Abbie didn't look back, she wouldn't run, but she had no desire to see Brian Garner's face pressed against the window glass. Maybe the cleanup crew had done the best they could. She'd have to find out if all the marks bled fresh.
The house would have to be re-blessed. And probably a medium brought in to tell the ghost that it was dead. A lot of people took it as a status symbol to have a ghost in their house. Certain kinds of ghosts, though. No one liked a poltergeist, no one liked bleeding walls, or hideous apparitions, or screams at odd times in the night. But a light that haunted only one hallway, or a phantom that walked in the library in eighteenth-century costume, well, those were call for a party. The latest craze was ghost parties. All those that did not have a ghost could come and watch one while everyone drank and had snacks.
But somehow Abbie didn't think that anyone would want Brian's ghost in their house. It was romantic to have a murdered sixteenth-century explorer roaming about, but recent victims and a child at that.... Well, historic victims are one thing, but a ghost out of your morning paper, that was something else entirely.
Abbie just hoped that Brian Garner would be laid to rest easily. Sometimes the ghost just needed someone to tell it that it was dead. But other times it took more stringent measures, especially with violent ends. Strangely, there were a lot of child ghosts running around. Abbie had read an article in the Sunday magazine about it. The theory was that children didn't have a concept of death yet, so they became ghosts. They were still trying to live.
Abbie left such thinking up to the experts. She just sold houses. As soon as the car started Abbie turned on the radio. She wanted noise.
The news was on and the carefully enunciated words filled the car as she pulled away from the house. "The Supreme Court reached their verdict today, upholding a New Jersey court ruling that Mitchell Davies, well-known banker and real estate investor, is still legally alive even though he is a vampire. This supports the so-called Bill of Life, which came out last year, widening the definition of life to include some forms of the living dead. Now on to sports..."
Abbie changed the station. She wasn't in the mood for sports scores or news of any kind. She had had her own dose of reality today and just wanted to go home. But first she had to stop by her office.
It was late when she arrived and even the receptionist had gone home. Three rows of desks stretched catty-corner from one end of the room to the other. Most of the overhead lights had been turned off, leaving the room in afternoon shadows. A thin strip of white light wound down the center and passed over Sandra's desk. Sandra sat waiting, hands folded in front of her. She had stopped even pretending to work.
Her blue eyes flashed upward when she saw Abbie come in. The relief was plain on her face and in the sudden slump of her shoulders.
Abbie smiled at her.
Sandra made a half smile in return. She asked, "How was it?"
Abbie walked to her desk, which put her to Sandra's left, and two desks over. She started sorting papers while she considered how best to answer. "It's going to need some work before we can show it."
Sandra's high heels clicked on the floor, and Abbie could feel her standing behind her. "That isn't what I mean, and you know it."
Abbie turned and faced her. Sandra's eyes were too bright, her face too intense. "Sandra, please, it's over, let it go."
Sandra gripped her arm, fingers biting deep. "Tell me what it was like."
"You're hurting me."
Her hand dropped numbly to her side and she almost whispered, "Please, I need to know."
"You didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't your fault."
"But I sold them that house."
"But Phillip Garner played with the Ouija board. He opened the way to what happened."
"But I should have seen it. I should have realized something was wrong. I did notice things when Marion contacted me. I should have done something."
"What, what could you have done?"
"I could have called the police."
"And told them that you had a bad feeling about one of your clients? You aren't a registered psychic, they would have ignored you. And Sandra, you didn't have any premonitions. You've convinced yourself you knew beforehand, but it isn't true. You never mentioned it to anyone in the office." Abbie tried to get her to smile. "And get real, girl, if you had news that important, you couldn't keep it to yourself. You are the original gossip. A kind gossip, but still a gossip."
Sandra didn't smile, but she nodded. "True, I don't keep secrets very well."
