Spirit Box

by E M Lacey

  She took a step forward, before she realized she’d done it. The caress turned into a light pinch, as she moved deeper into the corridor. Six steps in and she smelled it; sour milk and old iron.

  She inhaled, taking in the scent, letting it roll through her sinuses and settle in her lungs. Sour milk. She couldn’t recall any sayings or warnings from the transitional training. They did have a kitchen across from the safe room. Maybe milk had gone bad in the breakroom refrigerator? She quickly rejected that idea. She was too anal to allow things to expire in the community appliance. She could barely tolerate the reference library not being ordered alphabetically by author.

  She let her nose lead her, closing her eyes as she took another drag of air. She slid her feet along the floor, instead of taking normal steps. The tips of her wedges served as sensors. Soft bumps against debris prompted her to stop. The scent was strong. She eased her left eye open, then the right. The smell was coming from her left. She turned to find herself standing in front of Mr. Myer’s office.

  She carefully moved toward the half-sealed space. The door to Mr. Myer’s office had been ripped partly from its hinges. A big chunk of the door’s top was missing and the bottom half hung at an awkward angle.

  She stopped in front of it, her cellphone locked between her palms, light directed at the opening at the top.

  How am I going to get in there? She moved in, crouched low, then aimed the light at the precarious setting. She wasn’t dressed for climbing over things. She wore a smart emerald skirt suit and matching jacket. She was amazed she hadn’t tripped over anything because matching wedges were not made for climbing. She examined her skirt, which fell two inches past her knees. It wasn’t tight or terribly long, but it was in the way.

  She adjusted her phone, so the light continued to stream in front of her. With her free hand, she undid a few buttons on her blouse, then slid it into the space between her breasts, trusting her push up bra to hold it steady. It would be practical to take off her shoes, but she didn’t want to risk mangling by some random jagged furniture piece. Resolute in her decision, she hitched up her skirt, stopping at the tops of her thighs, then carefully crossed, shimmied, and twisted her way into the office.

  She drew back, nearly falling over the bottom half of the door at the rancid assault. She slipped off her jacket and used it as a covering for her nose and mouth. It was strange for any scent pertaining to food or drink to be found in his office. Mr. Myer was very neat and didn’t believe in working through lunch and dinner breaks. He used those as opportunities to stretch his legs and give his eyes a break. So, his meals were kept in the small kitchen.

  Abigail swung the beam around slowly, changing the direction from left to right, to up and down. She scanned the baseboards to the ceiling, moving deeper into the room. About five steps in, she felt a shock. It zapped the soles of her feet and flowed up, stopping at the bridge of her nose. She moved cautiously. Her flashlight app exposed overturned file cabinets, several broken picture frames, chairs, and a second disemboweled desk.

  She swung the light slowly around the room, pausing at the hall which led to the partner offices. The doors to her uncle’s office was torn from the hinges. As she swung the light back around the room, she paused. A glow, as faint as the sigils on the doorframe, pulsed from within. What was it?

  Chapter Two

  Something dead was nearby. Spoiled lamb’s meat permeated the hall. It wasn’t overwhelming but it was coming from the office at the end of the hall. Apparently, someone had arrived since her trip to the lobby washroom. The locked door from earlier was now ajar but the lights were off.

  Aurora Dixon shook her head. There was no way she smelled what she smelled. Maybe it was nerves. So much of her life in Tampa was steeped in the dead. Her mother was a medium. Her granny was a psychic and Aurora had the wonderful gift of seeing ghosts.

  Aurora startled at the bang of the elevator doors closing behind her. She moved away from them. Turned in the direction of the office but didn’t move. She wanted to turnaround and get back in the elevator.

  “Girl, get a hold of yourself.” She hooked her index and middle finger through the shoulder straps of her sky-blue leather mini backpack with black trim and rocked on her heels. She wore black flats which complemented her dark gray suit. Her mini backpack matched her blouse, as planned.

