“Let’s change the subject. I was going to invite you to the party but since it was a bit away, I thought I’d wait. Didn’t want to seem too eager.”
“And here I am inviting you to meet my family after only, what, a month?” Cal looks a little embarrassed.
“Cal Jacobs, would you like to come to the grand opening of Dovenelle’s? It will be a spectacular Halloween party. I guarantee it.”
“Why, Miss Dovenelle, I’d love to. Consider this my R-S-V-P.” And with that, we both laugh aloud.
27
Janet Kellogg had always hated her name. It lacked all imagination and reflected none of the qualities that made her who she was. Janet Kellogg—‘Flakes’ she was called in school—had been teased, bullied, and picked on. But Mandala Moonchild is a powerful medium—well respected in the community and the owner of one of the most prosperous new age shops in Salem. Mandala Moonchild always gets what she wants.
Mandy, as she allows only her friends to call her, strums her freshly manicured stiletto nails on the glass top of her dining room table. She absently watches the Swarovski crystal on each nail glint in the glow of the crystal chandelier. It does nothing to brighten her mood.
The interior of her spacious condo is spotless and organized, bordering on OCD. Her vast collection of tchotchkes is arranged carefully by type and size, and then by color. Gnomes, matryoshka dolls, porcelain birds, crystal and wire mini-trees, and all manner of tourist paraphernalia from the forty-six states she’s visited in the last twenty years are placed artfully around her home. The bright colors and precious memories make Mandy feel comfortable and happy. Except for right now. Right now, she is pissed.
That flat-chested bitch Aven is now going out with the guy Mandy has had her eye on for months. Mandy has gone to great lengths to get him to notice her, wearing her best miniskirts, spiked heels, and blouses just tight enough to show off her ample and perky breasts without giving too much away. You have to leave them wanting more, her mom used to say. Mandy is proud of her new boobs; they are the most perfectly shaped ones that Dr. Molina of the Boston elite has ever crafted. And he said as much. She’s been to see him twice more for other tucks and lifts here and there, and she looks amazing. Everyone says so.
For a woman of forty-three, Mandy considers herself pretty damn hot. This has been validated on many occasions when she’s cougared, and she never tires of watching younger men’s eyes follow her. And she owns her own business, which is thriving. She is in the prime of her life. She has everything she wants…except a steady man.
So then why does this Cal guy want to go out with a nothing like Aven? Barely any tits, dark fly-away hair, pretty plain in the face, and way too intense and uppity. Mandy’s blonde hair is always coiffed to perfection, and her makeup is a work of art. She has a sparkling laugh and a delightful personality. What’s not to love? Men are so stupid. She slugs down the last of the merlot in disgust.
The Spirit of Morris Stiles wafts along the edge of the Veil, aimless. He is listless and slow, lacking the energy to do much else than brood about the unfairness of it all. Aven Dovenelle thought she’d be cute and erase the memories of his kin—the only kin that ever had the decency to think about him. That might have drained him of his primary source of energy, but there are many people in this town who dislike that woman. She’s ruffled a lot of feathers coming in like she did, getting the building permits as fast as she did, and having the inspectors pretty much eating out of her palm. He didn’t have to go far to sense the grumblings against Aven. Anger and hate are his favorite meals.
But those little spats haven’t been enough to sustain him for any length of time. If he’s going to stay in this plane and get his revenge against that goddamn witch, he needs to find a consistent source of negativity. Or maybe just a little bit and he can fan the flames like he did with Melissa. That stupid girl really let him down. He was ashamed that she was blood.
He clings to the flow of the Veil, allowing its current to send him here and there. Something will turn up sooner or later. Has to.
It’s not long after that a hint of hostility tugs at Morris’s Spirit. He quivers. Even this small amount makes his senses tingle. With the last of his energy, he pulls himself together and follows the tantalizing scent.
