Killer Charms

by Marianne Stillings

  She shrugged. “Let’s just get on with it, okay? This place gives me the creeps.” Rubbing her arms, she whirled on her heel and headed back down the hall. Over her shoulder, she said, “Walk this way.”

  I wouldn’t, even if I could, he thought, his gaze glued to the sway of her hips.

  He followed her to what obviously was the library, a cavernous place where volumes stood in parallel rows, tightly pressed together like dominoes in a box. The scent of wood polish, old paper, and faded roses met his nose in a familiar and not-altogether-unpleasant way. Red, brown, and black bindings covered books both large and small, thick and thin, their gilt-embossed titles timeworn to a dull chrome. On an oak pedestal next to the fireplace sat a globe of the world in relief as it had been perceived to be a hundred years ago, its mountain peaks now eroded to mere bumps, its continents and oceans dulled to contrasting shades of parchment. Heavy floral drapes had been pulled across the three tall windows at the far end of the room.

  Andie stood in front of the library table, her hands folded, waiting. He stepped across the threshold into the room…and he knew.

  Feeling the breath go out of his lungs, his step faltered, and he made a grab for the nearest chair.

  It was still here, that thing that had happened in this room, absorbed into the walls, reflected in the mirror over the fireplace, echoing like a heartbeat…

  A soft humming began inside his head. And as he had since that fateful summer he’d turned nineteen, he clenched his jaw and blocked it.

  Andie stepped toward him, said something to him. He could see her lips move, but the humming in his ears drowned out her words. He shook his head, hoping to rid himself of the noise. Pulling in a breath, he willed the assault be gone.

  Dammit, not now.

  She said something else, placed her palm on his arm, laughing. Then her expression changed to concern, and she spoke again. But her words came from too far away for him to comprehend.

  He tried to keep the room in focus, but it was growing difficult. Objects around him lost their hard edges, hues and tones bled into each other like a child’s watercolor. His heartbeat pounded against his eardrums. The hums turned to whispers…

  He was losing control…needed to get out…get the hell out…

  Logan? He searched her eyes. Had Andie spoken his name, or had it come from the ether? Staring at her, he didn’t know how to answer.

  Her lips moved. Are you all right? Would you like some water? Logan? Can you hear me?

  Logan…hear me…tell her…tell her to help…’tis only she can help…tell her…

  His dry throat constricted painfully around the words he had to speak.

  “I…so sorry,” he choked, “to cowp yer hurlie, lass…”

  Then the darkness closed in. Blind to the room and the woman standing before him, he lost his balance and tumbled forward. Someone called his name. Andie? Or the other?

  The chair he’d been gripping crashed against the hardwood floor. A glass spilled, and he heard liquid splash onto the table behind her. Arms came around him, easing him to the floor. Behind his closed lids, the faces came. Their mouths made shapes, opened and closed, and he heard their words. The humming in his brain turned to buzzing, like a hornet’s nest he’d disturbed. Clamping his hands over his ears, he tried to shut out the cacophony, but it only grew louder, more insistent.

  Logan…tell her…tell her…’tis none but she can help…tell her…

  “Nae,” he rasped. “Nae. I willna…”

  A chasm opened, light spilled through. Disembodied fingers beckoned, tugged…pulled at him…and he fell…

  Chapter 8

  There is but one art, to omit.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  On the phone, Ross’s voice sounded skeptical.

  “Are you sure of it, Logan? You say they spoke to you, did they? And you’re positive?”

  “Do you doubt it, Father! Take the Glasgow Road, I tell you. You’ll be safe. You’ll all be just fine—”

  “They insisted, you say?” he interrupted, his deep voice, generally so confident, surprisingly hesitant. “The Glasgow Road, Logan. They told you by name, aye?”

  Logan blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, Father. Even if they hadn’t assured me, I saw it just now on the TV, the storm’s moving off to the west, intensifying. You can avoid the worst of it by heading east on the Glasgow Road. It’ll get you down the mountains and into Edinburgh in under an hour. I’ll meet you at the Witchery on the Royal Mile, as planned. C’mon,” he urged. “’Tis my birthday, and I’m in a mood to celebrate! You’re not going to let some blashie storm keep you from dinner with yer only mac?”

