Society for Paranormals

by Vered Ehsani

  “How admirably prepared of you,” I whispered.

  “Miracles never cease. A compliment from Mrs. Knight,” he said. “I shall treasure the moment.” With the knife now out of its hidden sheath, he removed his arm from behind me. “Be ready.”

  “For what?” I asked as I pressed two brass fingers on the top of the walking stick to allow the blade to slide out. “To be swallowed?”

  “If need be, yes,” he said, his eyes on the snake. “And if you’re swallowed, fear not for I shall endeavor to cut you out.”

  “My hero.”

  The snake’s head, easily as large as my torso, swiveled back and forth over the nest, a forked tongue snapping at the air above us. Mr. Timmons and I remained immobile, our breathing as shallow and quiet as we could make it.

  “And what should I do if the beast decides that you’re a better morsel?” I whispered.

  Despite the presence of the oversized serpent hovering over us, Mr. Timmons smiled. “Then I trust you shall take the opportunity to escape to safety and leave me to find my own way out of the creature’s gullet.”

  The snake’s head rose up as it inspected the nearby trees.

  “Surely you would wish me to rescue you,” I teased.

  His eyes slid sideways toward me, and said with an intense seriousness, “No, Mrs. Knight, I wouldn’t, for that would put me in double danger: one of losing my own life, and the second of losing yours. I would never forgive myself.”

  I started to smile, but my mouth became stuck halfway along when I realized he wasn’t being sarcastic, nor was he mocking me. And I found that almost as disturbing as the snake.

  Before I could think of a suitable response, the serpent tired of sampling the air; silently, it withdrew and slithered into the underbrush, leaves and small trees rustling in its wake. How we didn’t hear its approach was beyond me. I can only blame Lilly’s whimpers and complaints that kept our attention captured. That and the fact the snake hadn’t been talking to itself.

  When we were reasonably confident the beast had left the vicinity, we stood and Mr. Timmons offered me his clasped hands as a step up to the surface. We didn’t linger but retreated hastily to the picnic site.

  “What took you so long?” Mrs. Steward asked in a provoking tone as we entered the clearing. Not bothering to wait for our response, she continued, “My dear Lilly has suffered such an ordeal as will take a toll on her delicate constitution.”

  “Yes, we can all see she’s suffering greatly,” Mr. Timmons said in an unsympathetic tone. “Perhaps next time, she won’t go gallivanting”—and he glanced at Dr. Cricket—“off into the forest alone.”

  “Mr. Timmons,” Mrs. Steward said, not bothering to disguise her displeasure at his indifference. “We’re both in a pitiable state, Lilly and I. I insist we retire from this place at once.”

  To herself, she muttered, louder than she may have intended, “Such a rude, vulgar, and gruff creature as ever there was. How can anyone be so unmoved by my poor daughter’s trauma?”

  Mr. Timmons and I exchanged a look, and in that visual contact, we agreed to say nothing of our own ordeal, so as to avoid a panic, but instead to follow the party out to relative safety.

  After surviving the stroll in the woods, which left us in more of a stupor than the tea had, we retreated to Dr. Cricket’s house where, in short order, a marvelous set of refreshments was spread out on a wobbly wooden table set in a patchy-looking garden. Even though we had only been walking for an hour or so, I was famished, so I eyed the treacle as a vulture does a zebra carcass. It seemed like an age since I’d had some (treacle that is, not carcass).

  Lilly and Mrs. Steward had collapsed on chairs and were daintily sipping tea while Dr. Cricket offered them juice. Cilla was encouraging them to eat, but they both refused. I couldn’t imagine being so restrained with such a feast before me and gladly received a plate from Dr. Cricket.

  Encouraged by my hunger, I quickly loaded my plate with a scone, two creampuffs, a slice of chocolate cake, and a couple of biscuits.

  Dr. Cricket eyed my plate with an amazed expression, while Mr. Timmons chuckled and said, “It’s refreshing to see a young lady with such healthy appetites.” His demure smile didn’t match the wicked gleam in his eyes.

