So it looks like it’s just you and me. I’m out of work around six. I thought I’d pick up pizzas from Portland Pie.”

  Grady answers with a nod, coughing again until I feel obligated to grab him a bottled water from the back.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, just a stupid tickle. Got up with it this morning,” he mutters and takes another sip.

  As soon as Grady is out the door, I text Leah, telling her about my little white lie just in case her brother stops by Old Port Java. I ask her to let me know when she’s finished, and I’ll come back to the house. Although Leah seems to handle each gathering more stoically, she remains haunted for hours when she returns as if, at least for a while, a piece of herself lingers behind with the victim.

  Just as I pull on my jacket, readying to depart for the day, I receive a text from Grady informing me that his stupid little tickle has evolved into a full-blown case of the flu, leaving my evening gallingly free and clear.

  The glow of the streetlights gleams in through the windows, throwing long, distorted shadows across the paneled walls. The grandfather clock strikes two, its hollow gongs echoing up the dark expanse of the hallway from the foyer below, but Leah still isn’t back yet. Somehow, the mansion feels bigger, lonelier without her here. However, with Artagan MIA and Kemisi’s steadfast opposition to bending the rules to allow me to tag along, evenings alone are a situation I’d best get used to.

  My stomach growls again, reminding me why I ventured out of bed at this godforsaken hour. I dash down the stairs and head for the kitchen.

  Ransacking the refrigerator, I paw my way through containers of leftovers and jars of condiments. Shoved near the back, tucked away on the bottom shelf, I find promise in the form of mashed potatoes, and then discover a jar of onion gravy in the door. When I unearth sausages hidden in the meat tray under Kemisi’s packages of tofu, I practically cheer aloud.

  The sizzling and popping of the sausages frying in the pan fills the silence. The aromas of cooking meat and spices push my hunger into overdrive. With a plate of bangers and mash in one hand and a beer in the other, I flip on the light switch with my elbow and walk into the dining room.

  Settled at the long table, I’m about to take my first bite when I hear a noise—the faint sound of voices too muffled to make out. Because of the ladies’ absence and Otmar’s departure to Madrid, I should have the whole place to myself.

  I turn my head, trying to gauge the direction of the voices, but hear nothing except the faint tick-tock of the clock in the foyer. I chalk the noises up to my haunted imagination combined with the creaks and squeaks of an old house and return to my meal.

  A wail brings me to my feet.

  Long and loud, Leah’s cry banishes any notion I’d been hallucinating. My body hot with flooding adrenaline, I speed my way toward the keening, heading for the hallway at the rear of the dining room. I map out the corridor in my head—the number of doors, how the passage veers left, ending at Artagan’s office, abandoned for weeks—and step into the narrow hall.

  The blackness slows my gait, but I decide against turning on any lights. Not knowing what I’m walking into
, I want the element of surprise in my arsenal if needed. Feeling my way, I move as swiftly as I can, listening at each door and then checking the room before moving on to the next. Everything is silent, and I wonder if I chose the wrong direction. I consider retreating and searching another part of the house, but something in my gut tells me to keep moving forward.

  Around the corner, the first hint of light comes into view. At the far end of the hall, Artagan’s office door stands ajar, casting a block of light on the adjacent wall. I hear the sounds of hushed sobbing. Placing each step with silent caution, I inch toward the opening.

  “There, there.” I freeze. It’s Artagan, his voice weakened from some emotion. “We’ll get you through this somehow. I promise.”

  Silence follows. I wait, my back pressed against the wall, listening.

  “Get me through it! No! I won’t!” Leah’s words explode from the room. The desperation in her tone propels me into the office just as she rushes at Artagan. Screaming, Leah pounds on his broad chest with tiny fists, the sound of the blows thudding against his ribs. Artagan does nothing to stop the assault. Balled hands restrained at his side, his face is hard, but his eyes project a sad softness. He stands stoically, allowing Leah to strike him again and again.

  Still struggling to make sense of the scene I’ve stumbled into, I grab Leah around the waist, swinging her thrashing body away from him. Her red, puffy eyes are wild, mirroring those of a cornered animal. My attention snaps to Artagan. “You’ve been gone for weeks. Disappeared with no explanation. What did you do?”

  He ignores me, his focus glued to Leah. “You have no choice,” he says.

  “No!” She clings to me as if I’m a life raft in a vast, dark ocean. My grip tightens, and I hold her close.

  He steps closer, bending his head so he and Leah are eye to eye. His expression is unreadable. “You know what will happen if you don’t. Is that what you want?”