Lost Souls

by Kelley Armstrong

  Liv kept creeping until they were close enough to see the speakers. Four kids, maybe college age, sitting on a blanket, enjoying a cemetery picnic. One of the girls had long blond hair and wore a pale blue sundress.

  "There's our ghost," Liv muttered and then began to retreat, grumbling under her breath.

  Patrick fell in at her side and whispered, "It might not have been her the first time."

  "It was."

  "Then we need to keep trying. We know Christina Moore's ghost has been wandering about, and all the folklore for ghosts is very clear that if you summon them at their graveside--"

  "The folklore is also clear that to stop a ghost, you have to dig it up and burn the bones."

  "Uh, no." He paused. "You've been watching Supernatural, haven't you?"

  She kept walking, pulling away now. "My point is that the lore is full of crap."

  "We'll keep trying," Patrick said. "The night is young. Those kids aren't the only ones with a bottle. I brought wine. Fae wine."

  That made her slow. He smiled behind her back and said, "Never had fae wine, have you? It might help with your visions."

  She turned to face him. "You mean wine that fae use to induce permanent hallucinations in humans?"

  "I wouldn't say permanent."

  She spun on her heel and stalked off. He jogged after her. When his foot hit an embedded gravestone, he stumbled. As he righted himself, he heard Liv say, "What's--?" Then the pound of her footsteps as she broke into a run. He looked up sharply and saw a figure, just a few feet away. The figure of a young woman in a white sundress running for a mausoleum, with Liv in pursuit.

  Patrick ran, whispering, "Wait! Don't--"

  And they both disappeared.

  TWENTY-TWO

  GABRIEL

  Gabriel strode down the empty street. When he saw a shadow recede into an alley, he ignored it. This was that sort of neighborhood. While they might take a look at the cut of his suit and declare him a worthy target, he knew how to deal with this sort of predator. He'd had more knives pulled on him than he cared to recollect. A few guns, too. Little ever came of it. He hadn't been mugged since he was a boy.

  But when he ignored the shadow, the boy in his head whispered, Stop. Gabriel ignored that, too. He was done here. There were no real ghosts. Not Christina Moore and not the irksome ones from his past.

  Irksome?

  He glanced down the alley. No one was there. The shadow had been a trick of his imagination.

  You have no imagination.

  He snorted at that and carried on. When he reached the next alley, he turned to walk down it. He'd parked nearly two miles away, and while he might feel safe, that confidence did not extend to the safety of his vehicle.

  As Gabriel turned into the alley, he saw a man standing about ten feet away, blocking his path. He slowed but didn't stop. Stopping suggested fear.

  He couldn't see the man well, any light from the street swallowed by the tall buildings. The man seemed average in size. Blond hair. Bearded. Nothing menacing in his stance. He simply stood in Gabriel's path.

  "I told you to stop," the man said. "When that didn't work, I thought this might."

  Gabriel pulled up short. His gut clenched, as if reflexively, and he peered at the man, but more than just darkness hid him. The figure seemed half-shadow himself, seen through a veil of swirling fog.

  Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, forcing this particular phantom away. The man sighed, and when Gabriel opened his eyes, the figure had become the boy from earlier--the reflection of himself, backpack and all.

  "Is this better?" the boy said. "It's all the same, you know. Him, me, you. All memory. All you."

  Gabriel opened his mouth to respond and then realized the preposterousness of speaking to an external representation of his subconscious.

  "Oh, go ahead," the boy said. "In this neighborhood, people talk to themselves all the time."

  Gabriel took out his phone.

  "Checking messages?" the boy said. "How about accepting the one we're trying to transmit. You're being followed."

  Gabriel flipped through screens.

  "Not even going to look around, are you? You already know you're being followed."

  Obviously, he did, at some level, or this externalized manifestation wouldn't be telling him that. But that's what he would expect around here. A scavenger prowling until he decided Gabriel didn't look like easy prey.

  "Are you sure that's it?"

  Gabriel kept flipping through screens on his cell phone.

  "Oh, I get it," the boy said. "You aren't ignoring me. You're giving yourself an excuse for stopping and listening. All right. I'll shut up."