  His father sighed, and Logan knew he’d won. “Ah, but y’er spoilt, Logan, my boy,” he grumbled. But he chuckled when he said, “Yer mither don’t think so, but it’s a fact nonetheless.”

  “Sad but true, Father.” He’d laughed. “So you’ll come on then?”

  “Aye. We’re on our way.”

  “I promise you, they said ’twas safe and no doubt of it. When will you learn to trust me? Has my wondrous gift ever sent you wrong…”

  But Ross had paused a moment, obviously still uncertain. The storm of the century raged across the UK, washing out roads, downing power lines, flooding both narrow village lanes and vast fields of yellow rapeseed, making many thoroughfares inaccessible. Only fools ventured forth in such a tumult—unless they’d been promised safe passage by the powers that be.

  Logan’s studies at university had been a bore of late, the early-spring weather had been dreary, and his girlfriend had recently bolted—accusing him of being too good-looking, too rich, and too self-involved to love any woman more than he loved himself. He’d liked her well enough, and her words had stung more than he was prepared to admit, so he’d viewed his upcoming birthday as an excuse to break out of his brooding. His ever-doting family had promised to meet him in Edinburgh for their annual celebration of the birth of the family’s only son, and Logan could see no excuse for a bit of bad weather to spoil the festivities.

  “Meet up with you in an hour then, lad,” Ross Sinclair promised, then hung up the phone…

  Inside his head, Logan heard that final click of the receiver. It echoed across time, leaving a turbulent silence that beat against his eardrums like the fists of an angry mob; the violent quiet of the years rolling by like they do, not caring that a grief-stricken boy stood alone against them as they passed. They came and went, the years, adding one to another, until a mountain of time lay behind him, and the callous boy grew into a man so devoid of emotion as to be hollow—to be simply the container where the echoes lived.

  As the memories began to fade, Logan felt the familiar sting behind his closed lids. The stabbing agony of unshed tears—tears he’d doggedly refused to shed. For fifteen years, he’d held them at bay. He’d hold them off forever, if need be. The pain reminded him of what he’d done—and who it was paid the price for his youthful arrogance and conceit.

  So damn full of himself he’d been. So careless, cocky…

  And wrong. Dead wrong.

  After that day, he’d shut his humanity behind a wall of angry grief, self-doubt, numbing pain. After that day, he’d shunned the voices, the knowing, and began struggling against his powers, shutting them down, boxing them in, fearful of hurting anyone else, of ever forgetting what he’d done—and terrified he’d discover a way to absolve himself of his crimes, and forgive…

  No man deserved absolution less.

  While his pride had indeed been a cardinal sin, instead of destroying him, as it should have done, it had punished those he loved by taking them—leaving him in the world to ponder his transgressions, and pay for his hubris with vile loneliness and ever-abiding guilt.

  “Logan?”

  Andie, it was. Her voice soft, gentle, filled with concern. He imagined he lay in her bed, her arms around him, his tired head on her breast as she offered him sanctuary, a brief respite from his torments.

  “L
ogan?” she repeated. “Are you with me?”

  Keeping his eyes closed, he breathed wearily, “Aye, lass.”

  Warmth surrounded him like a velvet blanket…

  He eased his eyes open, glanced about, got his bearings.

  The two of them were on the floor, his head cradled in her lap as she looked down at him, stroking his hair. Against his will, he smiled at her. She blinked in surprise, then curved her mouth in a half grin. It was as though she glowed from a misty light that emanated from behind her body, making her appear like a golden-headed angel who’d swooped down to catch him, protect him as he’d fallen hard to earth; an angel he’d known all his life, and longer…

  “So beautiful,” he mumbled.

  Her smile changed, tilted wryly on one end. “Must have cracked that skull of yours, laddie. You’re imagining things.”

