Spirit Dances wp-6

by C. E. Murphy

  “How long does that take?”

  I ducked my head and chuckled. “I don’t know. I started studying when I was about thirteen.” Nevermind that my studies had lasted about fifteen months and then had gone on violent, determined hiatus for more than a decade. The idea that she wanted a time frame suggested she probably wasn’t all that well suited to pursuing a healer’s path, but I didn’t figure it was my business to say so.

  “Oh.” She looked dismayed, but then smiled. “I suppose I should get started, in that case. At least by taking some classes. What’s it like, healing people? Changing them that way?”

  “Scary. Wonderful, when it works. Exhausting. It’s not something I would have chosen, but I’m getting better at it.” I bit off that last confession, wishing I hadn’t made it. People, even curious polite people I’d healed recently, probably didn’t need to know about my doubts. Or maybe that was exactly what she needed to know. “Worth it,” I finally said, more quietly. “It’s hard, but it’s worth it.”

  Tia gave me a broad, excited smile. “Then that’s all I need to know. Thank you, Miss—Detective—Walker. Joanne. May I call you Joanne?” I nodded and her smile got that little bit much bigger. “I feel like I’ve been looking for a path for a long time. Maybe you’ve helped me find it.”

  I smiled back, but worry sank a pit into my stomach. Whatever my talents were, I was certain nobody should be looking to me as any kind of guidance counselor. We chatted a while longer before I made my escape, wishing I’d never agreed to meet her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SATURDAY, MARCH 18, 6:22 P.M.

  The girly part of me I rarely acknowledged existed wanted to find something as knockout gorgeous as the velvet green dress I’d worn the night before. The practical mechanic part of me won out, and I turned up at the theater in black jeans and a dark blue nubbly sweater.

  Jim Littlefoot gave my glasses a curious glance as he let me in through a side door. I wanted to explain that shamanic magic didn’t have the same coverage as LASIK—which would have been the clever thing to say to Tia Carley, had I thought of it—but he said, “If you don’t mind taking your shoes off,” as a pragmatic introductory sally that didn’t invite explanations about magic. I followed him down a hall and into the wings, then stopped at the duct-taped-down edge of a black rubber mat stage floor to do as he asked.

  The scent of makeup and sweat was strong under blazing stage lights. The house lights were on, too, making the whole theater a beacon of brightness very unlike the night before. Dancers not yet in costume were running through a half-assed rehearsal, doing none of the incredible throws or lifts they’d done during the performance. Even that much came to a halt as I followed Littlefoot onstage.

  Their grief was palpable, though a glimpse at their auras also showed the emotion locked behind high thick walls. Saving it, I guessed, for the show, just as they saved the high-energy lifts and tremendous leaps. I was abruptly glad I’d be watching from the wings and not actually part of the audience at whom their pent-up bereavement would be directed.

  Littlefoot took center stage, me at his side, and raised his voice. Not that he needed to draw attention: everybody was already watching us—me—mostly with more gratitude and less resentment than I’d expected. I had, after all, failed their friend the night before.

  On the other hand, I’d at least tried, and maybe that made a difference. Littlefoot introduced me, saying, “Most of you saw her last night. She may be able to track Naomi’s murderer at the climax of the ghost dance. She will be able to shield us all, so that no one else will be hurt.”

  Part of me winced, prepared for a wave of skepticism from the dancers. Instead there were a handful of nods, and a general sense of reasonable acceptance. I’d never been in the presence of so many people who took the concept of psychic shielding so easily, not even when I’d briefly tangled with a coven. It was sort of heartening.

  A tiny redhead stepped forward, unfolding one arm from its tight wrap around her ribs to wave her hand like she sought permission to speak. She didn’t wait for it, though, just said, “I’m Winona, Naomi’s understudy. First, I wanted to say thank you for trying to help last night. I don’t think we even knew what had happened, but you were already up here.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more.”

  Winona nodded, but she obviously wasn’t looking for an apology. “I just want to know: if you’re going to be shielding us, does that mean the ghost dance is going to lose its power?”

