South of Salem (2)

by Janni Nell

  Right about then my right big toe started to itch, indicating a paranormal presence. Beside me was the entrance to a cave. Flicking on my flashlight, I directed the beam into the shadowy interior. More bones. The remains of a cooking fire. A dented metal cup. A tattered rug and a bundle of rags that looked as if they were being used for a bed. If it wasn’t for my itching toe, I’d have thought I’d stumbled into someone’s campsite.

  The back of the cave was streaked with deeper shadows. One by one my flashlight illuminated them, exposing nothing more than rock. But that was before the beam reached a deep gash at the darkest part of the cave. The beginning of a tunnel? I moved closer, my light held in front of me like a sword. I squeezed into the dark space. The tunnel was narrow, the ceiling so low I bumped my head against slimy rock.

  Folding myself into the smallest position possible, I inched along until the tunnel opened into a kind of chamber. Skins of long-dead animals littered the floor along with an old box and more bones. I was heading for the box, planning to take a peek inside, when something moved on the far side of the chamber. A little old woman froze in the beam of my flashlight. She wore the tattered remains of a gown that had been fashionable before the revolution. Her head was covered by a threadbare shawl. Before I got a good look at her, she hid her face and scurried away. Forgetting about the old box, I took off after her, down tunnels so dark my light struggled to penetrate the gloom. She was old, I was young. Her legs were tiny, mine were long. But, despite her limp and walking stick, I couldn’t catch her. She always remained just out of reach.

  I had no idea how far we’d gone or how many twists and turns we’d made. All my energy had been focused on catching her. Now it was too late to retrace my steps. I had gone too deep. Stupidly, I hadn’t paid attention to the way we’d come. Unless I caught her and made her show me the way out, I’d be stuck down here.

  “Hey,” I called. “Hey, you! Stop.” She slowed. I sped up. Before I reached her, she turned to face me.

  She was the oldest woman I’d ever seen. A tiny, shriveled crone. Stooped and almost bald. Her few remaining strands of white hair poked from beneath the shawl. Dirt crusted the seams of her face, outlining her lips like makeup. One gnarled hand clutched a bone dripping with raw, bloody flesh. She gnawed on the bone with teeth too white and sharp for her age. Her shadowed eyes skewered me like a bug in a glass case.

  I stood my ground. “Who are you?” Okay, I wasn’t at my most articulate but neither would you be under the circumstances.

  She opened withered lips letting out a wheeze like wind blowing through rusty pipes. The hairs rose on the back of my neck. Not that I was scared. My first impulse was to punch her but she was old and out of reach, so I ignored the impulse. I wondered whether she was a ghost—not a misty ghost, obviously, but one of those dangerous, solid ones. From this distance there was no way to tell for sure. But as she moved toward me across the glistening, slippery rock floor, her appearance changed. Lush black hair replaced the wispy strands of white, her wrinkled skin plumped and smoothed, and her back straightened until she was young and beautiful.

  With her next step she became the crone again. Then, taking another step, she was young. She switched from young to old as though unable to decide which she preferred. Personally I’d choose young and beautiful, but that’s just me.

  She opted for the crone. Up close, her scrawny fingers ended in sharp brown nails. Strings of saliva glistened on the bone she was gnawing.

  Squaring my shoulders, I met her hard, too-bright eyes. We took each other’s measure in a long, slow gaze. She snorted as if she was underwhelmed by my height and tough expression. When I clenched my fist, she leaped at me, teeth bared. The impact knocked me off my feet. My flashlight clattered to the ground and rolled away. I punched the darkness, hoping to connect with her, but all I hit was air. The last thing I heard was her limping footsteps hurrying away, leaving me in darkness.

  I dropped to my hands and knees, searching the pitch blackness for my flashlight. When I couldn’t find it I got to my feet and moved forward slowly, feeling my way along the wall. Soon the ground began to slope. The sound of dripping water grew louder and the rocks beneath my boots became so slippery I was in danger of going arse over tit, as Dad would’ve said. I slowed my pace, carefully placing each footstep, which worked until the slope became even steeper.

