Of Fire and Storm

by D. G. Swank

  I ignored the soft groan from the woman behind me and gave my client a warm smile. “Barb, where would you say most of the activity is located? You’ve mentioned the kitchen several times and said the spirit gets upset when you fry chicken.”

  “For the most part the kitchen. But occasionally the hallway at night.”

  “You hear sounds in the hallway?” I asked. “Footsteps and floorboard creaks?”

  “And the pictures get messed up,” Mrs. O’Keefe said. “Like I said, things started out small. They used to be just slightly askew, but it’s gotten worse. I usually find them hanging upside down when I get up every morning.”

  I turned to Jack with a worried expression. The look on his face told me he was concerned too. It didn’t seem like the behavior of a poltergeist, but I was used to dealing with harmless spirits. This Beatrice sounded moodier than most.

  “Barb,” Jack said, seeming to read my thoughts, “what’s the most violent thing the spirit has done?”

  She put her hands on her hips and pressed her lips together, glancing up at the ceiling in thought. Then her hands and her gaze lowered and she said, “Yesterday it threw a knife across the room. It embedded in the wall.”

  My heart slammed against my rib cage. That was not a good sign.

  Jack remained his calm, collected self. “Do you know what might have prompted its burst of temper?”

  “No.” But her expression immediately changed and she shook her head. “I take that back. I was talking to my friend on the phone, telling her that you were coming to clear the house.”

  “How close was the knife to your person?” Jack asked.

  “Maybe a few inches, but Beatrice would never hurt me.”

  There was another crash in the kitchen.

  Mrs. O’Keefe gave me a sheepish look. “I wouldn’t make her leave if she weren’t upsetting my family and friends. No one will come over and I miss having guests, but honestly, Beatrice keeps me company.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I don’t make all spirits leave. Some homeowners want them to stay, especially if they’re family members. And those spirits often want to stay and watch over their loved ones.”

  She frowned and leaned closer as she whispered, “I think Beatrice should go.”

  “I heard that!” a woman shouted from the kitchen.

  The hairs on my arms stood on end as though the room was full of static electricity.

  “I can tell you that the spirit is a woman,” I said, trying to rub the hair back down. Combined with the ghost’s ability to move things in our plane of existence, the hair-raising effect wasn’t a good sign. Helen could make my hair stand on end because she was unusually powerful. This ghost must be too.

  I reached for Jack’s hand and he held it tight.

  “How do you know?” Mrs. O’Keefe asked.

  I tried to look nonchalant, but I was getting a little nervous. “She just shouted that she could hear you.”

  Mrs. O’Keefe groaned and called over her shoulder, “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times—it’s impolite to eavesdrop!”

  “How can it be eavesdropping if I’m in my own damn house?” Then there was the sound of wood scooting across a linoleum floor.

  Jack’s hand squeezed mine, confirming he’d heard her too.

  “Stop rearranging the furniture, Beatrice!” Mrs. O’Keefe ordered.

  “For the millionth time, my name’s not Beatrice!” the spirit shouted. The sound of shattering glass filtered into the room.

  “Then what should we call you?” I asked loudly enough for my voice to carry to the back of the house.

  A woman appeared in the doorway to what had to be the kitchen. She was wearing a housedress that looked like it belonged in the fifties or sixties—complete with a lacy apron—and her beehive hairstyle confirmed the era. One hand was on her hip, and with her other she put a cigarette between her lips. She took a long pull and exhaled, puffing out spectral smoke as she said, “I’m not that gullible. It told me you’d ask.”

  I could smell the smoke of her cigarette, but I could also smell something else. Something dank and rotten. It only made me feel marginally better that the mark on my hand didn’t react at all.

  She’d said it had told her I’d ask.

  The blood rushed to my feet as I said, “It? Who is it?”

  A grin spread across her face, but it didn’t make her look any friendlier. “Don’t you worry about that. But it said it’s excited you’re here.”