  I went a little slack-jawed, seeing her point instantly but not certain of how to deal with it. The whole purpose of the dance was to share energy with the audience. If I had them shielded well enough to keep our bad guy from draining all that built-up power, then it was essentially going to rebound on the dancers, not be released into the waiting crowd. After a rather long moment, I said, “Crap,” which got an unexpected low chuckle from the dancers.

  Even Winona offered a small smile. “That was kind of what we thought. I guess the other question is, do you think you can track whoever did this if they don’t get to steal any of the ghost dance power?”

  That, I’d thought of, and shook my head before she finished asking. “I’m going to have to let some of it leak through to make an…appetizer. I can—and will—snap the shield up at pretty much the last second, so there’s no warning to keep him away, but I think some of it’s going to have to go to feeding the killer just so I can get a bead on him. I’m hoping cutting the power off so abruptly will hurt him enough to leave a scar I can follow.” A scar, a scent, a track; whatever I wanted to call it, I hoped like hell my magic-tracking hypothesis held some water. But Winona had made me consider the audience, too, which shed light on another possibility. “If it hurts enough I think he’ll retreat. If he backs off fast enough, I might be able to drop the shields and release the energy into the audience within a minute or two. It might be diluted, but…”

  The proposal was met with dropped shoulders and sighs of relief, a whole flood of tension releasing from the thirty or so troupe members. Jim Littlefoot said, “That would be very much appreciated,” in a tone which suggested words didn’t begin to cover it. “In many ways tonight’s dance will be our tribute to Naomi. The idea of losing that energy, even to trap her killer, is…”

  “Dismaying,” I supplied, and he nodded. I said, “I’ll do my best,” and hoped it would be enough.

  I spent the next hour meeting the troupe as individuals, mostly shaking hands, exchanging names and expressing condolences. I wasn’t certain it was necessary. I’d shielded people I didn’t know even that well, in the past. I was, however, sure it wouldn’t hurt, and that weighed more heavily than the question of absolute necessity. Naomi’s sister Rebecca hugged me, which I didn’t expect, and I felt her utter exhaustion in the embrace. I wasn’t exactly at the top of my game myself, but the magic inside me couldn’t let that go unanswered. I sent a pulse of gentle power through her, hoping to renew her energy a little, the way I’d done time and again with weary or injured people around me.

  She drew back, dark eyes startled, and gave me a fragile smile. “Save it for the shields, please. Dancing will help me.”

  I said, “Dancing will help everyone,” and didn’t mean just the troupe. Her smile strengthened and she retreated with what I imagined was a touch more lightness in her step. Moments later they brought the lights down, leaving me alone on a dim stage. I was glad I’d thought to wear dark clothes: they’d help me hide in the wings, where I retreated to put my shoes on and spend a few minutes collecting the dancers’ nervous preshow energy behind shields and releasing it again, as practice.

  It was more tiring than I expected. I moved farther back and sat down next to the fly ropes, where I was pretty sure I’d be out of the way. None of the previous night’s performance had relied on wires, just muscle. My own muscles felt watery, like mental exertion was manifesting itself in my body, and Coyote’s warning about the healing I’d performed the night before cam
e back to me. Watching auras didn’t take much, but even something as comparatively low-key as raising and lowering shields was enough to slow me down.

  Lucky for me, then, that I had a whole troupe of performers whose entire purpose in dancing was to create psychic energy. I knew, this time, what their focus was, so it wasn’t going to take me by surprise the way it had in the previous concert. I could fill up on some of the first half’s outpouring of strength, and turn it around to keep these men and women safe.

  Assuming, anyway, that I didn’t accidentally turn into a flounder while they danced. I stayed where I was, listening to the sounds of the theater preparing to come to life, until I heard the house doors open. Morrison was probably out there somewhere waiting for me, possibly along with Billy and Melinda. I got up and dusted my bottom, then slipped out the same side door Littlefoot had brought me in through, making sure to prop it open with a stone so I could get back in.