  My ankle twisted and my foot shot from under me. I began to slide on my butt, faster and faster along the slimy rock. Then suddenly the rock was gone and I was falling through darkness, forgetting which way was up or down, tumbling over and over until at last I plunged into icy water. It closed over my head, invading my ears and nostrils. I pushed to the surface, spluttering and coughing. It was nice to be able to breathe again. Not so nice to find I was still in total darkness.

  I’d been in a similar position not so long ago when my rowboat had capsized in Scotland’s Loch Furness. Then I’d had a starry sky above and enough light to see the distant shore. Now I had nothing but a black void and the surface of the water to guide me to shore. Stripping off my jacket and boots—not easy when you’re treading water—I began to swim, hoping I’d soon be on dry land. But it didn’t matter how far I swam or in which direction, I never reached land. Was I in some kind of underground sea? To conserve energy, I floated on my back and stared into the blackness. I wondered whether I was going to die.

  At death’s door, there’s really only one thing to do: sing Barry Manilow. I launched into “Somewhere in the Night.” The acoustics were brilliant. I sounded so good even Barry would’ve been impressed. For a moment I was almappy, floating and singing in my new improved voice. Then the water began to suck me down. Guess it wasn’t a Manilow fan.

  I fought the suction for as long as I could. When fighting was no longer possible, I took a deep breath and prepared to go under.

  Right before the water closed over my head, I yelled, “Casper, where the heck are you?”

  Chapter Three

  If you think yelling for my guardian angel was smart, think again. It used up most of my air in the second before I was sucked under, leaving me submerged in pitch black water, desperate for oxygen. If that wasn’t bad enough, the sucking water suddenly changed to spin cycle. I was swirled around, tumbled over and over. If I ever got out I’d be sparkly clean and fragrant. Might need a good iron though.

  Where was Casper? As my guardian angel, it was his job to protect me. He was supposed to know when I was in danger and rescue me in the nick of time, preferably before. Having my own guardian angel was one of the reasons I was so successful as a paranormal investigator. I could go into dangerous situations confident that I’d survive.

  So where was Casper? He should’ve been here by now. Had he suddenly been summoned to Heaven? With enough credits to enter? No, he promised he’d say goodbye before he left me forever. But what if the Powers-That-Be didn’t let him? What if it was against the rules?

  And more importantly, since my air was running out, was I about to become a guardian angel?

  No, I haven’t been under that long. I must have at least another minute of life. Maybe two.

  Seconds ticked by. Not that I could accurately count them since I couldn’t see my watch. Anyway, counting seconds was a waste of time when your life was ebbing—rushing—away. Better to think of something pleasant like the televised Barry Manilow concert I’d watched with Dad a few days before he disappeared. Memories of the concert ricocheted through my mind, fading quickly as I traveled further back through my life.

  My first memory was of Lily comforting me as we waved goodbye to Dad, who was setting off on one of his many business trips. Mom was trying not to cry, but Lily was dry-eyed and much too emotionally strong for a kid of ten or eleven. I could see that now, but back then, through my pre-school eyes, she was one of the big kids. It’d felt safe in her arms.

  By the way, Dad did return from that trip. I have a vague memory of Lily hurling herself at him for a hug as he walked through the door.


  Years rushed forward. I was six years old and Casper was saving my life pulling me out of the path of an oncoming car.

  The images shifted and changed and I was reliving my first kiss at eight years old. Creepy Denny Driscoll pounced on me during a game of hide and seek. “Pucker up,” he’d said, obviously copying the words of some adult he knew. I turned away but he caught hold of my cheeks and planted a wet kiss smack on my mouth. Bad mistake. I split his lip with my fist. Later, when Mom was apologizing to Mrs. Driscoll, Dad whispered to me, “Nice punch, mate.”

  My ai time whenlmost used up. Unconsciousness couldn’t be far away. In my mind I screamed, Casper!