  Disgusting man, I thought, although with less vehemence than usual. Our adventure in the snake nest had softened my harsh sentiments toward him. That, and I was too fatigued and hungry to muster up the energy required for indignation. I stuffed a whole creampuff into my gaping mouth before I could say anything to further exasperate the situation.

  No sooner had the creampuff settled on my taste buds, then I wanted to retch. The pastry was stale and there was something in it that should never have been there in the first place. What it was I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t care to dwell on the possibilities. Yet I didn’t dare spit the offensive pastry out. My eyes began to water as my bulging cheeks paled from my dilemma.

  Mr. Timmons caught my eye. He discretely handed me a handkerchief and stood up to grasp Dr. Cricket by the shoulder. He steered him to the side, so that neither man was looking at me, and asked him what he’d recommend.

  “The creampuffs look delightful,” Dr. Cricket exclaimed. “It’s the first time my cook is trying them.”

  “You don’t say?” Mr. Timmons said while selecting a sandwich instead.

  I spat the mushy goop into the handkerchief. I should’ve been grateful to Mr. Timmons for so adroitly rescuing me from an unfortunate choice between choking on an inedible substance or spitting food out in public, but instead I was perturbed. For now, I felt myself in debt to a man with dangerous paranormal qualities and a fondness for simultaneously vexing me while gallantly and repeatedly coming to my aid.

  Chapter 20

  A day later, Cilla sent an invite for me to join her for mid-morning tea, as if we hadn’t just endured two that week. But as she was my friend, and my only one at that, I couldn’t refuse.

  What she failed to mention was that her godfather would be joining us. Then again and to be fair, I failed to mention that Gideon would be too, as he had decided to follow me, despite my protestations. I ignored him, but I couldn’t do the same to Mr. Timmons.

  The moment I entered, he stood and ushered me to a seat with a grand motion of his arms. “I forgot to congratulate you at your cousin’s delightful tea.”

  Warily, I sat. “Yes?”

  “It seems your prediction regarding the results of the lion hunt were quite correct.” He clapped slowly, every motion brimming with humor.

  “Thank you,” I said in a tight voice.

  “Although,” he continued, “you didn’t predict the rampaging automaton.”

  I smiled at that. “Nor its temporary theft.”

  If he knew anything about the theft, it didn’t show at all. Instead, he said, “Shocking, wasn’t it? This calls for a cup of tea, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Knight? Or should I call you Miss Knight as the Africans do? Mrs. Knight really doesn’t suite you at all. It ages you terribly.”

  I glared at his back as he casually strolled out of the room. “Why oh why does that man irk me so? Apart from the fact he’s so… so… irksome. Evilly irritating.”

  “Aren’t you in a mood?” Cilla interrupted my rant. “He has his flaws but he’s hardly evil.”

  I made some non-committal noise.

  Cilla stared at me with serious eyes, and for a fleeting moment, I was tempted to ask her age, for she didn’t seem so young. “My uncle is the truest friend to those fortunate enough to have earned his trust,” she finally said.

  I snorted, which was a reaction I’d been having quite a lot lately. Perhaps the dust aggravated it. “And for the rest of us?”

  Cilla tilted her head and smiled knowingly. “What makes you think you aren’t already part of that privileged group?”

  I shook my head even as my heart betrayed me with an unsteady beat. “He doesn’t care for my opinion nor, indeed, for me.”

  “Don’t be
so sure,” Cilla said.

  Flustered, I committed a mistake fatal to any Society operative: I didn’t pay attention to my words. “Anyway, it’s of no consequence, as I still have my husband’s ghost to contend with.”

  As soon as I said that, I groaned and could barely restrain slapping my forehead. Gideon floated behind Cilla and shook a finger at me, more amused than angry.

  “How perfectly thrilling,” Cilla trilled. She turned as Mr. Timmons walked into the room carrying a tray with a teapot and cups. “Uncle, you’ll never guess but Bee is being haunted by her dead husband!”

  Mr. Timmons gave me an indecipherable look as he poured out the tea. “Thrilling indeed.” His tone was unusually flat.

  “What does your husband want?” Cilla asked.

  “Why do you ask?” I demanded, put out by her lack of concern that my dead husband’s ghost was stalking me.

  “There must be a reason,” she persisted.