Abbie put her arm around her and hugged her. "Stop beating yourself up over something you had nothing to do with. Cut the guilt off; it isn't your guilt to deal with."
Sandra leaned into her and began to cry.
They stayed there like that until it was full dark and Sandra was hoarse from crying.
Sandra said, "I've made you late getting home."
"Charles will understand."
"You sure?"
"Yes, I have a very understanding husband."
She nodded and snuffled into the last Kleenex in the room. "Thanks."
"It's what friends are for, Sandra. Now go home and feel good about yourself, you deserve it."
Abbie called her husband before locking up the office, to assure him that she was coming home. He was very understanding, but he tended to worry about her. Then she escorted Sandra to her car and made sure she drove away.
IT was weeks later before Abbie stood in the newly carpeted living room. Fresh hex signs had been painted over the doors and windows. A priest had blessed the house. A medium had come and told Brian Garner's ghost that it was dead. Abbie did not know, or want to know, if the ghost had been stubborn about leaving.
The house felt clean and new, as if it had just been built. Perhaps a registered psychic could have picked up some lingering traces of evil and horror, but Abbie couldn't.
The kitchen door stood white and pure. There were no stains today, everything had been fixed, everything had been hidden. And wonder of wonders, she had a client coming to see it.
The client knew all about the house and its history. But then Mr. Channing and his family had been having difficulties of their own. No one wanted to sell them a house.
But Abbie had no problem with selling to them. They were people, after all; the law said so.
She had turned the lights in the living room and kitchen on. Their yellow glow chased back the night. Charles had been unhappy about her meeting the clients alone, at night. But Abbie knew you couldn't sell to people if they didn't think you trusted and liked them. So she waited alone in the artificial light, trying not to think too much about old superstitions. As a show of great good faith, she had no protection on her.
At exactly ten o'clock the doorbell rang. She had not heard a car drive up.
Abbie opened the door with her best professional smile on her face. And it wasn't hard to keep the smile because they looked like a very normal family. Mr. and Mrs. Channing were a young handsome couple. He was well over six feet with thick chestnut hair and clear blue eyes. She was only slightly shorter and blond. But they did not smile. It was the boy who smiled. He was perhaps fourteen and had his father's chestnut hair, but his eyes were dark brown, and Abbie found herself staring into those eyes. They were the most perfect color she had ever seen, solid, without a trace, falling. A hand steadied her, and when she looked, it was the boy who touched her, but he did not meet her eyes.
The three stood waiting for something as Abbie held the door. Finally, she asked them in. "Won't you please come inside?"
They seemed to relax and stepped through the door with the boy a little in front.
She smiled again and put a hand out to Mr. Channing and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Channing."
The three exchanged glances and then polite laughter.
The man said, "I'm not Channing; call me Rick."
"Oh, of course." Abbie tried to cover her confusion as the woman introduced herself simply as "I
sabel."
It left Abbie with only one other client, but she offered her hand and her smile. "Mr. Channing."
He took it in a surprisingly strong grip and said, "I have looked forward to meeting you, Ms. McDonnell. And please, it's just Channing, no Mr."
"As you like, Channing. Then you must call me Abbie."
"Well then, Abbie, shall we see the house?" His face was so frank and open, so adult. It was disconcerting to see such intelligence and confidence in the eyes of a fourteen-year-old body.
He said, "I am much older than I appear, Abbie."
"Yes, I am sorry, I didn't mean to stare."
"That's quite all right. It is better that you stare than refuse to see us."
"Yes, well, let me show you the house." Abbie turned off the lights and showed the moon shining through the skylights. The brick fireplace was an unexpected hit. Somewhere Abbie had gotten the idea that vampires didn't like fire.
She did turn on the lights to show them the bedrooms and baths. They might be able to see in the dark, but Abbie didn't think it would impress them if she tripped in the dark.
The female, Isabel, spun round the master bedroom and said, "Oh, it will make a wonderful office."
Abbie inquired, "What do you do?"
