This Strange Witchery

by Michele Hauf

  “It’s not your fault, Dad.” She hugged him tightly. Melting into his arms had always felt so good. But now she felt him tremble and could feel the sad energy leaking out of him. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Under the couch. She knows what I’m trying to do, but she won’t put out more than a paw.”

  “Where’s Amaranthe?”

  “Somewhere near the couch. I think.” He glanced over his shoulder. The couch was across the vast loft, pushed up against the windowed wall. “You know I’ve no magic to ward off my own blood. Ghost or not. If you could just call her to you.”

  Mel nodded. “I’ve got this. You focus on Mom. Soon as you have her, run out of here.”

  “I intend to.” He gave her another quick hug. “We can do this. Tonight it will be over.”

  “Yes.” Mel sucked in a deep inhale.

  Tonight would bring peace to the Jones family. If she got her act together. And sacrificed the one really great thing that had happened in her life.

  Wandering in behind her dad, Mel searched the air, knowing she wouldn’t see her sister’s ghost. Amaranthe had never apported into corporeal form. But she could sense her presence by a coolness to the air—there.

  The side of her neck prickled, and it felt as if an ice cube had sluiced down her shoulder and to her elbow. She gripped Tor’s talisman. It helped him to not see ghosts? If only she could see her sister’s ghost. Still, the inspiring sense that Tor was close, perhaps just behind her, bolstered her courage.

  She could do this.

  “Amaranthe?” Mel whispered. She closed her eyes. Focusing her senses beyond her body, she tapped into the air about her. “I miss you, sister.”

  Wavery whispers that she could not interpret slid over her scalp and tickled her ears. It was a faraway call, a fleeting scream for help. But since Amaranthe’s death, they’d never been able to communicate with words. Unfortunately.

  Not wanting to call attention to her parents, Mel turned the opposite way from the couch and walked over to the window. There, she breathed on the glass and then quickly traced a heart in the condensation. A sudden slash marked the fading heart, startling Mel at the power her sister possessed. Yet behind her, she was aware of her father moving swiftly toward the door, the cat carrier clutched to his chest, and inside was the hissing cat she called Mom.

  Cold air chilled Mel’s cheek as she felt her sister’s ghost rush toward the closing front door. The door slammed, and the light fixtures rattled angrily. Her dad had successfully escaped.

  Now to face her sister’s wrath.

  * * *

  Tor paced the lobby’s marble floor, arms swinging wide and meeting before him with a fist to his palm. Back and forth, slap. Back and forth, slap. When the man in dark clothing carrying a cat carrier descended the stairs in a flurry and stopped before him, Tor swallowed.

  “She did it?” he asked, knowing it was a stupid question as soon as he’d opened his mouth.

  TJ nodded. “Why aren’t you up there with her?”

  “I, uh...” Because there was a ghost. And—“Mel asked me to stay down here.”

  “I thought you were protecting my daughter?”

  “I am, but...”

  TJ shook his head, disapproving.

  “Is she still in the apartment? Alone? With the...”

  “I’m not sure what Amaranthe will do. She’s dangerous. I can’t believe someone who calls himself a protector would allow a woman to walk in on a volatile situation. Alone.”

  “She said it wasn’t wise—” Argument was stupid. And not fair to the family. “You’re right. She needs me. I’ll take care of your daughter, Monsieur Jones. I promise. How’s your, uh...wife?”

  The cat in the cage hissed at Tor.

  “Frightened. I’m taking her to my brother’s for the night until Lissa can invoke the spell. You will accompany her for that?”

  “Of course. That’s what she hired me to do.” Tor took off toward the stairs. “I’ll keep her safe!”

  “You will,” TJ called, “or you will know the Jones family’s wrath!”

  That was more than enough motivation to quicken Tor’s pace. He took the stairs two at a time, not sure why Mel had not taken the elevator. While waiting, he’d seen a man with a briefcase exit it, but—well, magic and elevators. There was something to that combination that he didn’t want to test.

