Possession g-8

by Kat Richardson

  “Are you an angel?” the child whispered. “I don’t want to die.”

  “I can’t stop that,” I said, thinking my heart would break. “This time—your time—is past.”

  “My mother already died of the influenza. My sister, too.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you take them to heaven? Will I see them?”

  One of the nurses had stopped and turned toward the child, staring with wide eyes, stricken but unable to see me. I didn’t know why anyone could see me on the icy plains of a moment’s history—sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t—but I knew nothing I did made any difference. This had happened. Some child had seen a ghost or an angel or just a flicker of desire for comfort given momentary flesh as he or she lay dying in a makeshift ward near the market, the smells of soil and fish, produce and garbage, hay and horses slipping in with the sounds of commerce even under the stench of carbolic acid and vomit and the whispering pleas of the dying.

  “You’ll see them there. In heaven,” I replied. What else was there to say?

  And it smiled at me, this ghost of a child. Smiled and turned its head aside, breathing softer, softer, and then not at all.

  I ripped myself away from the horrible piece of history and dropped a bit, stumbling, onto the atrium floor only feet from where I’d stood a moment—a century?—before. A man caught my arm and steadied me.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. He peered at my face. “Are you—? Oh my. You’re not all right at all, are you? C’mon. Come with me.”

  This total stranger propped me up with his shoulder and walked me into the magic shop under the ramp, steering me through the displays of toys and tricks, into a corner. He helped me into a chair.

  “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

  In a moment, he returned with a bottle of cold water and a box of tissues. “Here. Are you doing OK now?”

  I took the tissues and wiped unexpected tears off my face. “Yeah. I’m OK. I was just . . . upset about something. It’s nothing.”

  “It can’t be something and nothing.”

  I glanced up at him—a skinny guy in his thirties wearing pressed trousers and a striped shirt under a brocade vest, trendy glasses, and a handlebar mustache that was carefully waxed into a stiff curl on each cheek.

  “It was something, but it’s not anything anymore.”

  “Did you see it, then?”

  “What?”

  “Did you see the ghosts?”

  Startled, I stared at him. “Ghosts.”

  “Yeah, the market is haunted. Sometimes you see kids down here who aren’t actually here anymore. It’s kind of perturbing.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “Me? No. I hear them once in a while, when there’s no one around. And once, our display of dollhouse furniture was all rearranged and the glass on one side was broken when there was no one here to break it. But that’s about all. Maybe the occasional levitating stuffed toy, but nothing really amazing. What about you? You seemed really upset.”

  “I thought I saw . . . patients—medical patients. Little kids in cots.”

  “Oh, there used to be a tuberculosis clinic around here, somewhere. Way back when the market was new. And I heard that the Market Theater was used to hold sick people during the flu epidemic. That would upset anyone—seeing something like that.”

  “You believe in ghosts?”

  He bit his lip and made a crooked face. “Ehhh . . . I’m not sure. Things happen around here that certainly seem to be unaccountable, and it’s romantic to imagine it’s ghosts. But I haven’t ever seen an apparition per se. And there could always be some other reason things move or make noise or seem . . . kind of weird. We’re on top of the train tunnel, you know. And things have been a little disturbed since they started construction on the Route Ninety-nine tunnel. There have even been a few accidents because of tunnel construction stuff. So maybe it’s not ghosts. Maybe it’s just guys in overalls digging holes.”

  “You don’t have to humor me. I do believe in ghosts.”

  “Oh. Well then. Yeah, the place is practically a ghost hotel.”

  I just looked at him. He glanced aside, giving a rueful smile. “Really. You work here long enough, you start to believe in the strange.” He looked back at me and offered his hand. “Hey, I’m Derek Russell. I didn’t mean to tease you. Sorry. Apology accepted?”

  I reflected his smile. “Yeah. Apology accepted.” I took his hand. “Harper Blaine.”

  “Nice to meet you, Harper. Were you looking for ghosts or for something else? I’ve got a lot of interesting tricks and toys in here.” He picked up a fuzzy, bewinged green thing with a face full of tentacles. “Plush Cthulhu, maybe?”

  I shook off the adorably dreadful Lovecraftian horror. “I was actually trying to find a guy who might have worked around here. Jordan Delamar. Someone suggested he might be a busker . . . ?”

  “I don’t know him, but maybe. There’s a lot of buskers in the market and they don’t all come every day.”

  “How could I find him—or find out if he worked here?”

  “Oh, you’d have to ask at the market office. They issue the performers’ badges, so they would have a list of who has a badge, but they’d have no way to tell who was here when. The buskers just set up on the notes and do their thing when they want to and move on to the next note if they want to stay longer. I think the limit’s an hour before they have to move on. They can put out a tip jar or hat or whatever. Some of them sell CDs if they have them.”

  “What do you mean ‘they set up on the notes’?”

  “The red music notes painted on the ground. There’s one just outside the ramp—you must have seen it, since I don’t hear anyone playing out there—the wall reflects a lot of sound into the market from that location. It’s a favorite spot, since it’s got such great acoustics and plenty of space for a large group. Most of the spots are pretty small—just a one or a two—so the larger groups, like the Andean guys, can’t use them. There are a few spots that are very popular regardless of how big they are and others that aren’t as much, but they all get busy in the summer.”

