Tested in Fire

by E. J. Russell

  He froze, meeting Signor DiBartolo’s tortured eyes. “Was that— Did you touch me by accident?”

  Signor DiBartolo shook his head slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving Stefan’s, and traced a path across Stefan’s little finger in the exact spot where Marius’s signet ring used to be. As he repeated the touch, over and over, chills chased down Stefan’s spine and formed a ball of ice in his belly.

  It can’t be. I don’t believe it. Stefan’s mind rebelled at the half-formed thought. Ghostly possession was one thing, something he’d had no choice but to accept. With Marius gone, however, only one man knew what had been on Stefan’s finger and now wasn’t. Only one man cared. And that man was not a ghost.

  His throat suddenly tight, Stefan forced the word out. “Luke?”

  Relief. Longing. Terror. Luke’s chest threatened to burst with his warring emotions. Stefan is here. Stefan recognizes me.

  He hid his face behind his hand, because Stefan was here, and Luke looked like this.

  “Oh my God, Luke, I’ve been so worried.” Stefan’s hand was warm against Luke’s sagging cheek, and Luke craved the touch as much as he wanted to shrink from it. This isn’t me. Or rather it is me, but how can he stand it? “What happened? Well, I know what happened. Sort of. But I mean how did it happen? Shit, you can’t speak. If I—wait. This is so nuts. I need to be sure.”

  When Stefan’s hand vanished from Luke’s face, Luke peeked out from between his fingers. Stefan’s eyebrows were bunched over his nose, and he wore what Luke called his “instructor” expression. “How many paintings did Marius’s sister swipe from me?”

  Luke didn’t uncover his face, but he folded his thumb under. Four fingers.

  Stefan captured his hand in both of his own. “It’s really you. I knew it.” He squeezed Luke’s fingers, his expression turning fierce. “I knew the guy walking around in your skin wasn’t you, but I thought it was another ghost, another possession. Who the hell would ever imagine something like this?”

  For an instant, relief came out on top in Luke’s emotional wrestling match. He wasn’t fooled. He could tell DiBartolo wasn’t me. He knows me. But then his hands started trembling as terror slammed into him again. If DiBartolo guessed that Stefan knew, would he take drastic steps to protect the secret, steps that could put Stefan in danger?

  Stefan needed to know everything, but how could Luke convey the whole load of freaky-ass shit? Because Stefan was right—who’d ever imagine it? Body swappers? Death masks? Magic clay? Ghostly possession was totally meh in comparison.

  But they had an immediate problem. The damn room didn’t have a clock, at least not one that Luke could see, so he had to depend on his own wonky perception of the passage of time. He tugged his fingers free and tapped Stefan’s watch, a cheap Timex, not the Rolex Marius had given him.

  “You want to know the time? About nine thirty. Why?”

  Shit. Antoinette had roared out of the apartment soon after Rudy left an hour ago? Two? A while anyway, and Luke had no idea where she was going or for how long. She’d seemed extra harried as she’d cleared all possible writing implements from the room—although what she thought he could do with them given his last pathetic attempt was beyond him. She’d done nothing else other than make sure Luke could reach the medical alert button—which apparently would notify her as well as the emergency responders, damn it—before she’d jetted. But she could come back any time. Or worse, DiBartolo could show up and find Stefan at the scene of the crime.

  Luke made shooing motions and pointed toward the door.

  “You want me to leave? But I just got here. I need to tell you—”

  Luke tapped the watch and jabbed his finger at the exit more forcefully.

  “Ah. I get it. I need to make my getaway. Does DiBartolo show up here every night? He never made daily visits before, and it’s bound to look doubly weird now since it’s, well, you, not him. But—”

  Luke smacked Stefan’s leg and pointed. Again. Come on, Stef, move your ass before they come back and kick it for you.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go. But listen. I’ve found someone who doesn’t look at me as if I’m a lunatic when I talk about ghosts. Although what she’s going to say about this, I have no notion. She might give me the lunatic stare after all.”