  I tried to keep my breath even, but my heart was racing with fear. “Mrs. O’Keefe—”

  “Barb—”

  “Barb,” I said, trying not to panic. “For you own safety, I need you to wait outside.” I shifted slightly to face the detective, avoiding turning my back to the rear of the house. “You need to wait outside too.”

  The detective didn’t look amused. “I’ll stay and observe, but it’s a good idea if Barb waits outside. I have a lot of questions.”

  I was sure she did.

  “Maybe I should say goodbye to Beatrice first,” Mrs. O’Keefe said.

  “Get the hell out of my house, Barb!” the spirit shouted, shoving the dining room table into the wall.

  Detective Powell’s eyes widened as she watched the table move.

  “She heard you,” I said to Mrs. O’Keefe as I gently grabbed her arm and walked backward toward the door. “She’s upset you’re leaving, so it’s probably for the best if you take off. Maybe go visit your daughter.”

  She grabbed her purse off the coffee table in the living room. “But how will I know when you’re done? How will I pay you?”

  “We’ll call you when we’re finished.” Hopefully we wouldn’t leave her with too much of a mess. I’d already figured out that Beatrice wasn’t about to leave without causing some damage, which meant we likely wouldn’t get paid for this case, but that was the least of my worries.

  As I shoved her out the door, I hoped my biggest worry—that a demon was lurking somewhere nearby—wasn’t true.

  Happy fucking birthday to me.

  Chapter 12

  As soon as the door closed, Jack asked, “Where is she?”

  I scanned the room. “I don’t see her. Maybe she went back into the kitchen.” I took a breath, trying to calm my nerves. Freaking out wouldn’t help anything. “Jack. I’m pretty sure there’s a demon here. Detective Powell needs to leave.”

  “Oh, hell no,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I see right through your bullshit. You didn’t want me to come, so you staged that little scene in the back.”

  “And the dining room table?” I asked.

  Some of the certainty left her face. “There are ways to do things like that.”

  I turned to Jack, getting pissed. “You’re the one who suggested she come with us. Deal with her.”

  Determination filled his eyes. “Detective Powell…”

  She shook her head, looking like she was about to literally dig her heels into the rug underfoot. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to prove you’re both frauds.”

  “Jack!” I semi-shouted.

  He pushed out a huge breath and faced me. “Ignore her. She stays at her own risk.”

  “If she’s going to stay, then I suggest you prepare her for what’s likely to happen.” I dug into my bag and pulled out my daggers.

  “What do you plan to do with those knives?” the detective asked, sounding alarmed.

  “Kick some demon ass,” I said as I headed to the back of the house. “Jack, keep an eye on her.”

  “On it,” he said, digging in the satchel hanging over his shoulder.

  “I thought you were here for a ghost,” she called after me.

  “Lucky you. Looks like you may get a twofer.” With Ivy’s hilt tucked firmly in my right hand, I headed for the kitchen. “Beatrice, how about you and I have a chat?”

  “My name’s not Beatrice,” the ghost hissed.

  I entered the small kitchen but
didn’t see her anywhere.

  “Well, you refuse to give me your name, so I have to call you something. Beatrice it is.”

  She released a small wail, then suddenly appeared two feet in front of me.

  “Did you hear her, Jack?” I asked.

  He appeared in the doorway, a glass bottle of holy water in his hand. “I heard a moan, but that’s all I heard other than your side of the conversation.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Not-Beatrice said, flitting over to the ancient-looking stove. I realized I could see her world and I wasn’t even touching her.

  My power had grown again.

  Her world was superimposed over ours, transforming the cabinets, appliances, and the décor, but thankfully the foot map had remained the same.

  “Where’s your friend?” I asked the ghost. “The one who wants to meet me?”

  “It’s waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “The right time,” she said with an evil grin.

  A chill ran down my back, but it was from nerves, not a supernatural tingle. My palm felt perfectly fine. “Why are you here, Beatrice? Why haven’t you crossed over?”