  Something plunged into the water and grabbed my shoulders. Strong arms lifted me to the surface. Out of the water. Onto the rocky shore, which surprisingly was right beside me. Impossible. I’d swum much farther than that and felt nothing but water.

  After a quick cough and splutter, I peered into the blackness and said, “Casper, I presume.”

  “Yep, it’s me.”

  “Nice of you to turn up before I actually drowned. Know the way out of here?”

  “Sure do. Come with me.” His warm, dry hand wrapped around my cold wet one. Mmm. Nice. Although Casper is technically a paranormal being, my toe never itches when he’s around. I have other itches I wouldn’t mind him scratching, but that isn’t allowed so we’re just good friends. No, really.

  Keeping a tight hold of my hand, he led me up a sharp incline, down a passage to our right and finally into a shallow cave about halfway down The Hollows. I’d expected to come out the same way I’d come in and it was a relief to avoid the old lady’s cave.

  Not such a relief to see the shadows of late afternoon and realize how long I’d been underground. Or how cold it had become. The chilly wind felt as if it was blowing right off snow-covered mountains. I had no jacket or shoes and my shirt, jeans and socks were sopping wet.

  “Take them off,” said Casper when we reached the car. He was still wearing the outfit I’d bought him in Scotland and he offered me the thick plaid from his shoulder.

  Accepting his offer, I whipped off everything but my underwear and wrapped myself in the warm wool.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Yep. Although the bad news is we’ll have to walk back to Boston. I lost the car keys when I stripped off my jacket in the water.”

  “Keys are no problem,” said Casper. He disappeared and reappeared inside the car. I wasn’t sure what he did, but the car started.

  “I thought your job was to protect me not help me.”

  “I am protecting you. From catching pneumonia.”

  After tossing my wet clothes in the trunk, I got behind the wheel. Casper gets car sick so I was surprised when he climbed into the passenger seat. “You sure you want to ride with me?”

  “Could we just sit here and talk for a while?”

  “No. It’s too dangerous.” I did a one-eighty and sped back down the avenue of trees. It was kind of weird driving with no keys in the ignition but I got used to it. Soon we were miles from The Hollows and I decided it was safe to pull over. By this time Casper wasn’t looking too healthy. He climbed out of the car and sucked in a couple of deep breaths.

  When the color returned to his cheeks, I said, “You took your sweet time rescuing me.”

  “Sorry about that. I was attending the announcement of nominations for the Angel Awards.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been guarding me for almost twenty years and you’ve never mentioned the Angel Awards before.”

  “They’re held annually to honor the best angels,” he explained. “This is the first time I’ve been nominated.”

  I tried to not to look impressed, but I was really, really proud of him. “Why were you nominated this year?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I must’ve been especially good at guarding you.”

  Well, he had saved my life quite a few times but he’d also done things that were expressly forbidden by the Powers-That-Be, like helping me solve a case and hugging me a little more passionately than his Rules of Conduct allowed.

  “So what do you get for winning an Angel Award?” I asked. “A gold statue?”

  “Fast-tracked entry to Heaven.”

  My heart fell right down to my size ten boots, which of course I was no longer wearing, but you get the picture.

  After Casper’s death, sometime around the first century AD, he had been given the chance to make amends for his violent life as a Germanic warrior. He’d been working as a guardian angel ever since and had guarded countless mortal subjects before me. Each angel had their own Rules of Conduct, which were determined by the things they had done wrong during their lifetime. To make amends for his past sins, Casper was forbidden from brawling, pillaging and having sex. All angels, regardless of their history, were cautioned against having sex and/or falling in love with their mortal subjects. The penalty was immediate separation and loss of credit points.

  Although it wasn’t unheard of for angels to have affairs with other angels or even people who weren’t their mortal subjects, Casper was forbidden these relationships. He claimed not to mind because he was eager to make amends for his violent past. I admired his resolve, but no sex for two thousand years was a lot to ask of anyone.

  Trying not to look as miserable as I felt at the prospect of him winning an Angel Award and leaving me, I said, “So you’ve finally got a shot at going straight to Heaven.”