  “There’s nothing reasonable about haunting one’s spouse,” I said. “It’s inconvenient enough to do so when you’re both alive, but after that, it’s just simply bad manners.”

  “Here, here,” Mr. Timmons murmured.

  I pursed my lips, for I really didn’t appreciate his support or false sympathy. Gideon chuckled at my discomposure and I shifted my dark look to him; he smiled his radiant smile back at me, unconcerned about the slight of character I had directed at him.

  Even in death, he was breathtakingly beautiful and cheerful with absolutely no just cause to be so.

  Cilla leaned toward me, her face blocking my view of the husband in question. She whispered, “Did you murder him?”

  “What an indecent question,” I said as I slammed down my teacup, then stood and paced the room. I glanced about, but Gideon was no longer with us.

  “It’s a fair question,” Mr. Timmons said softly.

  “You keep out of this,” I said, wagging a warning finger at him.

  “Well?” she persisted. “Did you? Maybe that’s why he’s still around.”

  I sat upon the sofa next to Cilla, wondering how to respond. “If I did, I’d think he should look angry about it.”

  Cilla tapped her lips with one finger. “Perhaps not. Perhaps he enjoys haunting you as his revenge. Some ghosts are like that, you know.”

  I restrained another snort, silently cursing the dust, and said, “Not Gideon Knight.”

  “Oh, do spit it out, Bee,” Cilla ordered. “I really don’t have the constitution for such suspense.”

  I frowned and toyed with a fan I’d left on a small table. “It’s all because of our wedding vows,” I explained, flapping the fan before me. It did nothing to soothe my heated face. “He suggested we change it from, ‘Until death do us part’ to ‘And nothing shall part us.’ I thought nothing of it at the time, or rather I supposed it was no more than his romantic inclination, so I humored him.” I flung the fan down and covered my face with my hands.

  Mr. Timmons had remained uncharacteristically silent through all this, listening with an unnerving intensity. Now he spoke, startling me. “Tell me, Mrs. Knight, what did you see in him?”

  I stared at him, put out by the question. “I beg your pardon? It’s one thing for me to slight my deceased husband, but quite another…”

  He waved a hand to stop me. “That’s not my intention. Did you see something?” And he stared at me meaningfully.

  “Oh.” I paused to dwell on the implications. “Are you suggesting he was a… a paranormal? And that I would marry such a being as that? How outrageous.”

  Cilla clucked her tongue at me. “That’s a rather extreme stance, Bee. I’d have no issue with marrying a paranormal.”

  “Then you can’t have had much experience with them,” I said caustically and stopped myself before I could continue. I was being rude to two of the few people in this world I could be free and open with about my work.

  Mr. Timmons, however, seemed unconcerned with my slip in manners and smiled his superior, knowing smile. “Madam, to cause a wedding vow to have such power requires a certain capability not normally found in the average member of society. In fact, it would require both parties to have certain capabilities.”

  I dwelt on that notion for a moment. I didn’t like the possibilities it engendered. “I did find him unnaturally attractive,” I admitted, my face heating up further. I waved the fan energetically. “Not in the regular way. But he was so charismatic.” I smiled, lost in memories. “His eyes were quite hypnotic. I always said he could persuade the Devil to dance.”

  I gasped, wondering why I had never suspected anything before, and why I had never studied Gideon’s energy. At the time, I’d thought it would’ve been rude and an indication of a lack of trust on my part. But since when had concerns over propriety stopped me before?

  Was it true then, that Gideon had had supernatural charisma that had allowed him to manipulate others into his bidding? And if so, had he used that power on me? To what end?

  Mr. Timmons nodded his head, as if he’d already figured out this whole situation and was just waiting for me to catch up. “And you never thought to view his energy?” he asked, eerily reflecting my own inner question.

  “No, I prefer not to intrude on people’s privacy, unless I need to,” I explained, still debating with myself on the wisdom of my self-imposed policy. Perhaps Gideon had swayed my thinking in this regard.

  Mr. Timmons shrugged as if to say that manners were wholly unnecessary in such matters.

  Then another question struck me. “And how did you know I could…?”

