Karma

by Nadine Nightingale

  Pushing off the wall, I stagger toward them. “All due respect, sir, but we don’t have time for this. We need answers now.”

  Alex gives me a look, and Dr. DaSilva frowns. “It’s been a busy night, Agent. We had a gang shooting downtown.”

  Gang shooting sounds bad, but a dead ten-year-old outweighs just about anything. “And we have several missing kids,” I shoot back.

  Dr. DaSilva blows out a frustrated breath. “I understand, but I’m on my own. And as you can see,” he holds his hands up, “I’ve only got two of these.”

  So he doesn’t want to help us, huh? Well, I guess I just have to help myself then. “Can we see Isobelle now?” I try to sound calm, but there’s an edge in my voice I can’t even out. The doctor’s gaze travels over my face. “Sure, but I need to see your ID first.”

  Alex shoves his badge under the man’s nose. “Have the parents been informed?” he asks while Dr. DaSilva thoroughly examines his ID.

  A dark, fearful blue swirls around the doctor. “Yes, they’re on their way.” The defeat in his voice is loud and clear. He must have done this a million times—talking to parents who had lost their child—but his expression tells me he’ll never get used to it.

  Dr. DaSilva pulls his gaze from the badge. “Wait here,” he grumbles, walking to a massive sliding door at the end of the hallway.

  Alex leans in. “I know that look, Manda. What are you up to?”

  I swear, sometimes it’s scary how well the boy knows me. I pull my bun tighter and straighten my jacket. “I’m going to find out what happened to Isobelle.”

  He crosses his arms and studies me closely. “And how are you going to do that?”

  I manage a half-smile. “What good is it to be a witch if you can’t summon the dead?”

  His jaw drops. “You’re fucking crazy,” he says, eyeballing me as if I’ve just murdered his puppy. “This is a morgue. You can’t just summon a dead girl.”

  I shrug. “Watch me.”

  Ignoring his grimace, I check my bag for the things I need. Eyeliner? Check. Pen and paper? Check. Two quarters? Check. A lighter? Shit. “Alex?”

  He looks up.

  “Do you have a lighter?”

  He pulls a black Zippo out of his pocket. “Do I want to know why you need this?” he asks before he hands it over.

  “Probably not.”

  “Agents.” Dr. DaSilva waves us over. “You can see her now.”

  I draw in a deep breath. “You need to buy me some time,” I say as we head toward the massive sliding door. “Can you do that?”

  Alex knits his brows. It’s obvious he doesn’t like my plan, but he nods. “I’ll try my best,” he promises, and then we walk through the door into the morgue.

  Dr. DaSilva stands next to me. “Right there,” he says, pointing to the autopsy table at the far end of the room.

  Damn, the man wasn’t kidding when he said he’d had a busy night. Holding my index finger under my nose to block out the smell of death and decomposition, I gawk at a dozen black vinyl bags. This sucks. One minute you’re planning your future, and the next you find yourself stuffed into a body bag.

  “Ready?” the doctor asks, hand on the zipper of Isobelle’s bag.

  Alex’s fingers brush my hand, and I get a glimpse of his messed up emotions. Anger, disbelief, shock—he feels it all. “Go ahead,” he says, hiding his emotions under a façade of confidence.

  The metallic sound of the zipper gives me the chills, and all of a sudden, Alex’s words ring in my ears. “Take off the bitchy armor and the cocky attitude and tell me what’s left?” Right now, the answer to that question is weak knees and cardiac arrest.

  The doc parts the plastic, and I stiffen at the gruesome sight. Isobelle’s long hair is glued to her scalp. Her skin is translucent, and the dried blood around her mouth and nose makes her look like a bloodthirsty vampire.

  Breathe, Amanda. I try to, but my throat is blocked. Sick to my stomach, I stumble back and bump into a scale stand that hosts a freaking heart.

  “Would you like to wait outside?” Dr. DaSilva asks.

  Alex looks at me with a worried expression. That’s a new freaking record. Yesterday, I cried in front of him, and now I can’t handle a corpse? If I keep this up, he might actually think I have a soul.

  “I’m good,” I say, straightening.

  The doc shrugs, clearly not buying it. “If you say so.”

