Tested in Fire

by E. J. Russell

  Stefan blinked. “Is there an open window? I—”

  “Nope, only Hootie. Don’t mind him. He hates that name. His father’s name was Hieronymus. Bastard killed him.”

  “He killed his father?”

  “No, idiot. His father killed him.”

  “When . . . ah . . . when did that happen?”

  “’Bout 1556. Give or take a decade or so. Hootie isn’t so good with dates.” She sat down at the table and gestured for Stefan to take the seat across from her—the only one free of a hand of cards. “So. Why are you back? I thought you’d already decided I was a fraud.”

  “Your setup doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. It’s like you’re trying to look like as big a fake as the others.”

  She shrugged. “That’s your problem, not mine. Besides, the rest of ’em aren’t so bad—except for that fucker, Venom. They keep attention off me, and that suits me down to my toenails.”

  “Why? If you’re the real deal,”—and the raised hairs on the back of his neck told Stefan she was—“why wouldn’t you want to be validated?”

  “Too much work. You ever talk to anyone who’s dead? Mostly, they’re fucking pissed.”

  “Um . . . yeah. Actually, I have, although he didn’t talk back. Not with words anyway.” Stefan shuddered at the memory of the fire, Arcoletti’s anger, Luke’s pain. “He was more an action-first kind of guy.”

  “That can’t happen to any random schmo off the street, you know. You have to be open to it. Susceptible.” She squinted at him through her cigarette smoke. “You have any near-death experiences? A little dance with the Reaper? A stroll toward the light?”

  “No. Well. Maybe. I should have been on a plane that crashed, but I stayed behind.”

  “Why?”

  “I just couldn’t.” He swallowed against the panic that still writhed in his belly when he remembered Marius’s plane.

  “A death premonition, eh? Interesting.” Her gaze shifted to a spot above Stefan’s shoulder. “What do you think, Hootie? Borderline precog?” She nodded, then focused on Stefan again. “Anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough? Listen.” He glanced behind himself, at the spot where Hootie apparently stood. “You can see ghosts normally. I mean, assuming seeing ghosts is normal. But can you see them if they’re hidden? Inside. Another person.”

  “Possessing someone, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “First, hon, I don’t see ghosts the way you think of sight. It’s more an impression. A shape. A presence. Who cheats at cards.” Peg raised her voice on the last sentence. Stefan swore he could feel a wave of something sweep over him, tripping the switches in his head that meant sly and defiant and finally sheepish.

  He nodded. “Okay. I get that.”

  “You do?

  “Sure. I’m an artist. It’s all about perception, how you see the world. If Picasso and Dali and Van Gogh all painted the same subject, it wouldn’t translate identically on the canvas, any more than a sculptor would render the same subject in clay or stone as the painter does in oils or acrylic. Ghosts are your medium.”

  “Huh. Maybe you get it after all.”

  He leaned forward. “So could you see the ghost? In a possessed person.”

  “Sure. I could see the shape of the ghost superimposed over the victim.”

  “Pentimento,” Stefan murmured.

  She squinted at him through the smoke. “You ordering a pizza?”

  “Not pimento. Pentimento. When an artist reuses a canvas, sometimes the first picture can bleed through the one on top. The ghost of the first painting. Pentimento.”

  She grinned and picked up a blue chip, flipping it in her hand. “I’m impressed. You really do get it. So . . .” She caught the chip and slapped it down on the table. “Think you’re being possessed again? Because I gotta tell you, I’m not seeing the signs right now.”

  “Not me. My boyfriend.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “He’s been acting odd. Not like himself.”

  “That happens to people every day, hon. Usually it means they’re hiding something.”

  “I know it seems far-fetched. I mean Sarasota isn’t exactly spook central.”

  “Don’t judge by appearances. Ghosts don’t. They can be anywhere. I ran into Hootie in a Payless in Flatbush. Expected to run in and pick up some cheap sneakers, and instead I got a permanent sidecar.”

  “He was haunting a shoe store?”