  All three of them were indeed waiting in the lobby, Morrison glancing at his watch impatiently as I skulked up. He wasn’t as formally attired as the night before, which was a relief and a disappointment all in one, but he still looked sharp in a three-piece suit. Melinda was in a form-fitting black satin gown that made me wonder how I’d ever thought I looked curvy in my green dress. Billy, rather to my surprise, was in a zoot suit of bright blue cotton. He and Mel looked like they’d stepped directly out of the early forties, but since Billy’s idea of formal wear was usually identical to Melinda’s, the outfit made my eyebrows crawl up my forehead. “That’s a new look.”

  He brushed his knuckles over his shirt—white silk, to contrast with the suit’s brilliance—with a hint of self-consciousness. “Something changed after Halloween. She’ll always be a part of me, but…”

  I steepled my fingers over my mouth, a tight smile half-hidden behind them as my nose and eyes prickled with sentiment. Billy’s older sister Caroline had died when he was eight and she was eleven, but their bond had been deep enough to keep her spirit nearby—within him, really—for decades. Once I’d learned that, I’d stopped imagining his cross-dressing quirk was in retaliation against his parents for his unfortunate name, and started understanding that it was at least in part an homage to the sister who’d died as a little girl. Eventually I’d gotten a good look at Billy in his own garden, his perception of himself at a soul-deep level, and I’d understood even more. It wasn’t just an homage. Caroline was part of him, a slightly feminizing factor in a big lunk of a man. The garden Billy dressed more like my partner had been doing lately: softer shirts and well-cut suits, masculine but not butch. And given the opportunity to dress up, he apparently hadn’t lost any of his outrageousness, just redirected it a little now that Caroline’s spirit had finally moved on. I whispered, “I think she’d approve,” from behind my compressed fingers, and Billy looked unusually pleased.

  Melinda tucked her arm through Billy’s. “So what do you need from us tonight, Joanie? Bill impressed upon me that this wasn’t just a date.”

  “Hopefully it will be, but there might be something you can do, Billy. If things go wrong—is it possible to stop a soul from crossing over? Can you distract a ghost?”

  Morrison put a hand over his face, which I thought was out-of-proportion funny, and my shoulders shook with silent giggles as Billy’s mouth twisted. “You should have invited Sonata, if that’s what you need. I might be able to, but I’m not in her weight class.”

  We all paused to take a look at him, since Billy was out of all our weight classes, and the idea of five-foot-six, hundred-and-thirty-pound, sixty-year-old Sonata Smith throwing down with him and winning was ludicrous. Billy rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, but the image. Anyway, at the very end of the last dance I’ll throw a shield up—Mel, can you see that?”

  “Try,” she suggested, and I slipped one up around first Morrison, then Billy, then finally myself. Melinda’s eyes glimmered gold, not nearly the depth of change mine underwent, and she nodded. “Faintly, but yes.”

  “I can make it more visible if I have to, but I’d rather not.” I released all the physical shields and went back to my explanation. “It should cut the killer off at the knees, but just in case it doesn’t, I think I should be able to bring the lead dancer’s spirit back to her body as long as she doesn’t just cross right over. I was too late last night with Naomi, but a distraction…”

  Billy shook his head. “You should have called Sonny. I’m good with lingering ghosts, but calling someone back is—” He broke off, mouth tight.

  “Yeah, I know, out of your weight class. On the other hand, I’ve been a student of the ‘argue for your limitations and sure enough, they’re yours’ school for the last year, so I feel justified in saying—”

  “Suck it up and try?” Melinda asked archly, when I stopped abruptly.

  I cleared my throat. “Something like that, yeah. I guess I don’t feel all that justified in saying it after all.”

  To my relief, Billy grinned. “Good thing we found a babysitter tonight, then, so Mel could put words in your mouth.”

  “Why,” Morrison said to me, “did you invite me?”

  My mouth said, “I didn’t. You invited yourself,” which was perfectly true, but I wished like hell Melinda had put some other words in it. It didn’t make a damned bit of difference that I wasn’t wearing the coyote earrings, not if I was going to be a hundred percent stupid at the first opportunity. And besides, Morrison probably hadn’t noticed the earrings, so there was no point to any of it anyway.