Mandy pours herself another glass of merlot and stares out at the city lights from her balcony. She needs to put Aven Dovenelle in her place, but how to do so is proving hard to figure out. She wonders if Aven and Cal are fucking. The very idea enrages her. Her over Mandy! Cal is really missing out. Mandy is proud of her sexual skills and is certain that there is no way Aven is better than her.
Mandy stretches her legs out on the sectional and arranges the cushions more comfortably behind her back. She must remind her maid again exactly how the cushions should be placed.
If there’s no way to get Cal to wise up, then she’ll just have to get a better man and make sure Aven sees them together. It’s so easy to make a woman jealous. Aven will be no exception.
As Mandy relishes picturing Aven’s jealous face at seeing her and her fictitious more-handsome-than-Cal man, the city lights start to wink out before her. She squints. A charcoal-black mantle builds around everything in view. Her skin prickles with a sudden panic she can’t explain. She sets her wine glass on the side table and pulls her knees to her chest. The blackness overtakes the skyline; it creeps towards her, achingly slow, over the balcony and across the tiled floor. She tries to cry out but chokes instead, as if an invisible hand is around her throat. Her heart is pounding in her ears, and she feels as if she’s wrapped in a blanket of ice.
Oh, yes. Yes. You’ll do jus’ fine.
The grating voice echoes around her and makes Mandy’s blood run cold. As a medium, she pretends to channel and speak to spirits and ghosts, but has never actually seen one and doesn’t believe they are real when it comes right down to it. She doesn’t have any powers either, she knows that. She’s all about the tricks—lighting, smoke, and manufactured sounds; her sessions are never real. Her clients eat it up like candy; it’s so easy to fool the bereft and lonely. People who say they’re real are just fakes and liars. Ghosts don’t really exist. Someone is playing a trick on me, she repeats to herself. She’ll get that person, right after she learns how they did all this. This is pretty awesome. How are they managing the darkness-closing-in effect way up here?
This ain’t no trick, you stupid woman.
Mandy jerks away from the frightening voice, or she would if she could move. She finds herself paralyzed, frozen, and her panic threatens to send her into convulsions.
The black curtain before her tears, as if someone is clawing at the thick drape from the other side. The quivering fabric splits and opens wide in jagged cuts, with pieces falling to the ground and disappearing. What is coming through makes Mandy fight against her frozen body; her mouth opens in a desperate scream, but she hears only silence.
The face that appears is not of flesh and bone but translucent and vague, and seems to be made from dirty brown smog. It looks at her with dark pits for eyes, and a malevolent grin on its jagged, gap-tooth mouth goes grotesquely wide at the sight of her. Mandy struggles against the invisible restraints, desperate to get away. She is too young to die, she has so much to live for! As the rest of the figure snakes through the torn and weeping fabric, fear’s grip closes tight around her and a silent scream fills her ears.
28
Jo is finally back, gracing us with her presence in the late afternoon. There are hugs all around and an aggressive shake from daughter to mother, admonishing Jo for making her worry.
“Oh, stop your fussing, girl, I’m too tired.” Jo falls into the nearest chair on the porch. “Aven, if you would be a dear.”
My hand passes over the table, and a glass materializes, promptly filled with her favorite whiskey and one ice rock.
We start to sit, but Jo puts a hand up to Sylvia.
“Not you. Go home.” Jo says this more unkindly than I believe she mea
ns to.
Sylvia’s mouth pinches shut. Her mother has that look, and Sylvia knows better than to argue. With an insulted harrumph, she turns on her heel and throws open the front door. We sit in silence and listen to her stomp around and slam cabinet doors while she gathers her things. The door flies open again.
“Don’t break my door, please.”
She catches it before it slams and stomps down the stairs. She’s gentler with the gate.
Jo watches her daughter stalk away, a touch of regret in her eyes. “I’m sometimes glad she doesn’t have any real powers.” Then she stops, realizing she spoke those words aloud.
“Jo.” I put a hand on hers. “What is it?”
Her eyes are cast down, staring at our hands. “I watched you two, you and the white raven, that first day.” She seems a little embarrassed. I nod and keep silent.