  “This is my house, demon slayer,” she sneered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  My blood ran cold. Further confirmation her friend was demonic. “Demon slayer?” I said. “Why did you call me that?”

  “Because that’s what you are,” Not-Beatrice said. “But you won’t always get lucky. I’m sure it wants to kill you.”

  “The demon? It can try. Right now, we’re focusing on you. Why are you still here?”

  “I told you already. This is my house. That woman’s trying to steal it from me.”

  “You’re dead, Beatrice, and it sounds like Barb would like you to stay, but you keep breaking things and scaring people. You threw a knife at her, for goodness’ sake. Of course she’s going to make you leave. You’ve pushed her to it.”

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” she snarled, pulling a wooden spoon out of the container by the stove and waving it at me.

  I almost asked the detective if the floating spoon wasn’t proof enough, but realized the spoon was in Not-Beatrice’s world. It looked completely solid.

  “Do you really expect me to believe you’re talking to a ghost?” Detective Powell asked from behind Jack.

  The sooner Detective Powell got out of here, the better. I turned sideways, keeping Not-Beatrice in my peripheral vision. “If I prove to you that I can see ghosts, will you go?”

  “Sure,” she said flippantly. “If you can prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

  “Then stand behind me and let’s get this over with.”

  “Just walk up behind you?” the detective asked, pushing past Jack. Her shoes crunched on the broken glass strewn across the floor.

  “Stay behind me and touch some part of me while looking straight ahead.”

  “And what exactly am I supposed to see?”

  “Just do it,” I grumbled.

  Not-Beatrice was getting antsy. “What are you doing?”

  The detective put her hand on my shoulder and let out a loud gasp. “Oh my God.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You saw her. Now get out.”

  “If you think I’m leaving now, you’re crazy.”

  I let out a groan of frustration. “Jack.”

  Beatrice picked up a ceramic canister and threw it toward my shoulder, aiming for the detective.

  I turned slightly and jerked her down. The canister smashed into pieces on the floor several feet in front of Jack.

  “You’re making a huge mess, Beatrice,” I scolded. “You seem like the kind of woman who likes a clean house. I’m going to tell Barb to leave it like this just to make you miserable.”

  “You’re making me do it!” she shouted. “You and that trespasser!”

  “Barb?” I asked as I opened the flap to my bag, dropped my daggers inside, and dug out my smudging kit.

  Detective Powell had put her hand on me again, and she was gaping at the ghost.

  Not-Beatrice ignored my question. “I’m not going. You can’t make me.”

  I flicked my lighter and lit the end of my white sage stick. As soon as the herbs burst into flame, I crushed the flame in my alabaster shell.

  “Are you smoking a cigar?” Detective Powell asked in disbelief.

  I shot her a glare. “The deal was that you’d leave if I let you see Beatrice. I held up my end of the deal, now you need to hold up yours.”

  “My name’s not Beatrice!” the ghost wailed, opening a drawer and dropping silverware all over the floor.

  “I want to help.” The detective’s fingers tightened around my shoulder, but I shoved her off and dropped the lighter back into the bag.

  “You want to help?” I asked, looking at her full in the face as I pulled out a feather, the next item in my ghost banishing kit. “Find out Beatrice’s real name.”

  “Why?”

  “Jack!” I shouted.

  Jack grabbed her arm and started pulling her back toward the doorway. “Because names have power and it will help Piper get rid of the ghost.”

  “On it,” I heard her say, and she finally left the room.

  I swiveled back around, but there was no sign of Beatrice. Where the hell had she gone? Rookie mistake. I should have salted the doors and windows.

  “Dammit!” I shouted. Before I could look for her, though, my palm began to tingle. I flexed my fingers. “Oh shit.”

  “What?” Jack asked, coming further into the kitchen.