  “Nae,” he whispered. “I am no’.”

  She averted her eyes for a moment; her cheeks pinked up a wee. Then, “You okay now?”

  Instead of answering, he slowly rose into a sitting position, rubbing the back of his neck. With a shrug, he teased, “I’m grateful you caught me, lass. Might have smashed this gorgeous face into an unforgiving piece of furniture. You’ve done all of womankind a great favor.”

  She lifted a brow. “I’m not surprised you think so.”

  Silence lay between them as they looked into each other’s eyes. Finally, she straightened her shoulders, took in a breath. “Why’d you faint? Low blood sugar or something?”

  “Men don’t faint. Women faint. Men…”

  “Swoon?”

  “Och! A man would rather drop dead altogether than swoon.”

  “How about…languish?”

  He snorted. “I doubt even Mr. Darcy languished. No, lass. Men just black out.”

  “Because…”

  He glanced around the room once more, letting his attention settle on the antique globe. Lying through his teeth, he said, “Because maybe they had a wee dram too much the night before and not enough to sleep or eat.”

  “That what happened to you?”

  “Close enough.”

  She pursed her lips. “Well, if you need sustenance, there’s some Hielan Helper in the pantry.”

  Reaching for her, he slipped a lock of her silky hair behind her ear. She stiffened and seemed to hold her breath, but didn’t back away.

  “You’d whip up a meal for the likes of me? You can cook, can you?”

  “If a kitchen has a microwave, then yeah, I can cook.” Her brows lowered, and concern showed in her eyes. “This place gives me the jitters, so if you’re okay, I’d like to get the hell out of here.”

  Rising to his feet, he helped her stand. “Gives you the jitters, eh? And well it ought, haunted as it is.”

  “Right.” She brushed dust from her skirt. “Is that your professional opinion?”

  Though he shut them out—or tried to—the voices reached him. Rather, the voice. Her voice. The one who lived here because she did not know how to move on. She’d spoken to him, desperation sharpening the edges of her words.

  He looked down into Andie’s eyes and wondered just what to tell her. A story? A myth? Conjecture? Truth?

  “There’s a woman here,” he murmured. “From a long time past. She…she seems frantic to reach you, talk to you, tell you something.”

  Andie’s face paled, and she took a small step back from him. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I might have agreed,” he said slowly. “Except, you’ve seen her, haven’t you?”

  When she said nothing, he pressed the issue.

  “’Tis why you screamed that first night. You saw her, aye?”

  She shook her head, turned, and walked away from him. With her back to him, she said, “No. I, uh, I only thought I saw something. A shadow, nothing more. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Yet you’re here, wanting to do a séance, wanting me to participate. If you don’t believe, then why rent this house, why invite guests, why coerce me to come?”

  “I told you,” she huffed. “For fun. For kicks. For the hell of it. But I don’t believe any of it. Do you? Do you really?”

  “It’s my stock-in-trade, lass. I have to.”

  Her eyes ablaze, she accused, “But you don’t believe, not really.” Taking a few steps away from him, she crossed her arms over her breasts. “Tell me, Mr. Sinclair, how do you pull off your tricks, exactly? How do you target your clients? What kind of research network do you have that enables you to convince them you’re on the level, when it’s clear you’re not?”

  “What makes you think I’m not on the level?”

  “Oh, come on! I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. It’s all smoke and mirrors, isn’t it? What do you get out of it? Money? Inside information? Sex? Come on, Logan, spill it.”

  She was suddenly furious, and he had no idea why. Her green eyes snapped with irritation, and something else. Something that, if he didn’t know better, he’d think was fear. But why would she be afraid of him?

  “All right, lass,” he said softly. “Since there’s obviously no pulling the wool over your eyes, here it is. The truth.”

  Andie’s heart beat so hard, she worried her boobs bounced in time with each pulse.

  Sinclair was going to tell her? Just like that? He was going to confess?