  Stefan sighed and stroked Luke’s hair. Luke was tempted to lean into the touch and purr, but Stefan needed to get the fuck out, so instead he head-butted Stefan’s hand and growled.

  Stefan smiled at him, a wry twist of his full lips. “Now I’m sure it’s you. All right. But I’ll try to come back when the coast is clear next time.”

  Luke inhaled, closing his eyes and nodding, because God, yes.

  “We kicked weird supernatural ass before. We can do it again.” He kissed the back of Luke’s hand. “Hold tight. You can do it—you’re the strongest man I know.”

  Not likely. Luke freed his hand and tapped Stefan on the chest.

  “Me? Hell, I’m not strong. Aren’t you always telling me I need you to take care of me?”

  Shit. I have done that, haven’t I? What a douchebag. Luke shook his head and patted Stefan’s chest again.

  “Okay. No idea what that means, but . . .” Stefan stood up—finally. “Let’s hope I don’t fuck this up.”

  He paused by the door and offered Luke one last smile. “I love you.” Then he disappeared down the hall.

  When the front door latched behind Stefan, Luke wanted to howl, to find some way to beg Stefan to come back. But that wasn’t safe for either of them, and for Stefan most of all.

  God, when Luke had been capable of speech, he’d wasted so much time being a total dickhead, refusing to speak to Stef out of stubborn pride. Now, when he had so much he wanted to say, needed to say, it was karmic payback that he couldn’t do it.

  He clutched the blanket, his stomach knotting. Shit. I didn’t warn Stef about Antoinette. But Stefan had gotten the picture surely. If he could identify Luke in a foreign body, he had to figure Antoinette could do the same with her own lover.

  The next time Stefan snuck in here, Luke would just have to figure out a way to give him the big picture.

  The door of the apartment opened and slammed, accompanied by two voices arguing in fierce undertones. Enter body-stealing assholes, stage left. Luke wiped his hand over his face. That was cutting it too close.

  Footsteps and argument approached, and DiBartolo sauntered in, followed by Antoinette.

  “Don’t try to deny it.” Antoinette was clutching her handbag to her chest. “I followed you from the tavern. To her car. You—you did that with her. In her car.”

  DiBartolo flicked his fingers in dismissal. “Calm down, Tonina. Weren’t you just complaining that I had no thought for your next host? Well, perhaps I have found one for you.”

  “Jacques, she is my student.” She flung her purse into the wingback chair in the corner. “I know her.”

  He shrugged. “Eh, what does that matter? You’ve known all the others too, and that didn’t stop you.”

  “No.” She swallowed, her expression bleak. “But perhaps it should have.”

  He reached for her face, but she turned away, lips pressed into a thin line. He wound a lock of her hair around his finger instead. “It is too late to second-guess our past.” He tugged her hair, and from her wince, it wasn’t gentle. “We must now plan our future. Isn’t that why you invited our guest here? So we could plan our future?” He glanced sidelong at Luke. The goddamn smug bastard.

  “I told you,” she said. “This was to be temporary only. I had not intended to use him at all. And as for my student—non.”

  “Be sensible, Tonina.” He gripped her shoulders and gave her a tiny shake. “It will be better to choose a host who has some facility with clay, don’t you think? People—those people you’re always so concerned with—will ask fewer questions if she doesn’t suddenly change her profession.” He glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Luke. “I didn’t believe it at first, bu
t I begin to think that your choice for me is perfect. A man who works for himself, who’s known to travel, who has connections in the art world. Yes, it will do very well.”

  Heat grew in Luke’s belly, begging for an outlet, but all he could do was fist the damn blankets. What I wouldn’t give for Arcoletti’s flamethrower superpower. You would be a fucking cinder. Who cared if he’d be incinerating his own body? This guy was evil. He needed to go down hard.

  From the stony expression on Antoinette’s face, she was having similar thoughts. “Did you sleep with her last night too?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. It matters. This body does not belong to you.”

  “Yet.”

  “And you—”

  “You think I belong to you? Don’t confuse a beneficial partnership with undying devotion, Tonina. We’re both far too wise and experienced to believe such tripe.”