  I dropped my head, pushed my glasses up and pinched the bridge of my nose. I wanted to count to ten so I could trust myself to speak, but Morrison’s scent and body heat were already retreating, so I only got to about one and a half before looking up again. My boss had fallen back three steps in the time it took me to do that, and his expression was full-on Police Captain, all professionalism and no emotion. I wanted to cry.

  “Actually,” I said as much precision as I could muster, “I was hoping you would watch the show from backstage with me. You’re the only person I know who consistently brings me back to myself if something goes wrong.”

  I wasn’t looking at the Hollidays. I didn’t dare look at them, especially when Melinda gave a tiny pleased squeak, like I’d said something revelatory. I kept my gaze on Morrison, whose gaze thawed marginally, but not enough to suggest I’d genuinely redeemed myself. I said, “Please,” very quietly, and after a moment he nodded.

  My shoulders dropped about six inches. “Thank you. I’ve got a side door propped open so we can get backstage. We should probably go. The show starts in a few minutes. Enjoy it,” I said to Billy and Melinda, and Mel veritably sparkled her eyes at me as they went one way and Morrison and I went another. I kicked the stone out of the side door and closed it behind us, warned Jim Littlefoot that Morrison would be backstage with me and showed Morrison my hiding place next to the fly ropes, where we were well out of the way and surrounded by darkness.

  He waited until the performance began and there was no chance at all of, “Bring you back to yourself?” being overheard before he spoke.

  “You saved my life at least once.” My shoulders hunched again, rock solid with tension, and I kept my gaze locked on the stage. “The morning I found Cassandra Tucker in the locker room, I went chasing after her spirit, and I couldn’t get back to my body. Phoebe kept trying to wake me up— yelling at me, shaking me—but she couldn’t. You, though. You just put your hand on my shoulder and I woke up. Right before a monster ate me. It’s happened a couple other times, too, besides last night.”

  My poor boss was magnificently silent a moment. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”

  “It was awkward.”

  Morrison snorted laughter. “Unlike the rest of our interactions.”

  I said, “You’re a very confusing man,” under my breath, and did my best to focus on the dance performance after that.

  Its impact was lessened by dint of b
eing on the sidelines rather than in the audience. A few things—the thunderbird’s entrance, flying across the stage as she did, for example— were even more dramatic, because she came straight at us. But mostly, I couldn’t see the structure of the dances building to the shapeshifting climax, and that helped me retain a degree of control. The dancers still buzzed with, and built, enormous energy, but it was directed outward, not into the wings, so instead of being body-slammed by it, I could just siphon off dregs.

  The atonal music, the drums, the heat of stage lights—impressive even from the wings—made my skin tingle, lifting me out of myself in a gentle, reverent way. I was held to my body by threads, a double-existence I’d only experienced a few times before. It had never been so comfortable, or filled my chest with so much delight. For the first time I could remember, I was happy to hold myself in two planes of existence. I was aware of my body, of the heat and the smell of makeup and sweat, of my sweater’s soft nub and the rougher cotton denim of my jeans. My feet felt heavy in their bulky shoes, and I found the idea that they anchored me amusing. As long as I kept my shoes on, the dancers couldn’t take me away.

  But the detached from my body watched them with a shaman’s eyes. I Saw the creatures they made themselves into instead of the human forms throwing themselves across the stage. Their auras were extraordinary: even tinged with grief—or possibly because they were saturated with it—they leaped high and wide, a metaphysical echo and prediction of what the dances themselves did and would do. It took effort not to join them, spiritually if not physically, but my presence would mar the patterns of light and power they built. I felt magnificent, much better than I had since the healing the night before. This was what Coyote had tried to impress upon me, about ritual and drum circles and sweat lodges: power combined and shared and focused was much more effective than anything I could draw on by myself. Passion like this could be drained, of course, but it also renewed itself by its very nature. The fact that the dance troupe had lost a member less than twenty-four hours earlier, and were still able to waken and share depths of magic from within themselves, was existential proof of that.