  Her thoughts went to the wire she wore. Was Dylan receiving the transmission okay? Would whatever Sinclair said be enough to indict? And Bostwick…would it assuage his demands, buy her some time while she figured out the best way to bring the SOB down?

  “The truth?” she said, tilting her head. “This’ll be interesting. Go on.”

  Sliding his arm through hers, he walked with her toward the library door. As they passed through the threshold, he said, “I could use a good stiff drink. What say we find some cozy spot?”

  The Foghorn Tavern, a second-story hideaway on the waterfront, was as intimate a place as they got. A hole-in-the-wall decorated in rich oak and rusty red brick, the place boasted no more than five tiny tables banked against a long window that allowed a view of the Golden Gate Bridge glowing under the light of a full moon.

  A soft-spoken barmaid placed their drinks in front of them, lit the candle in the hurricane lamp, then quietly departed. As soon as she’d gone, Logan raised his scotch and tapped the edge of Andie’s glass of white zinfandel.

  “To the truth,” he said. Taking a sip of the whisky, he winked at her. “The whole truth.”

  She lifted her glass of wine, studied the blushing liquid, but did not drink. “And nothing but the truth?”

  “Aye.” He took another sip, then set his glass on the table. “You start.”

  “Me start? This was about you, boyo.”

  “But your truth would be far more interesting. Where were you born? What’s your family like? What’d you like best about school? Who’d you vote for in the last election? Would you ever like to visit another planet? Have you ever been in love?”

  She set her glass on the table. “Well, you certainly have a way of cutting right to the bone, don’t you? I guess I could ask you the same questions, but I’m more interested in your so-called work. Why don’t we begin with that? How’d you get your start in the séance business?”

  Leaning back in his chair, he said, “Came with the soul, I guess you’d say. Born with it, the knowing, as I call it. I heard voices. Didn’t think much of it; thought all kids heard voices until I said something about it one day and discovered it was a rare thing—and considered suspicious by most. Apparently there are those who believe anything paranormal is the work of the devil, yet those same people who believe God created everything, exclude from everything the things they don’t like or understand, including the ability to hear voices. Needless to say, I’ve always been confused by the paradox, or dichotomy, if you will.”

  “What did these voices say to you?”

  “Mostly told me they wanted to help.”

  Andie eyed him thoughtfully. �
��Help? Help who? Help what?”

  “Help me to help people. Sad people, mostly. Confused people. They told me most people were in a world of hurt, and my gift would be a comfort.”

  With a slight tilt of her head, she said, “And has it been a comfort?”

  “No. When I was nineteen, I shut it off. Don’t hear the voices anymore, at least, I try not to. But I still sense things, whether I choose to or not.”

  “You’re not making this up, are you.” Furrowing her brow, she said, “You really are telling me the truth.”

  He sent her a smile filled with charm and promise. “Aye. So far as it goes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What that means is, by the time I’m done telling you my long, sad tale, you’ll be so distressed, you’ll want to comfort me.”

  “And that comfort would take the shape of…”

  “Coming to bed with me. It’s what I’ve wanted since I met you. You’ve wanted it, too, so don’t deny it.”

  Typical male. They were getting off her track and onto his. She needed to redirect the conversation.

  “What exactly do the voices tell you?”

  He assessed her for a moment, took a sip of his drink. “I have a spirit guide,” he said. “The voices, the information, is focused through him mostly. Say you lose a memento, something important to you. You call me, I come to your house, contact Allister and ask him where it is. He tells me, you recover said object, then pay me a lot of money for helping you.”

  “But if you shut off the voices at nineteen, as you say, how is it you can hear Allister?”

  He paused for a moment, cleared his throat. With downcast eyes, he murmured, “I want to.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  A shrug. “Your choice.”

  “I can’t reconcile what I know to be true with what you’ve just said. You claim you actually talk to dead people—”

  “Only Allister. And he’s not dead.”

  “But you said—”

  “Spirits never die. Souls never die. Our bodies die, but that elusive something that makes us who we are, lives on. So, in essence, Allister is very much alive. I just can’t see or touch him.”