  Thank you.

  The boy vanished, and Gabriel was left in that alley, pretending to search for something on his phone while calling on his powers of deep perception, the ones that had nothing to do with any preternatural ability and everything to do with years spent in neighborhoods just like this, his senses attuned to every sound that could signal trouble.

  He half-turned, as if questioning his route. As soon as he did, he sensed someone stepping into the alley. He lifted his phone and switched to the camera. It took him a moment to find the button to reverse the direction of the lens. He remembered Olivia teasing him about that, saying, "What? You don't take selfies and post them to Instagram?"

  "I only know what Instagram is because it was pertinent to a weapons offense I defended. The victim made the mistake of posting photos of my client's parrot to his account, which led--It's a long story. Quite dull, actually."

  "Oh no, don't pull that crap, Gabriel. Tell me the story. Now."

  Gabriel shook off the memory. It took effort. He kept seeing her expression, green eyes glittering, eager to hear whatever madness he was about to impart. There was nothing momentous in the story or the memory, just one of dozens, those easy moments of conversation, relaxed and content and, yes, happy. Pleased with himself and happy. Such a small thing, and yet not small at all.

  Focus.

  He shook it off harder and lifted the camera. And there, behind him, was a woman, one who looked exactly like Christina Moore.

  Exactly? No, he misspoke. The alley had not suddenly grown brighter. Yet he could see her better than he'd seen the figure of the man, and there was little doubt that she appeared to be the woman from the photo, right down to her white sundress. As for whether it was Christina, that was another matter entirely .

  When he took a step her way, she fled down the alley. Gabriel broke into a jog. He reached the alley end and looked around to see an empty street. No sign of--

  A flash of white between two buildings. He jogged over to see a narrow road. A homeless man sat on the curb. Gabriel strode over and wordlessly held out a twenty. The man pointed down the road and gestured left.

  Gabriel set out and made a left just in time to see Christina dart down yet another alley.

  She's leading you.

  Yes, he realized that.

  She's trying to get you lost.

  Yes, he realized that, too.

  You should call Olivia. For backup.

  He didn't need backup.

  It makes a good excuse.

  He ignored the voice and continued until he reached the alley. A door stood half open partway down, and he shook his head. She might as well have posted a Welcome sign.

  He moved carefully, loafers rolling with each step. When he reached the door, he considered. Then he stepped through.

  The door led into a hallway of closed and numbered doors. Offices? Apartments? He couldn't tell. He took a few steps, listening for sounds of life from behind those doors. Silence.

  When his phone buzzed, he quickly took it out and saw Patrick's name. Gabriel hit Ignore and stepped to one door. No peephole. A keyed lock. No deadbolt. He slipped a thin glove from his pocket and tried the knob. It turned.

  His phone vibrated again. A text from Patrick.

  Urgent. About Liv.

  Gabriel released the doorkn
ob and retreated. He closed the door, making sure it would still open. Then he called Patrick.

  "What about Olivia?" he said when the bocan answered.

  "Hello to you, too, Gabriel."

  "What about Olivia?"

  "I need you to calm down."

  "And I need you to tell me what this is about, or I will grow steadily less calm, culminating in angry."

  "Mmm, I think you're already there."

  "Culminating in vengefully angry. What is--?"

  "I've misplaced her."

  "Mis--?"

  "We came to the cemetery to summon the ghost of Christina Moore."

  "What?"

  "Everything was going fine, until Liv, well, vanished."

  "Are you still at the cemetery?"

  Patrick exhaled, as if relieved that Gabriel hadn't started ranting. He felt like ranting--at Patrick, at Olivia, at himself even for jumping to the conclusion she was blowing him off earlier. Yes, she had been, but it'd been trickery rather than rejection, and he'd been having far too much fun sulking to realize that. But shouting and snarling wouldn't get Olivia back. Directions would.

  Patrick confirmed that yes, he was still there, and Gabriel strode from the building, wondering what his chances were of summoning a taxi faster than he could get to his car. In this neighborhood, not good.

  "It's a vision trance, isn't it?" Gabriel said as he walked. "She brought you for backup, meaning she wouldn't wander off. Not far, anyway."