  While pacing in the lobby, he had struggled with his fear of ghosts and why he hadn’t insisted on accompanying Mel upstairs. And yet she had been firm, and he hadn’t wanted to cause problems with the ghost. But now he realized she needed him no matter what.

  At the front door, he lifted his hand to knock, then paused. He leaned in close and listened, and heard...crying. Opening the door quietly, he stuck in his head and searched the chilly air in the loft, which was two stories high and open to the rafters. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see—well, yes, he was. He would see specters. Ghosts. Haunts.

  Nothing.

  Had the sister fled after TJ had escaped with Star? Or was she standing over Mel right now, tormenting her? He saw Mel, sitting on the floor, back to him. Her head was bowed and she was sobbing.

  Rushing inside, Tor plunged to the floor beside Mel. Before taking her in his arms, he checked her expression. She didn’t appear to be frightened or tormented, but she was crying. Perhaps she was not haunted right now. He took her in his arms and pulled her into a hug.

  “Tell me what you need me to do,” he said.

  She shivered against him and sniffled. “She’s here.”

  And he did know that. The instant he’d run inside, he’d felt the cold air, the knowing presence of another.

  “Where?”

  “Not sure. She won’t speak to me. I can feel her anger. Why is she so angry? Why won’t she believe that Mom had nothing to do with her death?”

  Her mother had not purposely sought to harm her daughter, but fact remained, she had run in front of the car. Perhaps the ghost could not get beyond that. She might only carry the knowledge she had from the moment of the accident, which had been that the cat had run before the car. And when she died, she could have never learned that it had been an accident. Maybe?

  Tor didn’t want to have a conversation with the entity to learn why.

  “Your dad has left the building and your mom is safe,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  She nodded and, with his help, stood. Wrapping an arm about her shoulder, Tor realized she felt smaller, more delicate and so cold. When they neared the open door, it suddenly slammed shut and a gush of icy wind raked through his hair.

  “You need to get out of here now,” he said, fully planning to follow her out. He gripped the doorknob. The icy metal stung and he hissed, but he managed to pull open the door. “Go!”

  “Wait!” Mel paused on the threshold. “I need vervain. I’m out, and Dad said he had some.”

  “I’ll get it.” Another gust of wind pushed on the door, and Tor struggled to hold it open. “Where is it?”

  “With Dad’s spell stuff around the corner.”

  “Go!” Tor yelled, just as the door slipped from his white-knuckle grasp and slammed shut.

  Turning and facing the open space of the loft, Tor darted his gaze about the room. A trickle of cold air brushed his eyelids, yet it wasn’t as threatening as the door slamming had been.

  “Vervain,” he whispered.

  Around the corner? He located a kitchen and found what looked like an ancient apothecary’s desk and cabinet heaped with vials and bottles and candles and potions. A massive handcrafted book sat splayed open on the center of a wood table carved with ancient sigils that caused the hairs on Tor’s arms to stand upright.

  He swallowed. “A dark witch’s grimoire. Not going to touch that thing.”

  Tor scrambled over to the shelf and studied the c
onglomeration of vials and bottles and boxes. Everything was dusty and arranged chaotically—did no one have a sense of order in this family?

  “Vervain. What does vervain look like?”

  “It’s in the jar labeled Vervain.”

  “Thanks.” Tor grabbed the small jar, then swallowed roughly. “Ah, shit.” He spun to face a blonde woman who looked a lot like Mel, save her eyes, which were rimmed with dark shadows. And her lips were bloodred. “Amaranthe?”

  “You can see me?” The entity floated toward him.

  Tor nodded, clutching the vervain to his chest. He slid his other hand down to his hip where the talisman—was not there.

  When the ghost raked an icy hand through his hair, he dropped the glass jar, which she caught in a wispy hand that morphed from foggy smoke to a fully formed corporeal hand.

  “This,” she said, “is going to be fun.”