  Meeting Alex’s gaze, I point to the door. “Get him out,” I mouth.

  He pats the doc’s shoulder. “Dr. DaSilva, would you show me Isobelle’s personal belongings while Agent Bishop takes a look at the body?” The FBI voice really suits him.

  Uncomfortable with the idea of leaving me alone with Isobelle’s corpse, Dr. DaSilva twists his mouth. “Sure,” he says reluctantly. “Follow me.”

  Alex peeks over his shoulder and gives me a warning glance. “You better hurry,” I read from his lips before the door slides shut behind them.

  Since I have no idea how much time I have, I pull pen and paper out of my bag and write down the spell. They are tricky, dangerous little bitches. One misplaced word, and instead of summoning the dead, you end up raising them. Keeping my trembling hand steady, I jot down the last sentence and skim through it. Looks good.

  Yeah, but what if it doesn’t work? Gram’s spells never failed. Remember Sissy? My lips curl into a smile. How could I ever forget that white ball of fur? She wasn’t just the smartest cat to ever walk this earth; she had also been one of the best things that ever happened to me. The kitten and I shared everything, including mutual dislike for my mother. Every time Desperate Housewitch went on a rampage, Sissy threatened to scratch her eyes out. Unfortunately, her overprotective streak had also been her downfall. After biting my mother in the heel because she had accused me of being the source of all evil, Mom chased her out of the yard, right under the wheel of our neighbor’s car. I couldn’t picture life without her, and when I found the summoning spell in Gram’s grimoire, I figured it would bring her back for good, Pet Cemetery style. Guess I should have paid more attention to the words. What a stupid and naïve eight-year-old I was.

  Spell between my lips, I pull the eyeliner out of my bag and draw pentagrams on Isobelle’s stiff palms. The black char smears on her leather-like skin. Gross.

  My hands grow sweaty. There are a million things that can go wrong, but I read the spell anyway. “I call upon the ancient gods: Moira, who cuts the thread, Hecate, who cheats death, and Isis, savior and guardian of all dead. Allow me to speak to this spirit from the other side, so I may see what took her life.”

  Closing my eyes, I visualize Isobelle in the asylum. Her clouded eyes, her heavy breath, her glass-shattering screams. “I call upon the ancient gods; Moira, who cuts the thread, Hecate, who cheats death, and Isis, savior and guardian of all dead. Allow me to speak to this spirit from the other side, so I may see what took her life.”

  Focusing all my energy, I rest my hand on Isobelle’s chest and repeat the spell one last time before I hold the paper in the flame of the lighter.

  Something’s not right, though. The paper scarcely burns, and it takes several attempts until the spell finally goes up in flames. Every kid knows the outcome of a spell can be measured by the speed in which it burns, but I can’t give up now. Pulling the ferryman’s reward out of my bag, I put the quarters on Isobelle’s forehead and wait.

  The clock ticks the minutes away, but there’s no sign of her spirit. I watch her dishonored body and wait, but the kid is as dead as she can be, and her soul is nowhere to be seen. I run my hand over her forehead. “Isobelle,” I whisper. “I need your help.”

  Nothing.

  What did I expect, an answer?

  Maybe.

  Now what?

  I repeat the spell louder.

  It’s hopeless.

  Faster.

  Nada. Niente. Nothing.

  Harsher.

  Ah, fuck it. This isn’t going to work.

 
The monster in my head is right. This is a lost cause. Grabbing Isobelle’s rigid hand, I’m wiping off the eyeliner when a chilly breeze sweeps my hair.

  “Isobelle?” My gaze drifts through the room, but there’s no sign of her spirit.

  Am I that desperate I’ve started imagining things?

  I shrug the incident off and brush my thumb over a pentagram when an electric humming charges the air and the fluorescent light flickers.

  “Amanda.” I jump at the sound of the metallic voice.

  Spinning, I scan the room. “Isobelle, is that you?”

  The autopsy saw on the table next to me trembles. “You did this to me,” the inhuman voice shrieks as the air grows colder, and my breath becomes visible.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask shakily.

  “You’ll see,” the voice replies as a violent wind blows through me.