  "Yes, it seems to be a vision. She was following the ghost of Christina Moore, and then, gone. Both of them."

  "It's not Ms. Moore."

  "Maybe, but it definitely looked like her, and it was a ghost, so I'm going with the most obvious solution. Considering we were trying to summon Christina--"

  "Ms. Moore is not a ghost."

  A pause. "She's alive?"

  "No, I'm saying that this hasn't been her ghost. It's a pixie."

  "Pixie? No, Gabriel. We're dealing with a ghost. All the evidence--"

  "--has been misconstrued. It's a pixie. And I believe she's here, attempting to lure me somewhere."

  "Wha--? No. I have no idea what this is, but if you think you're being pixie-led, get out of there. Do not pursue."

  "I'm not. I'm coming to you. I'll call when I'm close."

  Gabriel hung up. He shoved the phone into his pocket and turned the corner, onto the street and--

  And he was not on the street. He was in another alley.

  He looked behind him to see an alley. He'd stepped from one into another, which made no sense at all. He could not be at the juncture of two--

  But he was. He must not have been paying enough attention as he initially followed the pixie, and he'd walked from one alley to another without realizing it.

  No matter. He'd continue down this one and--

  He turned the next end to see yet another alley. And the homeless man on the curb. As Gabriel walked by, the man lifted a grimy ball-cap and peered at Gabriel with impossibly bright green eyes.

  "You lost, sir?"

  Gabriel looked up and down the alley.

  "No, I don't believe I am."

  "Then you're wrong, Gabriel Walsh." The man smiled up at him. "You're very, very wrong."

  TWENTY-THREE

  PATRICK

  Pixies? Really? Well, no, not really. Patrick remembered when Freud came out with his theories, and suddenly everything from bedwetting to homicidal rage could be explained by an unhealthy love for one's parent. That's what Gabriel was doing. He'd discovered the existence of fae, and so everything inexplicable could be explained by that.

  Patrick shook his head as he continued walking through the cemetery, searching for Olivia.

  Gabriel must have done an Internet search on "fairy" and "lost" and gotten "pixies." You would really think a lawyer would know to be more critical with his online research. Yes, if this were fae, a pixie would fit, but if Patrick honestly believed it could be one, he'd be a lot more worried.

  Pixies were one of the most malicious subspecies. Oh, sure, they got great press--probably the result of some forward thinking when humans first came into contact with fae. Let's make ourselves look as cute and innocuous as possible! Fae overall had done that well--with the exception of subspecies like his own--but none had managed it better than the pixies.

  Pixie dust. Pixie sticks. Pixie haircuts. Magical. Sweet. Childlike. The terms associated all that with the creatures themselves, as tiny and innocent fae. Which could not be further from the truth.

  Most fae subspecies enjoyed a good prank. Those ranged from harmless to annoying, rather like human ones. For a prank to turn cruel, a person had to deserve it. Pixies, though? They started with cruel and worked up.

  But this wasn't a pixie. It was Christina Moore, who could not be a pixie. Patrick had investigated that possibility when he first learned they actually seemed to be dealing with a ghost. Could Christina have been a fae, who appeared to die and came back? No, she had a human family and a birth record. She had been human. And she had died. And now she'd come back--as a ghost, not a pixie, which would be all kinds of impossible.

  Speaking of impossible...

  Patrick peered around the darkness.

  No Liv here. No Liv there. No Olivia anywhere.

  He wasn't too concerned. He'd called Gabriel mostly to cover his ass. Liv's vision states were just one of her Matilda powers. They pulled back the veil for her, not unlike his live-action reference books. She stepped in and saw something--past or present--that helped her understand her situation. Sometimes she lost consciousness. Sometimes she wandered beyond the veil. Gabriel might panic over the fevers, but it made no sense if visions meant to help her could also prove lethal. Nature didn't work that way.

  Patrick would, however, like to find Liv before Gabriel arrived. Present her to him, safe and sound.

  If I were a ghost, where would I go?