  “And it only took two thousand years,” he said lightly. “But even so, there’s no guarantee I’ll win. There are four other nominees in my category.” Well, I thought, a one in four chance of winning wasn’t so bad. I mean, there was a three in four chance he’d lose. I liked those odds a lot. Until he added, “I’m the favorite.”

  Oh great, just great.

  “The ceremony starts tomorrow,” he went on, “and I need a small favor.”

  Did he need a date for the awards?

  I looked directly at him. Bad move. My stomach did a little flip. I do not find my guardian angel attractive. Just because he’s six foot six and built like a god. Just because he has kind eyes and lovely golden hair—okay the hair had recently been cropped, but that was only because I’d sacrificed it to a crazy hairdresser for information in my last case.

  “Well,” I said, “I guess I owe you a favor since you’ve saved my life—oh, about a million times. What do you want?” Please say a date.

  He smiled. Lovely white teeth that never yellowed or decayed no matter how many sweets he ate. He didn’t put on weight either, so the kilt and accessories I’d bought him in Scotland would always be a perfect fit. I took a quick peek at his sporran. He shifted uncomfortably and the kilt swayed, giving a tantalizing glimpse of his knees. If you think knees aren’t sexy, you haven’t seen Casper’s.

  “It’s not such a huge favor,” he said, looking a bit shy like he was going to ask me to be his date. My heart thumped in time to Barry Manilow’s “Ready to Take a Chance Again.” Casper went on, “I want you to…”

  “Yes?”

  “I need you to…”

  “Yes?”

  He took a deep breath. “Buy me a tuxedo.”

  Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Is that all?”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “Never mind.” Hiding my disappointment, I said flippantly, “You don’t like that cute kilt I bought you?”

  “It’s very comfortable but it’s not really appropriate for the awards. Our morsubs always buy the tuxedos and gowns.” That was because angels didn’t carry money. Oh, and Morsubs is angelspeak for mortal subjects.

  “Do any of the morsubs accompany their angels to the awards?”

  “It’s not allowed. Especially in our case. It would be too much like a date.”

  That was kind of the idea but those Powers-That-Be hadn’t overlooked anything when they’d made up Casper’s Rules of Conduct.

  Casper said, “So you’ll buy me a tux?�
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  “Of course. But it won’t exactly be Armani. Not with all this pro bono work I’ve been doing lately.”

  “Bargain basement is fine.”

  “And you need it for tomorrow? That doesn’t give us much time, especially since I’m in the middle of trying to sort out some family problems.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m your guardian angel, remember?”

  “It’s pretty hard to forget when you’re wearing that.” I pointed at his tattered and bloody shirt.

  A couple of days ago he’d leaped between me and a shotgun, taking the blast that was meant for me. All his wounds had healed but his shirt was still a mess. Since the fashion for tattered and bloody shirts hadn’t caught on in Boston, I suggested we stop by Mom’s house. There, I sneaked upstairs and borrowed one of Steven’s shirts. It was too small for Casper but at least it was clean.

  After I’d changed into some dry clothes, opting for my usual jeans and shirt but substituting a thick sweater for my lost jacket, we headed off to Bigger & Better Bargains, which was located, appropriately enoof on Cheap Street.

  A sales clerk named Chloe snapped gum and asked if we wanted to buy anything. She lost the attitude when I told her Casper wanted to be fitted for a tux. Wriggling excitedly, eyes on his sporran, she offered to measure his inside leg.

  “No need,” I said firmly and gave her Casper’s measurements.

  Oh yeah, I knew all his measurements. I’d purchased clothes for him before.

  Disappointed but not deterred, Chloe took a suit off the rack and handed it to him. “If you need any help changing just yell. Actually, why don’t I come in with you? Those zippers can be tricky…”

  An older woman overheard and moved smoothly toward us. Her nametag read Marian: Manager. After sending Chloe out back to check on some stock, she said, “Please forgive her, she’s new. Perhaps I can be of assistance. Is the suit for a special occasion? Engagement or wedding perhaps?”