The woman turned and said, "I'm an artist, I work mostly in oils."
Abbie said, "I've always wished I could paint, but I can't even draw."
The woman seemed not to have heard. Abbie had learned long ago that you didn't make conversation if the client didn't want to talk. So they viewed the house in comparative silence.
There was one point in the master bathroom, when the three had to crowd in to see, that Abbie turned and bumped into the man. She stepped away as if struck and to cover her almost-fear she turned around and nearly gasped. They had reflections. She could see them just as clearly as herself. Abbie recovered from the shock and went on. But she knew that at least Channing had noticed. There was a special smile on his face that said it all.
Since they had reflections, Abbie showed them the kitchen more thoroughly than she had been intending. After all, if one myth was untrue, perhaps others were; perhaps they could eat.
The basement she saved for last, as she did in most of her houses. She led the way down and groped for the light pull cord but did not turn on the lights until she heard them shuffle in next to her. She said, "You'll notice there are no windows. You will have absolute privacy down here." She did not add that no sunlight would be coming down because after the mirror she wasn't sure if it was pertinent.
Channing's voice came soft and low out of the velvet dark. "It is quite adequate."
It wasn't exactly unbridled enthusiasm, but Abbie had done her best. She pulled on the light and showed them the water heater and the sump pump. "And the washer and dryer hookups are all set. All you need is the machine."
Channing nodded and said, "Very good."
"Would you like me to leave you alone for a few moments to discuss things?"
"Yes, if you would."
"Certainly." Abbie walked up the stairs but left the door open. She went into the living room so they would be sure she wasn't eavesdropping. She wondered what the neighbors would think about vampires living next door. But that wasn't her concern; she just sold the house.
She did not hear them come up, but they stood suddenly in the living room. She swallowed past the beating of her heart and said, "What do you think of the house?"
Channing smiled, exposing fangs. "I think we'll take it."
The smile was very genuine on Abbie's part as she walked forward and shook their hands. "And how soon will you want to move in?"
"Next week, if possible. We have had our down payment for several months, and our bank is ready to approve our loan."
"Excellent. The house is yours as soon as the papers are signed."
Isabel ran a possessive hand down the wall. "Ours," she said.
Abbie smiled and said, "And if any of your friends need a house, just let me know. I'm sure I can meet their needs."
Channing grinned broadly at her and put his cool hand in hers. "I'm sure you can, Abbie, I'm sure you can."
After all, everyone needs a house to call their own. And Abbie sold houses.
A TOKEN FOR CELANDINE
This story is set in the world of my first novel, Nightseer. It's set on a continent hundreds of miles away, but it's still the same world with the same magic system. Marion Zimmer Bradley rejected the story by saying that I'd done a pastiche of Tolkien, and elves really should be left to him, but do send another story and try again. I disagreed about elves being left to Tolkien and sent the story out again. It sold next time out, to Memories and Visions. And I would send Ms. Bradley my next story, and have the pleasure of her buying it. No elves in that one.
THE prophet was an old man crazed with his own visions. He crouched against the dark wood of an elm. His fingers dug into the bark as if he would anchor himself to it. He gasped and wheezed as he drew in the morning air.
We had been chasing him through these woods for three days. And I was tired of it. If he ran this time, I was going to put an arrow in his leg. Celandine could heal him of the wound, and she could finally ask her question. I had not mentioned my plan to the healer. I thought she might object. The old man looked into a bar of dazzling sunlight. The glow showed his eyes milky with the creeping blindness of the very old and the very poor.
He was sick, blind, and crazy, and he had eluded me for days.
His prophecy protected him or perhaps the voices he called out to told him I was near. He turned his head to one side as if he were listening. I heard nothing but the wind and a small animal scuttling in the brush.
He turned his blind eyes and looked directly at me. The flesh along my back crawled. He could not see me, but I knew he did.