  Chapter 20

  The room was so cold Tor’s breath fogged before him as he breathed, ever so shallowly, and took a step back from the ghost. She had assumed corporeal shape. Flesh-and-blood real. And she looked so much like Mel, except with blond hair. The same big blue doe eyes.

  Bollocks. He’d seen far too many ghosts in his lifetime, but never had one been so solidly formed.

  “You see me,” Amaranthe said, “because the veil between you and my world is nonexistent.”

  “State the obvious, will you?” he tried.

  “Are you mocking me, mortal man? Who are you? Why does a common human enter my parents’ home and look about for things that he should not have reason to use?”

  “The vervain is for...” He wouldn’t give the ghost any more fuel. He had to keep her calm. And get the hell out of here before his insecurity paralyzed him.

  “Vervain is for releasing things from the heart and the soul. Hmm...” The ghost tapped a finger on her lips. “For whom? My father? My mother? Or...” Her brow arched in evil triumph. “My sister. You and Lissa are lovers. My sister is fucking a human.”

  He would not reply. Must not look at her overlong. She was beginning to lose the darkness around her eyes, the only thing that gave her a skeletal appearance, and her hair was changing to brown and growing even darker. Her bright blue eyes widened. Just like Mel’s. Impossible. But nothing was impossible in the paranormal realm. Tor knew a specter could assume the guise of another with little effort.

  “She just needed some vervain,” he tried. “Silly spell stuff. You know.”

  “Magic is never silly. Tell me why Lissa gives you the time of day?”

  “I, uh... No. I’ll just take this...” He grabbed the small glass jar the spirit had set on the desk and stuffed it in his pocket. When he turned back to the ghost, Mel loomed before him, her long hair flowing and her doe eyes beaming at him. There was even glitter on her eyelids. Lemons and lavender filled his senses.

  “No,” Tor whispered. His jaw tight, he uttered, “You’re not Mel. You’re not.”

  “You call her Mel?” The ghost tilted her head. Crimped the edge of her upper lip in disgust. “Strange. Of course, she never did like Lissa. I always called her twerp. She’s the older one, you know? I have always been younger. More beautiful, yes?” She quickly took on her own persona with the blond hair, and her skin remained young and fresh, not shadowed or dank.

  She was beautiful. For a ghost.

  “Star did not mean for your death to happen,” Tor said.

  The ghost snarled and slashed clawed fingers at him. He didn’t feel the cut of her fingernails on his skin, but he could feel the tug to his very being as she connected with him on a metaphysical level. Damn it, he should not have left the talisman with Mel. He’d never allowed anyone to touch it, or worse, borrow it. What had gotten into him?

  But he was here now. And he wasn’t about to run from a figment, a projection of a former life. The soul caught in this mortal realm was merely wearing a costume of what she’d once been. And that soul was a cruel, violent being who was trying to kill her own mother.

  “Amaranthe Jones, why don’t you give up and go to the light?” he asked. To use a person’s full name had power; it drew them to the moment, crystal clear reality. And the dead never liked to be reminded of their status.

  “The light? Ha!” Amaranthe spread out her arms, and at the ends of her fingers green sparks snapped. Ectoplasmic remnants? Or some sort of ghostly magic he did not want to deal with? “You know nothing about me, human.”

  “I know you’re dead. And the dead do not belong in this realm.”

  “Says the one who has been dallying with nothing but the dead ever since meeting my sister. Oh, I know. I tapped into Melissande’s thoughts when she was here. She is enamored with you. And you are of her. It isn’t fair!” The ghost cried, clenching her fists. “She gets everything. Mom always did like her better!”

  “That...is ridiculous. I’ve not met your mother but—”

  “Which means you don’t know anything about her. Star was the reason I will never walk this world in corporeal form. Never again will I know love, or the touch of a man’s mouth on my lips.”

  Her figment hovered before him. Tor veered away, but she leaned in, putting their faces inches from one another. “Would you kiss me, human?”