  She jerked as if he had struck her. Shit. Don’t tell me this is news to you, sister. I had his number ten minutes after I met him. DiBartolo didn’t appear to notice her reaction because he was smirking at Luke again. Typical. It’s all about you, isn’t it, you asshole?

  “It doesn’t matter what you think or what I think, Jacques. Without my original mask, I couldn’t make the jump anyway.”

  “Yet you were able to work this one without it.” He gestured between himself and Luke. “The original mask must not be as necessary as we had believed.” He scowled. “That bastardo Niccolo lied about that too, no doubt.”

  “But what if . . . what if it was an accident? He had already been in contact with the mask when he brought it from the chateau. At least a day and a night spent with the soul anchor no more than a field away, that’s what Niccolo told us was necessary to prepare the host.”

  “That reminds me.” He let go of her and strode to the bed to stand looming over Luke. “I need my mask. Where is it? In your office? Your home?”

  Luke flipped him off. Bite me, asshole. Because if the thing was so damned important to him, Luke had no intention of letting him have it.

  DiBartolo flushed, the muscles in his—my—jaw jumping. “You will tell me what I need to know, or I will use other methods.” He planted his fists on the mattress and leaned forward. “Your painter. You’ve fucked him in your home many times. He probably even has a key. I’m sure he’d be willing to bend over for me there again. And when I’m done with him—”

  Luke struck out with all his limited power, plowing his fist into DiBartolo’s side, just below the rib cage.

  DiBartolo let out a pained oof, and fury infused his face. God, is that what I look like in a temper? He drew his fist back, but Antoinette grasped his wrist.

  “Non, Jacques. You cannot hurt him.”

  “Why not?”

  “There will be questions. This is not the old country, the old days, the old ways. We must answer to other authorities now.”

  “Bah.” He shook her off but stepped away from the bed. “Rules. We should never have left Italy.”

  Luke glared at him. Forget Italy, buddy. If I have my way, you’re going straight to hell.

  At four in the morning, Stefan gave up on sleep as a bad bet. Knowing that Luke was only yards away, but separated not just by walls and distance, but by some weird psychic displacement— Well, it wasn’t exactly soothing. Every time Stefan closed his eyes, he saw Luke’s desperate fear staring out of somebody else’s eyes. Sometimes those eyes were DiBartolo’s pale blue. Sometimes they were the inky black of Arcoletti’s possession.

  So Stefan staggered downstairs, started the coffee maker, and doused his head in cold water.

  Which succeeded in giving him a headache, but not much else. As he consumed two pots of coffee over the next few hours, he studied the sketches he’d done of Luke, both before and after the mind-body takeover.

  Stefan was realistic about his abilities—when he wasn’t blocked, that is. He didn’t have an inflated idea of his talent, but he wasn’t affectedly modest either. The sketches were good, bordering on excellent, considering they hadn’t been intended as anything but quick, rough studies. They captured Luke’s essence and attitude in addition to the contours of his body, and other than being the same basic size and shape, the before and after sketches might as well be of two different men.

  Because they are.

  The clues were there, damn it—clues that the person inside Luke was DiBartolo, if only Stefan had paid freaking attention. The accent, the way he’d draped his jacket over his shoulders, his hostile demeanor. Did Antoinette know? It’s not as if Luke could communicate with her any more than he could with Stefan, and there wasn’t much opportunity to observe changed behavior. When she had observed it—Luke’s flailing when he saw Stefan the first time—she’d taken action by asking Stefan to stay away, but that was reasonable under the circumstances.

  Stefan checked his watch, stroking its face with a finger. Luke always gave him shit about wearing a watch, since people nowadays used their phones for that like they used them for so much else. But last night, Luke had used it to communicate with Stefan. I’m wearing this damn thing forever. Because the warning had come none too soon. Stefan hadn’t been locked tight in his studio for more than five minutes before he’d heard footsteps pass his door.

  He couldn’t tell who it was, or even how many people there were, but it had spiked his anxiety so much that sleep was out of the question. Who was it? What were they doing to Luke? Would they hurt him? Do something else to him? Christ, move him?