She traces her index finger along the polished obsidian cabochon of my ring, the wheels in her mind working hard behind her distant eyes. The noise of the world around us—the traffic, the chatter of people on the sidewalk, the calls of songbirds, the random barking of dogs—fades from my ears and there is silence. I watch Jo, aware that her breathing has relaxed somewhat; the slight breeze carries her scent of patchouli in my direction. Her long auburn hair seems to have more gray wisps within, and they flutter like spiderwebs. I squeeze her fingers gently to pull her from her reverie.
“When I walked away and glanced back,” she says, picking up from where she’d left off, “I saw something strange. I needed to make sure I wasn’t seeing things or losing my already scattered mind even more, so I sat there inside the door.”
My interest is piqued, as are the hairs on the back of my neck. A sense of dread is creeping over my skin. I fight it and return my focus to Jo.
“You and the white raven, you two have the same energy.” She sits up and leans back, meeting my gaze. “The pattern of energy flow, your vibration: there is a particular glow about you that I always assumed was unique to you. Everyone has an aura; some colors are vivid, some are faded or muddy—all depends on the mood, you know—and they move in waves and ripples around them. Yours is different. Your colors are striking and change dramatically with your energy. Your aura pulses instead. It’s not something I’ve ever seen before; it’s beautiful and mesmerizing.” She snorts a light laugh. “You probably thought I was gay when we first met, with me always staring at you.”
Laughing, I realize I’d never thought anything of it. I am used to being stared at for what I am, and Jo’s looks were never judgmental.
“I’d always seen it on you when I put my eye out for it but never saw it on the bird before. I never really paid much attention to the white raven until recently. I usually don’t bother with looking at the energies of animals unless a client has asked me to see what’s wrong with their pet. Anyway, when I saw you two together, I first thought that your energy was encompassing the bird. But that wasn’t the case. She has the same pattern and glow as you do: the same vibration, the same frequency—the same pulse. It was amazing to watch.”
While I can see auras if I try, it’s not a gift I have in abundance. I feel energy more than anything else, and sometimes see shades of color but mostly when in the Veil. I envy Jo’s ability.
“Do you believe that means something? Well, obviously you do or you wouldn’t be like this.” Goosebumps rise on my skin as Jo’s look intensifies.
“You two are connected, there’s no doubt about that. When she told me she couldn’t come near you because your energy was too strong, I didn’t think much more about it. I just made a charm to shield its effect on her. But after what I saw, it got me thinking. Your energy repels her like magnets of the same polarity repel each other. You two are the same.”
My brow crinkles. “That can’t be. She’s immortal.”
“Not the same in the physical sense,” Jo clarifies. “Your Spirits seem to be the same.”
I look at her, confused, not certain where she’s going with this or what it means.
She clears her throat and pulls her hand away. “I think this is significant, actually,” she says responding to my confusion. “So much so that I needed guidance from my mother’s Spirit.”
My heartbeat has quickened, and my palms are moist. I want to shake her to make her spit it out.
“As you know, my family has a little bit of land west of here. We’ve used it for generations not only as a site for major rituals, but also as a place to commune with loved ones long gone. It’s gorgeous really—hidden in a valley, loaded with trees, and there’s a creek dotted with little waterfalls. It doesn’t have cell coverage or I’d move there, but it does have a portal to the Veil.”
My eyes widen. “Really? How did your family find that? I had to make that mirror.”
“Later, long story,” she says, dismissing the question with a wave. “Anyway, I had to go back there to speak with Mom if she hadn’t moved on yet. It took a while for her to show up—she was on her way to another plane when she heard my call. All in all, it turned out to be a pretty fruitless conversation in terms of helping me understand why you two appear to have the same energy. She did say something, though, that got me thinking. ‘Look back to the past. See what is not there.’ And I’m like, ‘What the hell does that mean?’” She shakes her head, annoyed at the memory. “That woman always did love her riddles. She’s worse now that she’s a Spirit!” Jo tuts and stares out at the garden for a long moment.