  First, there’s an eerie silence. Then high-pitched screams and painfully bright flashes of light. The world spins, or I do. The earth trembles, or maybe my legs do. It’s impossible to say. Stumbling backward, I knock into the autopsy table. Whatever the fuck this is, it’s worse than a bad acid trip.

  ****

  Between the crescent moon and the sparkling stars, Isobelle looked angelic. She had slept through most of the day, and to her surprise, without another nightmare. She didn’t know why she felt better, but she was certain it was connected to the woman and the man who came to see her today. The woman’s fingers had worked magic on her forehead, she was sure about that.

  Isobelle’s tired eyes found the moon, and she made a wish. Maybe, she thought, maybe things will get better now. Holding onto her newfound hope, she closed her eyes.

  “I warned you.” Isobelle opened her eyes. “Don’t tell anyone, I said. Don’t ever try to remember, I told you.” The demon’s accent turned her blood to ice.

  “No. No. No,” she cried, terrified. “Leave me alone.”

  A shadow stepped out of the corner. “You are a risk, petite monstre, and risks need to be eliminated.”

  Isobelle braced herself for Scorpion Man’s wrath, but as the shadow came closer, she realized this wasn’t Scorpion Man. The shadow wasn’t a man at all.

  “It’s time,” the creature with the top hat whispered, reaching for her hand. It was a gentle touch, quick and insignificant. But what it did to her was brutal and meaningful. Her chest cramped. Her throat tightened. Warm liquid welled out of her nose. And the figure just stood there, watching her gasp for air, laughing as blood bubbled out of her mouth.

  Isobelle eyes grew wild with fear when she realized she was choking on the very thing that gave her life.

  ****

  The pressure on my chest is unbearable. “Is this my fault?” I whimper as Alex and Dr. DaSilva return. Did Isobelle die because I tried to get a glimpse of what had happened to her?

  “Amanda?” A horrified expression on his face, Alex runs toward me.

  “Agent Bishop,” Dr. DaSilva screams. “What happened?”

  What the hell are they talking about?

  I try to gulp, but my throat is blocked. Drops of crimson fall to the floor, and when I run my hand over my nose, I see what has them so scared.

  My blood.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t see.

  And, eventually, I don’t feel.

  Chapter 16

  Between dazzling light that sears my retinas and utter darkness that leaves me blind and restless, my head reels. I totter backward, bumping into something hard. There’s no pain, though. Not even a little sensation. Just my mind telling me my hip knocked into cold steel.

  What the fuck just happened? Alex? Dr. DaSilva? They were here with me. Now they’re not. I look around. My heart gallops like a racing horse, but my body is rigid and numb.

  “Alex?” My voice echoes through the electrified air, as the clock above the sliding door blinks into existence. The watch hands move way too slowly. Shivers roll down my spine. “Dr. DaSilva?” I croak.

  White noise pulsates in my ears. From the corner of my eye, I see shadows dancing through the fey room. “Alex, where the fuck are you?” I don’t mean to sound hysterical, but I do.

  The static sound decomposes into terrifying voices. “Who are you?”

  “Can you help us?”

  “I need to pick up my daughter.”

  “Where are we?”

  “D is going to kill me.”

  They all speak at once.

  That’s it! I’m outta here. Pressing my hands against my ears, I head for the door. Out of nowhere, white mist appears. What the—

  Like a mad swarm of bees, it rushes toward me, knocking the standing scale over and sending the organ on it flying.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” a bloodcurdling voice thunders.

  I look from the mist to the heart. If this is a nightmare, I should write this shit down and send it to Stephen King. If not, well, then I’m totally screwed. “Who the fuck are you?” I shout, heart leaping inside my chest.

  The autopsy saw on the metal table springs to life, and shrill laughter penetrates the dull air. Carried by an invisible hand, the lethal saw flies at me, stopping only inches from my neck. “I,” the white mist says, “am the spirit you called.”

  Awesome. Just awesome. A crazy-ass, Goethe-quoting spirit points a saw at my neck. Shadows lurk in every corner, and Alex is freaking gone. Could this day get any better?

  Actually, it could. Look around. Don’t you know what this place is?

  The morgue?

  Really? Then where the hell is Alex? Think, Amanda.

  I hold my breath and scan the room. Distinctive echoes, ghostly lightning, and clocks that count seconds as minutes. Ring a bell?