  That was hardly helpful. If Patrick were a ghost, he'd go every place he couldn't otherwise. He'd peer into lives he could never inhabit, see people in their realities rather than the projected images they showed for others. As a ghost, he imagined he could spend centuries just listening and observing. That was the writer in him.

  Christina Moore was not a writer. For a musician, she didn't even seem terribly imaginative, given that she was a ghost lurking in a cemetery.

  Patrick checked his phone. Nothing. As he glanced up, he caught movement over by the mausoleum. A flash of white, like the flip of a dress as someone fled.

  He jogged over to the mausoleum.

  "Woooo," a voice whispered from the other side. "Woooo." Then there was a giggle. A drunken giggle.

  Patrick grumbled under his breath and turned to stalk off.

  "Woooo!" More giggling, followed by a snicker.

  All right, if these kids wanted to play ghost, he'd show them how it was done. Give them a fright to send them fleeing so he could concentrate on finding Olivia.

  "Woooo!"

  Yeah, yeah. He walked to the mausoleum. Reached up. Sighed when his fingertips fell a few inches short of the edge. A quick look around before he shed his glamour. An easy scramble up the wall. Then he kept his true form as he crept to the other side, where he could hear the girl snickering. He glanced over the side and--

  A girl leaped at him, her face a mask of blood, cheek torn and flapping.

  Patrick let out a yelp. More like a squeal, but he was sticking with the less humiliating "yelp."

  As he fell back on the roof, another figure swung up onto the roof. A familiar figure, grinning a familiar grin...until she saw him and let out a yelp of her own.

  "Holy shit," Liv said, scrambling back. "Patrick?

  He glowered at her. "Who else?"

  That's when he remembered he wasn't wearing a glamour. He cast his as fast as he could.

  "Thank you," Liv said. "That is one creepy glamour."

  "It's not--" He bit off the protest and settled for a deeper scowl.

  "Wait?
Is that your real look? Freaky green spider monkey?"

  "Monkey? Did you see fur? No. It's not--"

  "Olivia?" a girl's voice called.

  "Hold on. Just helping my friend here recover from his heart attack." Liv crawled over and looked down. "Your death mask is awesome, by the way."

  Patrick moved to the edge as Liv lowered herself beside...Christina Moore. Wearing a sunny dress and a sunny smile and no trace of blood or gore.

  "Sorry if we spooked you," Christina said as Patrick climbed down.

  "Totally my idea," Liv said. "That's Chrissy's death mask--her face at the moment of her death."

  Patrick glared at Liv. "So while I've been searching in an absolute panic, you've been making friends with a murderous spirit."

  "Panic?" Liv snorted. "You were enjoying a leisurely stroll among the tombstones. And none of the dead are Chrissy's fault. Seems she's been the victim of afterlife identity theft. Someone--something--stole her likeness and her backstory and trapped her here while the imposter goes all deadly phantom hitchhiker."

  "Imposter?"

  "Fae, I'm guessing. I hate to jump to that conclusion, but if it's a nasty-ass prank, it's gotta be fae. Do you know of any--?"

  "We need to get to Gabriel. Now."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  GABRIEL

  The homeless man's face changed, reverse aging until he looked about Gabriel's age.

  "Aren't you going to ask how we know who you are, Gabriel Walsh?"

  "There are too many possibilities, and it hardly matters how. You do. As for how you found me, it would be the camera at your office. When it detected a figure, it sent an alert and, presumably, an image, which you recognized. Then you were able to track me here. Being pixies, with the power to make people lost, I would assume you can also find them."

  "Oh, but you are clever," said a voice behind Gabriel. "Just not clever enough to avoid that camera."

  Gabriel turned. Behind him stood a young woman who was undeniably Christina Moore. She smiled, and her form seemed to ooze, features reconstituting into a dark-haired young woman. Another glamour. Which ought to be impossible. Most fae possessed a single one, which they could age up or down as they desired. None could impersonate another person. Yet clearly she had.

  Gabriel said, "If I avoided the camera, you wouldn't be here, and I would have to hunt you down. This is easier."

  The pixies laughed. There was, however, a thread of uncertainty woven through it. Not that Gabriel had any clue how to turn this situation to his favor. He just couldn't let them know that.