  So that’s what the red note on the ground had been. It certainly explained why it was not only rife with memories and spirits but right on a ley line—music and the Grey have a lot in common and strong emotions and powerful actions are always associated with ley lines. “What did you mean ‘a one or a two’? Is that a measure of popularity or priority or something?”

  “Oh no. There are numbers painted in yellow indicating how many can work on that location. Any performer can work any location solo, but bigger groups can only work where the number is the same or higher than their group size.”

  “Clever.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “But what stops the buskers from just wedging in as many people as they can?”

  “Aside from the fire marshal? It’s not practical in a lot of spots even if it looks big enough. You want to slow traffic, but not stop it. Most of the buskers are good about sharing and keeping the spaces clean and not overloading the area. There are always a few who don’t play well with others, but they don’t last.”

  “Do you know a lot of the buskers?”

  “Not so many. I don’t have an assistant most of the time, so I don’t get to go out of the shop much to meet folks. Andy’s here today, or I wouldn’t have been out there to catch you.”

  “Oh. And thank you for that. Do you know if any of the buskers have been injured in the past . . . six months or so?”

  Russell shrugged. “I’m afraid I really don’t. You’d have to ask them. They’d know. A lot of them will have gone for the day by now—though they might move down to the waterfront until it gets dark.”

  “Is there anyplace they hang out?” I asked.

  “Oh . . . I’m not sure. If you’re looking for someone, your best bet would be to ask at the market office, or just start asking the buskers at the notes. Someone will know, eventually.”


  A high-pitched whistling cut through the air of the shop. Russell looked toward it. “Oh . . . damn. I have to go find out what Andy’s broken this time. I’m sorry to bunk off. Are you OK now?”

  I smiled and stood up, offering the tissues and water bottle back to him. “I’m fine. Thanks, Derek.”

  He took the tissues, but waved the water bottle away. “You keep that. And good luck with your search. If you ever need a magic trick or a stuffed elder god, drop back by. OK?”

  “OK.”

  I suspect he was just as glad to see me go—spooky women who believe in ghosts can be bad for business.

  I got out of the shop and up into the market proper without being sucked back into visions of the past, though I was rushed and bumped by torrents of ghosts, including more children and gruffer adults who seemed preoccupied and confused, even for the dead. I chose the longer route out of Down Under, coming up the stairs on the west side of the building that overlooked Western Avenue, rather than braving the ramp again.

  NINE

  As I walked up the steps, I heard violin music. Emerging into the open space between the buildings once again, I saw two musicians standing on the note in front of the market mural—a young man and a young woman, both with short hair and dark clothes, their violin cases open on the ground in front of them. One case held a hopeful dollar bill, the other a few CDs in plastic cases with a hand-lettered sign that read CD’S $12 EACH—SUPPORT CORNISH STUDENTS TRIP TO EUROPE. Their music soared upward in the resonant space, each bow sending a tendril of song and colorful energy twining around its companion’s thread, flowing into the road behind them and up into the market as if alive, seeking a path to the sky. People lined the rail of the staircase landing above, listening for a few moments while they waited for friends to emerge from the washrooms or what have you. A few passersby dropped coins into the case, making muffled clanks that reminded me of the harness chains of phantom horses.

  I stopped to listen, letting the music flow over me with the remembered thrill of elation I’d once had for dancing. I had loved it once—even when it was a misery imposed on me by necessity and my mother—and this feeling was why. And for the first time in a long while I didn’t mind the memory. I guess I was finally growing out of my resentment and anger—I’m stubborn that way. I felt an odd pressure in my feet and legs and realized I was stretching up, hampered by my boots, as if my legs wanted to dance, even when the rest of me resisted. I took a breath and calmed myself down, settling back onto my heels, not because I refused to dance but because now wasn’t the time. And it’s dangerous to roll up en pointe in hiking boots—I hadn’t had to undergo the surgeries Olivia Sterling had been through during my student days or professional career, and I didn’t want to head that way now, either. My odd relationship with the Grey seemed to have granted me preternatural health and longer life than the average human—or so I’d been told by the only other Greywalker I’d ever met—but even that wouldn’t fix foolishness or damaged tendons. When the violinists paused, I stepped forward, picking up one of the CDs.

  The girl smiled at me, taking her instrument off her shoulder. The boy followed suit in a moment, his eyes hazy as if the music held him in a daze while a kaleidoscopic mist of colors swarmed around him, touching the girl, then coiling back to him. The girl’s aura was pure gold that burned like a steady flame.

  “Hi,” she said. “Would you like to buy a CD? We’re raising money to spend the fall quarter in Europe.”

  “You’re at Cornish College?” I asked—it was a pretty safe bet they were students and not from Cornwall, but I asked anyhow.

  “For now.”

  “How long have you been busking down here? Is this a regular gig for you two?”

  She shrugged. “Not so much. We’re both pretty busy during the school year. We only get down here in the summer and occasional weekends. Sean doesn’t like to play alone.”