  If he touched her, he would never be the same. Tor had made physical contact with the spirits he’d seen over the years. Not by choice. Each time, he felt the lingering remnants of a soul settle into his skin and deep into his very bones. And one so angry as Amaranthe would surely foul his very being.

  “You deserve all that and more,” he said, avoiding the deep blue irises that sought to pull him closer, to lure his hands up to caress her hair. As if she were Mel... “You are a soul, Amaranthe. You can live again. But you need to leave this realm first. Do that. Let your soul begin another journey.”

  “That’s death, asshole.”

  He shrugged, then winced because she was right, and he had never been faced with trying to spin his way into convincing a ghost to leave this realm.

  “There is nothing here for you,” he tried. “Just...you will be free.”

  “I go nowhere without my mother’s last life!”

  He was not appealing to her morals, and he didn’t want to make things worse for the family. Tor knew when to cut his losses and run. Slipping quickly around the ghost, he aimed for the front door.

  “Your family loves you!” he called.

  But as he gripped the icy doorknob, Amaranthe coalesced into form and he ran right into her. The fusion of her death-chilled essence to his warm, living flesh burned him. With a yelp, Tor shoved away from the door. He could feel her essence enter his skin and bite at his nerves.

  “You’re a conduit. Open to the spirit realm.” The ghost stalked toward him. “I could use you.”

  For what, he didn’t want to know. To return from whence she came? He could only hope.

  Now her eyes were white and her mouth opened wide as she yowled a wicked, otherworldly cry that shattered the glass candleholder on a nearby table and broke glasses in the kitchen.

  Tor’s nerves twanged and his body went rigid. He wanted to swing out in an attempt to push her away, but even as he had the thought, he knew he couldn’t allow himself to hurt a woman. Mel’s sister, by the gods. And right now, frozen by her wicked essence, he could barely stand, let alone move an arm.

  “I won’t rest until she stands beside me in this strange Beneath,” Amaranthe announced. “My mother murdered me.”

  “She didn’t,” he forced out through his tight jaw. The pain was incredible. He yelped, and that utterance worked to release some of the tension in his body. He bent forward, catching his hands on his knees. A shiver seemed to shave off some of her heavy residue. “She was just a cat running away from a dog!”

  A slash of Amaranthe’s clawed fingers streaked a burn across Tor’s cheek. She stood te
n feet away from him, but he touched his face and felt the blood. She was gaining strength, a strange power that he was unable to repel without the talisman.

  With another unearthly shout, the ghost plunged toward him.

  Tor dodged to the floor, rolled onto his back and under the charging ghost, and came up to his feet. He grabbed the doorknob and opened the door. As he crossed the threshold, he tripped on nothing more than air—or more likely, the ghost’s aggression. He slid into the foyer, facing the open doorway.

  Amaranthe eyed the opening with a glint to her white eyes.

  “Shit.” Tor lunged to his feet and reached in to grab the doorknob, and as he pulled it shut, he felt the ghost’s iced fingers claw through his hair. He pulled it shut with effort and stepped back, stumbling against the wall and choking at the icy hollow in his throat.

  Waiting, peering about him, he sensed she had not escaped the loft. Perhaps bound to the home, perhaps not. But she’d not been able to leave. Yet.

  A prickle of hot pain clutched at his system, and he closed his eyes and huffed out breaths, trying to find a calm place instead of surrendering to the tightness the pain coaxed him toward. Panting, he heaved and then turned and caught his palms against the wall, pressing his forehead there. He’d done it. He’d faced down a volatile ghost. And...he was still in one piece. He hoped.

  Shaking his arms out at his side flaked off the remaining sludge from the specter. It wasn’t tangible, but Tor felt his muscles lighten. Whew!

  Patting his pocket to ensure the vervain was still there, he took the stairs rapidly downward and didn’t stop until he plunged into Mel’s arms outside the building. Inhaling her citrus scent did not reassure him as usual. It only reminded him of what he’d just escaped.

  “You’re bleeding?” She touched his cheek. “What did she do to you? Oh, Tor, you saw her. The ghost of my sister?”