  He smiled in that condescending way of his. “I may not have the depth of your perception, but I too can detect certain qualities, and yours are very clear.” He paused to scratch a sideburn. “I worry for you, Mrs. Knight. While your husband’s powers have declined in death, he still has an unnatural sway over you.”

  “That’s quite enough,” a voice whispered around us. I watched Gideon materialize by the fireplace.

  “Mr. Gideon Knight, I presume?” Mr. Timmons asked.

  “You presume too much,” my dead and now much disenchanted husband said.

  “You can see him?” I asked, slightly impressed but not overly so. It wasn’t a completely uncommon skill to be able to discern the presence of ghosts. Reading energy fields, on the other hand, was a far more subtle and considerably less common ability, one that Mr. Timmons seemed to have a bit of.

  “I don’t,” Cilla muttered but Mr. Timmons nodded his head.

  “Indeed I do, Miss Knight. Indeed I do,” Mr. Timmons said.

  Well, this was quite the pickle: Gideon and Mr. Timmons, facing off like two stray dogs, and I shuddered to think what I was supposed to be in the scenario. I slid closer to Cilla, hoping to look just as innocent and confused as she did.

  “You will refer to her by her proper title: Mrs. Knight. Only her close lady friends are so informal with her,” Gideon said in his soft voice.

  “I wish you’d tell Jonas that,” I interjected.

  Gideon continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “And stop questioning her.”

  “I see no reason why I shouldn’t engage her in pleasant conversation,” Mr. Timmons said in an unusually calm tone but his eyes were storm clouds.

  “She’s my wife,” Gideon whispered and it sounded all the more deadly for the low volume.

  “You’re dead,” Mr. Timmons said, quite unnecessarily, I might add.

  “Gentlemen, I’m still here…” I said.

  “And I’ll be damned if I let another man…” Gideon continued as if no one else had spoken.

  “… still here, in the room,” I said.

  “What’s he saying?” Cilla asked, poking my arm.

  “Yes, you will be damned,” Mr. Timmons interrupted and his calm dissolved into a growl. “And what won’t you let another man do? Talk with her? Maybe marry her? Can you stop her?”

  “Exactly,” Gideon hissed.

  “Enough,” I near shouted and slammed my fan
against the coffee table—Oops, I think I snapped the fan in half—as I stood up. “I am widowed, Gideon,” I told my dead husband, “and therefore free to converse with other men or even marry again as I please.”

  Gideon sulked and Mr. Timmons grinned triumphantly.

  “And,” I said as I turned a sharp gaze to Cilla’s godfather, “I don’t wish to marry, nor will I in the foreseeable future, and certainly not to another paranormal. Pardon my prejudice.”

  “I find your prejudice rather odd, considering what you are,” Mr. Timmons said. He shrugged his broad shoulders as if my words were of no importance to the ultimate outcome of the conversation that he clearly seemed to feel he had won.

  Gideon stared at me, an outright glare that froze me deep down in a place only he could reach.

  I softened my tone as I told him, “I’m sorry, Gids, but you’re dead and you really do need to move on.”

  Gideon smiled and it was a rather unpleasant, icy smile. “Our vows transcend such minor inconveniences,” he said with a wave of his hand, dismissing the issue of being dead as one might dismiss a fly.

  “Well, it may be minor to you,” I said, heat flushing my face and my words again, “but I assure you, I’ve been highly inconvenienced by your untimely demise.”

  “I do apologize for that, my dear,” Gideon said, his cold glare fixed on Mr. Timmons, “and it’s a situation I hope to remedy at the soonest opportunity.”

  “Oh?” was all I could think to say. My eyebrows, slim little things, disappeared into my hairline, for this was all news to me, and I didn’t count it as good news. I had just accustomed myself to being a widow and now Gideon seemed to believe that could change again.

  “So now the truth comes out,” Mr. Timmons sneered.

  “What truth?” Cilla demanded.

  “Yes, indeed,” I added. “Pray tell, what?”

  Mr. Timmons turned to me, his eyes flinty in the dim light. “Either Mr. Knight knows of a way to return to the land of the living, perhaps by invading a convenient body, or he plans to have you join him in the next world.”