  Granted, the whole move from Central Florida to Illinois was nerve racking, but it was also her chance to rebuild herself. No family reputation to live up to. No family name to shame either. She would change her image from an untalented medium to that of a normal young professional, as far as the firm was concerned.

  Illinois suburbs were slow paced, so catching on and acclimating to her new world shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, the cool factor of this particular firm pushed her forward.

  She would be working with creatures that were considered fiction. She would have access to every piece of data available on customs, rites, and laws. She wondered how far their database extended. Was it limited to the fae, shifters, and vampires or did it include deities? Were deities considered Other? Were they even on the paranormal radar?

  The odor she picked up faded as she drew closer to the office. It was replaced by something more ominous, the soft jingle of chimes. Aurora used the crook of her arm to cover her nose and mouth as she raced toward the open door, hoping she wasn’t too late.

  Chapter Three

  Abigail heard the tinkling of chimes. It was soft like the glow on the other side of the desk. She moved deftly through the jagged furniture, until she was at the edge of the battered desk. She reached for its edge, testing its stability. It passed the test, encouraging her to move around it, only to be brought to an abrupt stop. A cube made of thick crystal pulsed. It rested against the wall just under the office window. Black sigils lined the edges. The lines and swirls forming the sigils expanded like a chest, thickening on the inhale and thinning on the exhale. They were none she recognized, and they were warm.

  She crouched, leaning close, drawn to the cube’s beauty. The sigils pulsed. There was a rhythm to it. She listened, unaware that she leaned even closer, mesmerized by the tinkle of chimes, hollow metal on metal, in an unseen wind.

  She adjusted herself for balance, then reached for the box. The light inside flared, the tinkling chimes quickened as her fingers neared the sides. Then she screamed. Hands landed on her shoulders, fingers dug into her collar bones, then pulled. Abigail fell hard on her bottom, immediately scooting sideways as she aimed her cellphone at her attacker. A woman, dressed in a dark gray pants suit with a long-sleeved baby blue blouse, shielded her eyes and backed away, just a few steps.

  “You shouldn’t touch that,” the woman spoke into her sleeve.

  “What?”

  “Do you know what that is?” She jerked her chin at the glowing box.

  Abigail shook her head.

  “Do you know what it does?”

  Again, Abigail shook her head.

  “Why are you?” Abigail mimicked the woman speaking into her sleeve.

  “It smells in here.” The woman looked around the room, her gaze returning to Abigail only to shift to the glowing box behind her. “Plus, this place is probably contaminated.”

  “I…” Abigail swallowed. She had been about to break the cardinal rule of training: Touch no unidentified item, no matter the beauty, no matter how harmless. The more harmless they seem, the more danger they carry. Both hands covered her mouth. “Oh my…I…” Her gaze darted up to the woman, who now offered her a hand, which she took.

  “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t touch it.” The woman pulled Abigail to her feet with her free hand and guided her quickly from the room.

  “But I was about to.” Abigail looked over her shoulder as they exited. Why did she feel the need to touch it? She blinked then focused on the woman who had saved her from her own foolishness. The light streaming from the safe room was enough for her to make out the woman’s features. “Do you know what it
is?”

  The woman shook her head. She had mocha skin, and dark curls pulled up into a professional bun. A few coils escaped, which only enhanced her appearance. The woman was a bit taller than Abigail’s five-foot one-inch frame, and lean. She looked close to Abigail’s twenty-three years of age. Obsidian eyes studied her.

  “Are you Aurora Dixon?”

  Aurora nodded then looked over Abigail’s shoulder. “Today’s supposed to be my first day here. I guess that’s not going to happen now, huh?”

  Abigail smoothed out her clothes then extended her hand. Aurora took it and gave it a firm shake. “I’m sure Mr. Myer will figure out something after the, uh, situation is properly assessed.”

  Aurora moved toward the door. “Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

  “Of course.” Abigail followed, quickening her pace as the warmth she felt earlier began to rise again. She didn’t speak again until they were clear of the interior. “We just have to get this, uh...” Abigail waved her hand toward the partially opened door, “taken care of.”