  “He was a cobbler. He likes shoes. He haunted the Payless because he was appalled by the quality. Tried to keep people from buying anything. The company should have sent me a thank-you gift for removing him. I bet the store’s profits tripled in the first month.”

  “He followed you to Florida?”

  “Honey, he’s followed me everywhere for twenty-two years. The others come and go. Hootie’s a fixture.” She shrugged. “I’m used to him. Hell, I might actually miss him if he decided to move on. But . . .” She raised her voice. “That doesn’t mean he can pull that stunt with the ace of hearts on me again.” She rested both elbows on the table, her expression turning serious. “Don’t you think you might be reading more into this than there is? Sure, possession happens, but it’s not common. Usually, peculiar behavior isn’t ghosts—it’s guilt talking. Been fighting about anything?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Think he’d act out because of spite or—”

  “Luke’s not spiteful.”

  “But he’s a guy, right? Sometimes I think testosterone should be labeled a controlled substance because it spikes stupidity higher than most illegal drugs. You fucked him lately?”

  Heat rushed up Stefan’s throat. “He . . . I . . .”

  “Oh, you’re the receiver, eh?”

  He nearly choked on his own spit. When he recovered from his coughing jag, he wheezed, “I don’t think that’s relevant to the problem.”

  “Are you kidding? Sex is usually at the root of most problems.” She pointed a sparkly-tipped finger at him. “That’s the first thing you thought of when I said guilt, isn’t it? That he’s cheating on you.”

  Irritation chased away Stefan’s embarrassment. “Why are you so determined for this to have a mundane explanation?”

  “Why are you so determined for it to have a metaphysical one? Because you don’t want to admit your relationship could be over?”

  His chest tightened, and he gripped the edge of the table. “I could admit that. I had to once before, and I could do it again. As long as I knew he was okay. Can’t you come out to the studio? See what you think?”

  “I don’t make house calls.”

  “What do you do? Sell crystals and pyramid hats to the tourists? Hide out up here with the ectoplasmic card sharks? Why not do something new, something real, something that matters?”

  “Watch it, pal. Your sales pitch could use some work.”

  “It’s not a pitch. It’s my life. The last time this happened, we almost didn’t make it. I get the feeling . . .” Stefan rubbed the back of his neck, but the buzz was underneath his skin, not on the surface. “I think I’m running out of time.”

  “Hmmm.” She stabbed her cigarette in the dirt in the pot holding a drooping false philodendron. “I get that you’re serious and I wouldn’t have had you up here if I didn’t know you were sensitive. But this stuff is the exception, not the rule. The rule is a guy who’s changed his mind and is planning to move on, but hasn’t found the balls to tell you yet. I’ll make a house call for a ghost. I won’t do it for lonely hearts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean show me proof that he’s not just getting some on the side and trying to hide it. Proof that there’s a supernatural force at work and not testosterone-infused stupidity.”

  “He’s not stupid.”

  “Not talking about him, honey.”

  Stefan’s face heated. “Fine. I’ll get your proof.”

  “You do that, and we’ll talk. Until then, I’ve g
ot about two million dollars to win back from these assholes.”

  Proof. Damn it. Stefan smacked his steering wheel with his fist. How the hell was he going to get proof that Luke wasn’t Luke? What kind of proof would Peg accept anyway? He drew the line at luring Luke into his car and taking him to Marguerite’s shop, because being in such close proximity? No, just no.

  He slowed as he approached the gallery’s tiny parking lot. He had a reserved space there, but Luke knew that’s where Stefan parked. Did the ghost have access to Luke’s memories, like it was logging on to his brain and accessing random files? Arcoletti had been able to capitalize on Stefan’s artistic ability, but it had never seemed as if he’d hijacked anything else.

  Of course, he might not have cared. Stefan hadn’t been any stellar prize back then, so maybe the ghost had written his memories off as not worth the bother.

  To be safe, Stefan parked on the next block instead, then hurried down the street, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes. He couldn’t suppress a shudder when he saw Luke’s car parked in its usual spot in the alley behind the gallery. He’s here.