“What do you remember about your first life?” Jo asks, still staring at nothing in the garden.
This unexpected question sets me back in the chair, recoiling my arms over my chest. “You’ve asked me that before. ‘Not much’ is still the answer.” I’m annoyed suddenly for no apparent reason. I inhale deeply to calm myself. “Sorry. Really, Jo, my first life is a mystery for the most part.”
“And therein lies the answer!” She breathes these words out and returns her attention to me. “That’s the ‘what is not there,’ I think, in Mom’s riddle. You remember everything from every other life except that one. Don’t you think that’s weird? There’s got to be something there that can tell us why you two look the same.”
The same. These words echo through my mind. That would explain why we have such a strong connection. But how can Spirits be the same?
“What do you suggest?”
“We need to do a past life ritual,” she says quickly as if already having the words on the tip of her tongue.
A brick forms in my stomach, and it’s suspended by rising bile. I am afraid of what I’ll discover. I’ve always let myself believe my first life was so boring, so uneventful, that there’s nothing worth remembering. Something inside me is niggling now, scratching at the door behind which all my memories are crammed, telling me that is not true.
“Why is finding out why we are the same important?” This question comes out of my mouth before I knew the words were there.
Jo looks away, back out to the garden.
“What are you hiding?” My eyes narrow at her.
She scoots up in her seat, straightening her back. “Nothing! Not a thing. Just thinking about how to do this ritual.”
She is lying. I will leave it for now. I’m not sure I want to know anyway.
She looks around, leaning forward to get a glimpse of the sky. “Where’s the white raven?”
“She flew off a little bit ago, just before you got here. Dinner time. She’ll be back soon.”
“She needs to be in the ritual,” Jo says with some urgency.
“You can ask her. I’m sure she’ll want to be there. She doesn’t remember when or where she was born either.” As those words leave my mouth, we both lean back and stare at each other.
“Really?” Jo says, head cocked to the side. “Isn’t that interesting?” Her suspicions seem to be validated with this new bit of information.
“Wow, yeah. I just remembered that. Huh.”
“Sound familiar?” Jo’s eyebrows are up
/> The gears in my mind spin. I shake off the lingering trails of apprehension that have plagued me during this conversation. I push my chair back and stand up quickly, the legs of the chair scraping against the wood of the porch, making Jo wince.
“Come on, I’m hungry. I was going to heat up the leftover lasagna. Want some?”
“Sure.” Jo perks up. She loves my spicy take on the traditional lasagna. “Where’s Cal tonight?” she asks, following me inside. Arial runs in between us as a clamor of angry chittering comes from the aster bush.
“Arial! What did you do?” I call after her. Her response is to continue her run up the stairs.
“Uh-oh. That can’t be good.” Jo’s looking behind her, wary of an onslaught of irate fairies.
I sigh and shake my head. “They have to work out their differences on their own. I can’t be referee all the time.”
“I can just see it now: Arial trussed up on a spit like a pig over a fairy bonfire.” Jo laughs out loud at the vision.
I frown, knowing too well that could really happen.
As we head up the stairs, I answer her question. “Cal’s back in Worcester today and tomorrow. Client problems.”
Jo scarfs down her heaping portion of lasagna, saying it’s been days since she’s had a proper meal. Ren has returned and settles on the window sill in the kitchen, still leery of coming indoors.
I introduce Ren to Jo, telling her how we came about the bird’s name. Jo likes the name, but says it lacks the grandeur befitting such a magnificent creature. Ren looks as if she is embarrassed by Jo’s compliment.
When Jo finishes chugging a full glass of water to quell the rising heat in her mouth, she regales Ren with her travels and discoveries. The bird listens intently, becoming excited when the past life ritual is mentioned.
You are thinking we lived in the same life together? Maybe we are sisters. Sisters! She cocks her head and bobs her whole body, clearly happy with that prospect.
The White Raven Page 20