  Aurora folded her arms across her chest. “Yeah.”

  “My uncle and his colleague will work everything out.”

  “Aren’t you going to call the cops first?” Aurora squinted as if the dull hall light was too bright; her head jerked right, like she was favoring the ear.

  “Are you alright?”

  Aurora nodded stiffly. “I’m fine. A little headache, is all.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Aurora moved away from Abigail, toward a small table and chair. She sat in the chair, leaned back, rested her head against the wall, and closed her eyes.

  Abigail stared at Aurora, wondering if she should send her home. She turned off her flashlight app, then pulled up her contact list. Her uncle or Mr. Myer would know what to do. She had to contact the one person she knew who could counter whatever was going on in the office. “I need to contact the firm’s witch.”

  Aurora sat upright and looked at Abigail. A witch wouldn’t be able to undo whatever was going on in that office. She swallowed that bit of knowledge and feigned ignorance. “You think this is bad magic, or something?”

  Abigail nodded, then pulled up her directory. She found Bridgette’s number and was about to dial when Aurora reached into her jacket and pulled out a crisp white envelope. She rose slowly to her feet, walked over and handed it to Abigail.

  “Here. This was outside the door.”

  Abigail held the envelope up, inspecting the wax seal. “How did I miss this?”

  Aurora looked a little sheepish. “Sorry, I got here a little early. I picked it up. My intent was to meet you when you arrived, but nature called, so I had to go down to the lobby to the public washrooms.”

  “Oh.” Abigail walked over to a small table on which sat a lovely maroon vase filled with floral embellishments. She placed the envelope there, then called the witch.

  Chapter Four

  No one wants to remember their nightmares, especially those soaked in blood. Bridgette’s heart went out to the ten-year-old sitting across from her but it had to be done. It was the only way to identify the type of Other Alba Huitzilin was.

  Alba looked human, from her mocha skin, sandy afro, curious brown eyes and vibrant smile. She was in attitude and action a very human little girl, except for random flares of power. Life and death situations triggered them and the last seven days served as a firing range.

  That damned vampire, Adiran Negruscu attacked her foster mom, Alexandra Montes at her gallery, which was also her home. He later sent drones from his Brood to forcibly collect Alba. Twice in one day, she produced fire and heat so intense it could melt flesh from the bone. What was unique about her powers was the fact that it burned only what presented itself as a threat. Everything else was safe. Even more puzzling was the absence of magic.

  Magic possessed both scent and flavor. Fire magic smelled of ginger or brimstone. Ginger was the signature of natural magic while brimstone belonged wholly to the demonic. Alba’s fire was odorless. The only magic Bridgette detected from Alba was a curse. Curses smelled of sour milk. It wasn’t a strong odor. It could only be detected by trained druids searching for them and magic born. The curse on Alba was hidden. Strange sigils were etched directly into her skull. A dull sickly green light radiated through the skin. Bridgette discovered it by accident. She was playing in Alba’s afro. She loved the texture, the color and the fact that her fingers on Alba’s scalp were relaxing. The curse bit into the tips of her fingers, crawled along the back of her hand, creating purple welts the size of large earthworms.

  There was little she could do by way of investigating the sigils powering the curse. She would need the help of an ancient, one of her elders but they were extinct. Her best chance at understanding the magic and eventually the caster was through the journaling sessions. Alba’s dreams were memories. They were specific. It was like Alba was walking inside the body of the main participant, a woman of great power and very old.

  Bridgette glanced up at her charge. This was their third dream journaling. Alba hated it. It hardened her expression and stiffened her limbs, but Bridgette had a way around it. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and used her teacher voice.

  “Alba Huitzilin. You will wipe that frown off your face and look at me.”

  Alba pulled herself out of her corner and faced Bridgette. Rebellion shone in her eyes but she did as she was told.

  Bridgette sat, cross-legged, in front of the child and cupped her face.

  “I know this is hard.” She released Alba, picked up the journal and pen, and handed it to her. Alba’s hands remained folded in her lap.