  No way. This is crazy.

  Crazier than white mist that holds you at saw-point?

  “Shut the fuck up,” I order the voice in my head. This can’t be happening. I mean, there’s no freaking way I’m in—

  Limbo? Hate to break the bad news, but that’s exactly where you are.

  But you have to be—

  Dead? Congratulations, Amanda. You’ve just won a ticket to Disney World. Too bad you won’t need it anymore.

  I know spells can backfire, but this is madness. I’m twenty for Christ’s sake. There’s no way I’m dead.

  Fear corrupts my voice. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

  The air sizzles as the mist takes on human form, and not just any human form but Isobelle’s. Her otherwise blue eyes are charcoal, and she looks furious. “This is your fault,” she screams, bringing the saw closer to my neck. “You should have left me alone.”

  My chest tightens. There are a lot of things I should feel guilty about, but trying to save Jesse sure as hell ain’t one of them. “I’m sorry for what happened to you,” I say, eyes on the spinning blade. “But this isn’t my fault, Isobelle.”

  “I’m all alone,” she says, a fire blazing in her eyes. Literally. Her eyes burn. “I just wanted to go home. Now, I’ll never go home again.”

  “Home?” A shadow steps out of a corner. “I need to go home, too,” it whispers, taking on the form of a woman in her early thirties. Putting a hand on the gaping hole in her chest, she cries. “My daughter is waiting for me.”

  “My wife will kill me if I’m late for my surprise party,” a guy mutters as he approaches Isobelle and me. Half his face is blown away, the rest of his head barely attached to his spine.

  Disgusting. I should take a snapshot of him and send it to the NRA, adding a note that reads, “This is what guns can do.”

  “Shut up! All of you,” a rough voice warns. “Ain’t nobody going, but me. D is going to shoot ma ass if I don’t deliver the package.” The jerk is covered with gang tattoos, and despite the multiple gunshot wounds to his stomach, he keeps up his bad-boy attitude.

  The gateway of hell, I could handle. But being stuck in Limbo with Casper the unfriendly psycho and some messed up spirits who don’t even know they’re pu
shing up daisies—not so much.

  I focus on Isobelle. “I know you’re angry, and trust me you have every right—”

  “Damn right,” she says. “None of this would have happened if you had left me alone.”

  I get it. The kid is pissed off. Who wouldn’t unleash the inner beast if life had screwed you like this? But enough is enough. Eyes on the saw, I grab Isobelle’s wrist. “Put that thing down,” I order, my voice brimming with the confidence of the dead. I mean what can she do? Chop my ghostly head off?

  Isobelle’s ghost jaw drops. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she pouts.

  Evil spirit or not, I see nothing but a wild child. “You wish, young lady.” I bend her hand, forcing her to drop the saw. “I’ve summoned your sorry ass, and I’m sure as hell able to send you back. So stop acting like a holy terror. Do I make myself clear?”

  Even in the afterlife, I’m nothing but a liar. Dead witch trapped in Limbo. There’s no way my spells work here, but she doesn’t know that.

  The fire in her eyes turns into cold terror. “No,” she cries, stumbling back. “Please don’t send me to that place. It’s so,” her voice grows weaker, “so cold there.”

  Cold?

  “Isobelle.” I put a finger under her chin. “Look at me.” And when she does, I continue. “Tell me where you’ve been.”

  She averts her gaze. “I don’t know.”

  Every soul passes through a different Limbo. Fields with daisies and daffodils, a Nirvana concert, a freaking morgue, or simply the place where they took their last breath. Grams used to say it all came down to making the transition easier. But cold and lonely doesn’t sound easier to me. “Can you describe the place?” I ask.

  Isobelle’s gaze drops to her bare feet. “Everything there is colorless,” she says, breath quickening. “Kind of gray, but the worst gray I have ever seen. And—” She cuts herself off and looks around as if she’s afraid someone might eavesdrop. “Although I’m alone, I hear…”

  “What, Isobelle? What do you hear?”

  Isobelle’s shoulders sink. “Groaning. Laughing. Terrifying screams. And sometimes,” her voice breaks, “sometimes, I hear my brother and sister. They want me to come out and play. But I’m too scared.”