  “I see.” Judging by their energy, Sean was the more brilliant of them, but not as strong-willed or focused as his partner, so I understood his reluctance to do this gig by himself. I looked at the disc cover and pointed at the names of the performers. “You’re Selena?”

  She smiled and nodded again, her aura flickering a touch of orange annoyance before she tamped it down. “That’s me.”

  I dug a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket and offered it to her. She took it with another professional smile and tucked it into her own pocket as I refused change and put the CD into my bag. I wasn’t as interested in the music as in their goodwill and that was little enough to pay.

  “You don’t know another busker named Jordan Delamar, do you?”

  Selena shook her head. “No, I can’t say I do. Sorry.”

  I shrugged it off. “Not a problem. Thanks for the CD—you play beautifully.”

  Now she beamed. “Thank you!”

  I stepped back, letting them go back to work as she obviously wished to do. I noticed she had to nudge the dreamy-eyed Sean to attention as I started to leave. I carried on, hoping to find some other buskers before the market closed, since I’d already missed office hours. The music followed me up the stairs.

  Back on the street level, I waded into the swirling ghost fog of the market’s main street and made my way with care across the road to the Sanitary Market Building, sure that I’d seen musicians and other performers in several locations along that block of Pike Place and Post Alley. It was hard to pick out specific strands of music or patter above the general hubbub of cars and trucks, shoppers, ghosts, and vendors that flowed all over the street and sidewalks like a river flooding its banks while the fish tried to swim any direction they could. I felt distinctly like a salmon trying to get upstream.

  At the first corner, next to the Greek take-out place, a man dressed head to foot in bright blue was bending balloons into hats, animals, and flowers for the amusement of small children and their parents standing in line for a quick bite to eat. Next to him, a ghostly double made a balloon poodle and wafted the finished phantom animal into the air, where it dissolved into sparkles that rained down on the creations of the living man beside him. A little boy in a striped shirt scampered over from his parents, waving a dollar bill, and offered it to the man in blue. The man bent down to listen to the boy’s whispered request.

  He laughed and straightened up to inflate some balloons and begin shaping them. The spirit beside him did the same. I watched from the crowd-eddy created by a spiral staircase behind them as the living balloon man shaped a monster’s head and added goggly eyes by scribbling black pupils on two small white balloons, which he then tied onto the green monster face. Done, he showed it to the boy and asked, “How’s that?”

  “Great!” the boy yelled, jumping up and down in excitement and causing a few people to step off the sidewalk to continue onward in safety.

  The balloon man laughed, once again mirrored by his incorporeal double, and put the monster onto the boy’s head as a hat. The boy growled and pranced back to his parents, saying, “I’m a t’ranasaurus! Grroww!”

  The boy reminded me so much of the Danzigers’ son, Brian, that I laughed myself, and then felt a pang that my friends were still in Europe and I hadn’t seen them in a couple of years now. I hoped they were doing well, but I still missed them—even troublesome Brian, who would have been starting school this autumn if I remembered correctly. I sidled closer to the balloon man as he started on a long-stemmed balloon flower for a little girl.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi there, pretty lady! Be right with you.”

  “I don’t need a balloon. I just wanted to ask you a question.”

  “OK, then. Fire away.” He bent a long red balloon into loops and twisted it around a green balloon to make the blossom, without looking at me, concentrating on his creation and sending an occasional wink to the little girl in front of him. His ghost did the same, ignoring me completely.

  “Do you know another busker named Jordan Delamar?”

  “Not sure. W
hat’s he do?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. But I think he was injured a few months ago.”

  He stooped and handed the balloon flower to the girl and received a few bills from her parents in exchange before he turned to me, absently twisting a balloon between his hands into crazy loops.

  “Oh . . . yeah. Didn’t know his name. About . . . six or seven months ago, I think that was—around December. Part of an awning in the slabs came down and hit a guy. Knocked him flat. They had to take him to the hospital.”

  “Do you know what happened to him after that? Is he back?”

  “Umm . . . I don’t know. I haven’t heard any more about him. I’m not here much in the off-season—not a lot of call for balloon animals when the kids aren’t around. I do a lot of theater stuff and private parties then, instead. I get some good gigs around Christmas to keep kids entertained while their parents are shopping or waiting in line for photos with Santa. That sort of thing.” Another child tugged at his pants leg and he smiled down before he gave me a quick glance, saying, “Sorry—I have to get back to work here.”

  “Oh, just one more question—what’s ‘the slabs’?” I asked.

  “Oh, that’s the outdoor vendor area at the north end of the main arcade building, near Steinbrueck Park. Doesn’t get much use in the winter, except for the wreath vendors around Christmas.” He turned his attention to his young admirer.

  “Thanks for the help,” I said, dropping a bill into his balloon-bedecked tip jar.

  “Thank you!” he called after me as I shoved my way back into the diminishing stream of shoppers, heading northwest, toward the world’s first Starbucks store and the slabs.

  But by the time I reached the row of horizontal cement tabletops attached to the wall where Western Avenue swept up to meet Pike Place and Virginia Street, it was nearly seven and the only people willing to talk to me were the vendors who hadn’t yet started packing up for the day.