  “I don’t want to do this.”

  “You have to.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Do you want to get Alex hurt again?”

  Alba’s eyes widened and she shook her head vigorously.

  Bridgette lifted Alba’s hands and set the journal in her lap then let her hands fall. “You have to record what you remember.”

  “Why? They’re just dreams. They’re not real.”

  Bridgette gave her a we’re-going-to-do-this-now look.

  “I don’t like remembering.” Alba sank the fingers into her sandy Afro and pressed them against the crown of her skull. “It hurts to remember.” She let her hands drop and her gaze as well. She touched the turquoise journal with a stenciled dragonfly on the cover, tentatively at first, then rested her palm on it before meeting Bridgette’s tri-colored eyes.

  “I know you don’t like remembering, but your past is part of who you are.”

  “But I like who I am now. I don’t need to remember old things.” Alba drew into herself again, shifting toward the window facing the street just outside El Corazon de Communidad. It was still early and the streets near the center were never really busy. “What if I’m a monster?”

  Alba’s body was now flush with the window; her head knocked softly against the glass when she lay against it.

  Bridgette lay a consoling hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “You’re not a monster, Alba. You’re a protector.”

  Alba wrapped her arms around herself, bending forward, pressing her head harder against the glass. “No, I’m not.”

  “What did you do when the vampire tried to hurt Alex?”

  The small space between them warmed. Alba’s hair held a dim glow and the air around her shuddered from the heat. “I burned him.”

  “Why?”

  Alba spun faster than Bridgette’s eyes could follow. Suddenly she was face to face with a snarling ten-year-old. “He was hurting her!”

  “You protected your mama.” Bridgette pushed away the surprise and shoved her conviction to the forefront. “You kept your mama safe. Monsters destroy. They don’t protect.” She would know. Her nose wrinkled at the stink of burning flesh and smoke. She’d nearly lost her life when she was Alba’s age. The vampire had burned her home. Her family. She would have died if it had not been for Cora.


  “The vampire was bad.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Anger evaporated. “I don’t want to be like him.”

  “You won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because, you’re worried about it. If there was even a smidgen of darkness in you, you’d have an ever-growing need to embrace it. Explore it. You’d want to hurt others, just to test it.”

  Alba leaned back and studied her feet. She wore a pair of sneakers with unicorns sprinkled all over them. Bridgette could tell she was counting them. Her mouth moved as she counted. There were twenty-five tiny unicorns. She knew because she had counted them several times with Alba, who always went silent whenever she was troubled. There was so much for her to be worried about.

  Alba picked up the journal, opened it, and ran her hand along the page, before lifting it and offering it to Bridgette, who made no move to take it.

  “What are you doing?”

  Alba swallowed loudly. “I need you to write, while I talk.”

  Bridgette took back the journal and the pen. She pulled off the pen’s cap and set it to the page. When ready, she looked at Alba. Her small chest rose and fell, with well-paced breaths.

  Alba settled into her little corner, resting her back against the glass. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, then rested her chin on her knees and recited her dream.

  “I can’t see myself, but I can feel myself move. My teeth rattle with every step I take but I know I can’t stop. There’s an important place for me to be. I hear the singing of my people. The slow, steady beat of drums. I feel grains of dirt and tiny rocks get trapped inside my sandal. I am annoyed, but not so much that I stop my journey.

  “I am climbing steep steps. I should be afraid of falling, but for some reason, I am not. I move as slow as a bride down the aisle. My steps are measured. There’s a rhythm to them. They are in tune with the drum. There is a tall man in front of me. His skin is brown. He’s wearing a loincloth. It’s ceremonial because it’s long and embroidered with sacred images. It’s a beautiful deep mixture of teal and black. His skin is painted with spots, like a jaguar. On his shoulders are a tangle of black and teal feathers, on top of padding. It makes them look broader than they are. The man’s hair is like ink, poured down his shoulders and back. It shines in the sunlight, giving it a blue hue.