  Stefan scuttled past, breathing easier once he reached the gallery’s back door. But as he fumbled the key out of his jeans, he paused. The car had been there when he’d left this morning for his psychic search, but Luke hadn’t been in the gallery at the time. How long had the car sat without moving—and why the hell hadn’t Stefan noticed it before? He was an artist, damn it. He was supposed to be so freaking observant, yet he hadn’t paid any attention.

  Good thing I’m not an investigator like Luke, because I suck at crime scene processing.

  He stumbled then, caroming off the stucco wall with his shoulder, trying to remember how to breathe. It’s not a crime scene. I won’t accept that. Even though Luke’s body was being driven by someone else, Luke—the real Luke—was still inside. Stefan had to believe that because anything else was unthinkable. He just had to figure out how to banish whatever was riding him.

  Yeah, that didn’t sound crazy at all.

  He opened the door and slipped into the back hallway. For the first time, he wished that he could get to his studio without passing through the gallery. When it was closed, the night lights turned the larger sculptures into hulking monsters and cast eerie shadows on the pieces on the walls. As he crept across the floor, he swore Antoinette’s animal masks followed him with their eyes.

  He scanned the balcony, but it was empty. At least Luke isn’t lurking outside my door. Stefan raced up the stairs. Rather than bursting into his studio, though, he unlocked the door and peered inside. Dark. Quiet. He sidled in, keeping his back against the wall, and listened. Still nothing but the purr of the ventilation system and the rougher hiccup of his refrigerator cycling on.

  Okay. I guess I’m really alone.

  He flicked on the lights revealing the empty room, exactly as he’d left it early this morning. Aaannnd now I just feel stupid.

  Taking a deep breath, he focused on the real challenge of the evening—finding proof that Luke was sharing headspace with a hitchhiker. What would satisfy Peg? Photographic evidence?

  Stefan hurried into the changing room, where he kept his memorabilia. It didn’t take up much space—he’d only had a few months to accumulate it after all. Anything from his old life had been lost when Marius’s sister had locked him out of the house in Indio.

  He stood on a low stool, retrieved the box from the back of the top shelf, then jumped down to sit on the stool. He didn’t hold out much hope. He and Luke had never been picture-takers, even back when photographs hadn’t been strictly digital. But right on top was a photo that one of Luke’s neighbors at the condo complex had given him: the two of them at a Memorial Day party on the beach. Stefan had finally put on enough weight that he couldn’t double for a Survivor survivor anymore, and he and Luke had both been shirtless in garish board shorts. Luke had picked them up at some surplus store as a joke because Stefan refused to spend more than five bucks on something he was only going to wear into the ocean.

  In the picture, both of them held beers up in a toast to the photographer, although Stefan couldn’t remember who it had been. Luke’s other arm was draped across Stefan’s shoulders and he had a grin the size of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge plastered across his face.

  Stefan’s hands shook so much that he dropped the picture. What if he never saw that grin again? Never gloried in Luke’s embrace, in his kiss?

  When Luke had been possessed by Arcoletti’s ghost, his hazel eyes had gone black. His eyes had looked normal yesterday, but he’d felt different. Stefan could hardly capture that in a photograph, even if he could come up with a good excuse to take one.

  He mounted the stool again and shoved the box back in its place. Stupid picture wouldn’t prove anything to Peg. She’d just say anyone could change their mood or their mind and move on.

  As he climbed down, he caught a glimpse of something in one of the models’ convenience baskets. Damn it. Had Jason conveniently left his possessions behind—again—after his last modeling session? Stefan never mentioned the guy’s flirtatious behavior to Luke because unlike Rudy, Jason actually seemed serious—and unconcerned that Stefan was in a committed relationship.

  “That’s all I need right now,” he muttered, and snagged the basket off the shelf. “To be haunted by a flesh-and-blood horndog as well as a supernatural one. Screw that. Jason can damn well—”

  His breath stuttered in his chest. Luke’s wallet. Luke’s phone. Luke’s keys.

  Why had he left them here? When had he left them here? Stefan gathered the items in trembling hands. Before Luke—or whatever had been hiding inside Luke—had done his unselfconscious strip the other day, he’d been searching for these. Guess that answers the question about memories. If the ghost was able to access them, he’d have known where to find the missing belongings.