  Rudy had talked about the possibility of a long-term care facility. If that happened, even if he could locate Luke, Stefan wouldn’t be allowed time with him. And as for arranging visits from Psychic Counselors? Not a chance in hell.

  Therefore, he needed to act fast. What time did Peg don her Marguerite persona and open the shop? He contemplated trying her emergency number, but since she’d already said she wouldn’t give him the time of day unless she saw proof, he looked up the shop’s number and called the main line.

  As he’d hoped, the recording—complete with wind chime background accompaniment—listed the shop’s hours. Ten o’clock? How the fuck can I wait that long?

  He brewed another pot of coffee and began a long-overdue reorganization of his art supplies. He’d have loved to work out his nerves by knocking together new canvas frames, but as satisfying as pounding the shit out of nails would be, the soundproofing in the building probably wouldn’t mask it. He might disturb Antoinette. I might disturb Luke. Was he lying awake in that monstrous bed, thinking of Stefan almost within reach down the hall?

  Finally, at eight thirty, Stefan couldn’t take it anymore. He packed the sketches in a portfolio and slipped out of his studio, locking it behind him, and crept down the stairs and out the back door.

  The day was already warming, the sun bright on his fellow pedestrians’ clothing, whether they wore business formal or beach casual. It’s just another day for them. What would they do if they knew ghosts were real? That somebody could steal their body, their life, with nobody the wiser?

  He hurried to his car before he lost it and started shrieking, “The end is near!” like some kind of lunatic street-corner preacher.

  When he parked in front of Marguerite’s shop, the Closed sign was still up on the door. What did he expect? It wasn’t even nine yet. Should he go upstairs? She probably wouldn’t thank him for disrupting her morning routine and since she was his only hope, the last thing he could afford to do was to piss her off so royally that she’d refuse to help.

  So he sat sweating in his POS, hoping for a breeze, staring at the door as if he could flip that sign to Open with the power of his mind.

  And it worked. Well, sort of. No breeze, of course, but at 9:45, Peg, in her Marguerite disguise, peered out the door at him and rolled her eyes as she flipped the sign.

  Stefan scrambled out of the car and hurried inside.

  Peg switched on the pyramid lights. “I take it from your early arrival and—” She
looked him up and down. “—less than pristine appearance that you think you’ve got something.” She poked a button on a CD player, and the sound of wind chimes filled the air.

  Stefan did a double take. “You’re kidding. You have a recording of wind chimes? Why not have actual wind chimes? It’s not like they’re hard to find.”

  “Are you nuts? Those things are fucking annoying. Best part of my day is turning off that lousy CD.”

  Stefan laid his portfolio on top of a display case filled with different colored crystals. “I found him.”

  “Who? Jimmy Hoffa?” She pulled a pack of her clove cigarettes out of the pocket of her caftan. “Hate to tell you, pal, but he didn’t stick around.”

  “No.” Stefan took a deep breath, hanging onto his patience by his fingernails. “I don’t think it’s possession.”

  “Told you.”

  “It’s different. Some kind of full-body switch.”

  “Honey, I can’t tell you how many sad sacks have walked through that door and told me the same thing.” She picked up a pyramid-shaped lighter. “Is it ever true? No. Either the honeymoon was finally over, and the perfect partner stopped controlling his farts in her presence or he’d found something better and told her to hit the road. People have different faces. Maybe your boyfriend’s just showing you one you haven’t seen before.”

  “Then it’s a face of a guy who’s at least thirty years older, is partially paralyzed, and can’t speak. It’s different than our possession. I mean, the ghost made me do different stuff than he made Luke do, and my episodes were all blackouts, but—”

  “Wait a minute.” She set the lighter down with a clack on the glass counter top and tossed her unlit clove cigarette aside. “You were possessed by the same ghost?”

  Stefan blinked at her, his mental fog making it tough to switch gears. “Yeah. Didn’t I say?”

  “No, you asshole, you didn’t. Talk about withholding critical information. Jesus, I wish I was still a cop. I’d arrest you for terminal stupidity.”