  “I can feel the demon.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Hold this and let me figure it out,” I said, handing over my smudging tools. It occurred to me that if he was going to keep accompanying me on these visits, I needed to teach him how to smudge. Turned out you didn’t necessarily need to communicate with the spirits to make it work. You just needed to have pure intent. I couldn’t think of anyone with purer intent than Jack.

  As soon as he took the shell with the smoking smudge stick and the feather, I shifted my focus to the burning in my palm.

  “Piper. It’s glowing,” Jack whispered.

  Sure enough, the black lines of the shapes on my palm were now glowing with an orange-red light. This was new too, and not a little alarming.

  The energy in my hand raced to my chest and, without thinking, I sent out a wave of sonar-like power until it pinged.

  “The backyard.”

  “It’s outside in the daylight,” Jack said, sounding worried.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I said as I opened the back door.

  “Demons like the dark, Piper.”

  “So they’re nocturnal.”

  “Exactly. Just like raccoons. If you see a raccoon in broad daylight, you have cause to worry. The same concern applies here.”

  “Even so…I have to check this out, Jack.”

  He didn’t respond, which I took as agreement.

  I walked out the door and down the two cement steps into the tiny backyard. I didn’t see anything, so I sent out another ping. This one pointed me toward a detached garage in the back of the property, facing an alley. My Spidey sense told me it was still and eager. “It’s in the garage.”

  “Let’s take a moment,” Jack said. “You don’t know anything about the demon you’re about to face.”

  “I can tell it’s waiting for me.”

  “All the more reason to take a moment.”

  He was right, or maybe I was just content to believe him so I wouldn’t feel like the coward I knew myself to be. Bottom line: I didn’t want to go in there and face that demon. The demon I’d slain the night before had been weak and I’d caught it by surprise.

  I felt the life force thrumming through whatever was in that garage, and while it wasn’t as strong as Valvad, it was strong enough to kill me.

  “Where did Detective Powell go?” I asked.

  “I heard her walk out the front door. Maybe she lef
t.”

  “Hopefully she’s getting Beatrice’s real name.”

  “You sent the poltergeist away by getting it to answer to the name you made up for it. Surely we can get this one to answer to Beatrice. Maybe we should get rid of the ghost before we face the demon.”

  I took a breath. “You and I both know I can’t leave that thing in the garage. What if it escapes and kills someone? So I might as well get this over with.” I grabbed St. Michael out of my bag and transferred it to my left hand, then pulled out Ivy so I was fully equipped. The light emanating from my tattoo burned brighter, and it almost felt like St. Michael was welded to my hand.

  “That didn’t happen last night,” Jack said, squatting to set the shell with the smudge stick on the concrete steps.

  “The power in my mark likes the dagger. I can feel it.” Was this what Abel was waiting for? For the power of the mark on my hand to connect with the dagger?

  If so, did that mean the crescent moon was about to appear on my palm? Fear spiked in my chest, making me short of breath. One more thing to worry about later.

  “Maybe it’ll make you more powerful,” Jack said.

  “I guess we’re about to find out.”

  We walked across the small yard to the double-width garage. While the main opening faced the alley behind the house, there was a smaller door next to the left corner. Ignoring the tremor in my hand, I turned the unlocked doorknob and pushed the door open until it hit the wall.

  I stood on the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, and scanned the room. A small push mower and a wheelbarrow stood against the back wall, opposite the wide garage door, but the middle of the concrete floor looked fairly open and uncluttered. The metal shelves on the opposite wall were what worried me most.

  “Not shelves,” I groaned. There had been shelves in the basement where Jack and I had confronted the poltergeist, and it had thrown all of the contents—and then the shelves themselves—at us.

  “Do you see it?” Jack asked behind me.

  I didn’t at first, but then I saw a tiny blue flame floating in midair, or at least I thought it was floating until I realized it was in the palm of a thing that looked like a preschooler’s adaptation of Shrek. The demon was probably six feet tall, bald, and potbellied. It was also naked, revealing its nonexistent genitalia, and its gray-blue skin perfectly blended into the shadows. Talk about nightmares…