  That also explained why Luke’s car was still parked in the alley. Even if the ghost could identify it, he couldn’t drive it.

  And he never will, if I have anything to do with it. Besides, this was proof, right? These days, people might wander around without their wallet, but their phone? Never.

  Getting caught with this stuff on his person would be bad, though—how could he justify not turning it over? But where could he hide them that Fake Luke wouldn’t think to look, if he ever sneaked into the studio again? Stefan carried Luke’s things to the worktable, scanning the studio for a likely hiding place. Not the loft. He’d expect that. Not the filing cabinet or anything that locks. His gaze drifted to the kitchenette cabinets. Okay. That could work.

  He pawed through his junk drawer until he found a battered zip lock bag. He dropped phone, wallet, and keys into it and zipped it up. Phase one. Opening the cabinet, he considered his options. He selected the box of Frosted Mini-Wheats, stuffed the zip lock under the half-empty bag of cereal, then set the box back in the cabinet between the Raisin Bran and Cheerios. He allowed himself a small smile. There.

  But what if Peg didn’t consider the orphaned car and personal items definitive evidence? He needed something else, another method of corroboration, another witness.

  Antoinette. She’d met Luke, had spent enough time around him to know when he was behaving abnormally, but didn’t have the same bias as Stefan. Maybe her opinion would carry more weight with Peg.

  Stefan unlocked his door and peeked onto the balcony. Still empty, still quiet. He sprinted from his studio door to Antoinette’s apartment and knocked softly. “Antoinette?”

  No response, but the door wasn’t completely latched. He pushed it open and called again. “It’s me. Are you here?”

  The heavy curtain in front of her studio door was drawn back, the door ajar, a dead giveaway that she wasn’t working. She was always meticulous about preventing the spread of potentially toxic dust.

  A moan whispered down the hallway from behind Signor DiBartolo’s closed bedroom door. “Rudy?” Stefan called softly.

  Technically, it w
as late enough that Rudy should have already left for the evening. Antoinette said Signor DiBartolo didn’t need round-the-clock surveillance, but should he be left completely alone? Stefan had never asked Antoinette whether he had a panic button or some other way to call for help. Maybe Stefan should volunteer to put a baby monitor in his studio. Not like he was ever out of it lately.

  The moan again, louder this time, even though the only other sound in the apartment was the tick of the grandfather clock in the sitting room and the constant hum of the air conditioner and air purifier. Stefan padded down the hallway. He didn’t want to upset Signor DiBartolo if nothing was wrong, but the moan sounded so desperate, and no one was answering.

  He eased the door open and peered through the crack, expecting to see Signor DiBartolo’s head thrashing on his pillow as it had before. Instead, the man was staring straight at the door, right into Stefan’s eyes.

  “Christ.” Stefan jumped back and wiped a hand over his mouth. Another moan, louder this time. Had he just sent Signor DiBartolo into another fit? He leaned forward, ready to retreat if Signor DiBartolo reacted badly. The man still had his gaze riveted to the door. When he saw Stefan, he raised his arm, and Stefan was ready to bolt, had his cell phone out, ready to call Rudy’s emergency number. But instead of flailing, Signor DiBartolo beckoned to Stefan, his eyes filled not with hate but with desperate longing.

  “Hey, hey. It’s okay.” Stefan pushed the door open and crossed to the bed, tucking his phone back in his pocket. When he got within arm’s reach, Signor DiBartolo’s hand scrabbled against his leg, trying to clutch his pants. Stefan folded the trembling hand in both of his and placed it on the heaving chest with a pat. “Shh, Signor DiBartolo. Do you need your meds? Should I call Rudy or Antoinette?”

  Signor DiBartolo’s hand flopped like a beached fish, off his chest and onto the blanket by his hip. The left side of his face sagged as if a cosmic sculptor had passed a careless hand down clay not yet dry. He uttered a guttural sound, wild and urgent.

  Stefan sank down on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what you need.” He caught a flutter of movement next to his hand, the barest brush of flesh on flesh.