His voice was an abused cackle that never seemed to finish a thought completely. I had listened to him rant, but now he spoke low and well. "Ask," he said.
It was Celandine's question, but while he was in the mood to answer, I asked. Not all prophets are able to answer direct questions. Those that do tend to answer only one question for each person. "How do I find the token which Celandine the Healer seeks?"
"The black road must take. Demons help you. Fight in darkness you will."
I heard the whisper of cloth that announced the healer.
She came up beside me, white cloak huddled round her body.
Without taking my eyes from the old man I asked, "Did you hear what he said?"
"Yes."
"Ask him something."
"Where is the token I seek?"
"Demon, demon inside." He coughed, his body nearly doubled over with the violence of it. Bloody foam flecked his chin. Celandine stepped forward. "Let me heal you."
His eyes went wide. "Death want, death seek, no heal." And he was gone, vanishing into the underbrush noiseless as a rabbit.
Celandine stood there, tears glistening in her eyes. "He'll die."
"He wants to die."
She shook her head, and one teardrop slid from crystalline blue eyes down a flawless white cheek. "He doesn't know what he's saying."
I touched her arm. "Celandine, no healer can cure the madness of prophecy."
She nodded and pulled the cloak's hood to hide her face. A strand of black hair trailed across the white cloth like a stain.
I said, "This is the seventh prophet, Celandine. We must trust the information and act upon it."
She spoke in a low voice that I had to strain to hear.
"Aren't you afraid, Bevhinn?"
I debated with myself whether she wanted truth or for me to be strong for her. I decided on truth. "I fear the black healers of Lolth. I fear being a female trapped behind their dark border."
"And yet you will go?"
"It is where our quest takes us. We must go."
She turned to me, face framed in shadowed hood. "It is death by torture for me if I am caught."
I had hea
rd the stories of what Loltuns did to white healers. They were tales to curdle the blood round winter fires.
"I will die before I let them take you. You have my word."
She spun round as if she would find an answer in the spring morning. "I have your word." She turned back to me, blue eyes hard. "What good is your word? You aren't human. You don't worship the Goddess that I serve. Why should I trust you to give your life for me?"
I clamped a six-fingered hand round sword hilt. Five months I'd traveled with her. Five months of living off the land, killing that we both could eat. I had slain winter-starved wolves and fought bandits. I had guarded her back while she healed the sick. I had been wounded twice, and twice she had healed me. And now this.
I let the anger flow into my face. I stared at her with my alien purple eyes, but I kept my voice low with menace. I had no desire to shout and bring men or a wild beast upon us. "Your fear makes you foolish, Celandine. But do not fear. Your father paid me well to guard you on this exile's quest."
"You sell yourself for money like some harlot."
I slapped her hard, and she fell to the ground. She looked startled. I had never offered her violence before. "Your father bought my sword, my magic, and my loyalty. I will lay down my life to protect you, but I will not be insulted."
"How dare you. I am a white healer..."
I finished for her, "And bastard daughter of the King of Celosia. I know all that. He hired me, remember."
"You are my bodyguard, my servant."
"I'm not the reason we're out here in this godforsaken wilderness. You killed a man. You took that pure white gift of yours and twisted it. You used black healing and took a life."
She was crying now, softly.
"The only way to end this exile is to follow the prophet's advice and go to Lolth."
"I'm afraid."
I grabbed her upper arms, pulling her to her feet. "I'm afraid, too, but I want this over with. I want to go back to Meltaan. I want a bed and a bath and decent food. I want someone to guard my back for a change." I let her go, and she stumbled back, sobbing.
"I will not let your fear keep me out here forever. Your father didn't pay me that much."
"You can't leave me."
"I could, but I won't. But tomorrow we travel the dark road."
Morning found us on the bank of Lake Muldor. A blue cloak to match her eyes replaced the healer's cloak Celandine usually wore. She kept it pulled close around her though it was very warm for spring.
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