“No.”
The word came from her mouth as no more than a whisper, but she knew that didn’t matter. It took only a thought for Miranda to know.
She felt her muscles tense as the odd euphoria of possession began to overtake her. She tried to repeat the word, but nothing more than a gasp would exit her lips. She struggled against the cold embrace of the spirit, but her will had been broken long ago. It was only a moment before she felt herself being drawn into darkness as the Lwa entered her body.
As her vision tunneled, she watched her hands moving of their own accord, anointing the necklace with the dead man’s blood then placing it into a small glass bottle.
The last thing she remembered before disappearing into the void was the overpowering scent of cloves.
CHAPTER 28:
I had just finished spreading butter onto some slices of whole wheat bread before layering them with Swiss cheese and shaved, smoked ham. I already had a frying pan resting on the stove waiting patiently for me to ignite fire under it so that I could go about the business of grilling the sandwiches for lunch.
Felicity was hard at work in her basement office. Her meeting had gone well the day before, and it was almost a foregone conclusion that she would be signing a contract with the company. However, she still had other obligations to fulfill, so she was presently involved in applying her own brand of technological magic to some digital photographs she had taken for a different client.
It was actually a slow day for me. I had spent my morning recovering a corrupt database for one of my own customers, but other than that, I had little to do. The revolution of more user-friendly software had caused my business to drop off somewhat. Fortunately, I still served a relatively stable niche market and wasn’t feeling the effects too severely. In fact, the additional free time was welcome. Of course, I’m sure I would enjoy it more if I found something to fill it that didn’t involve serial killers or talking to the dead.
Emily, our calico, had been doing her best to trip me up for better than five minutes now. Weaving circuitously through my legs as I shuffled back and forth between the refrigerator and the counter where I was preparing lunch. Now and again she had let out a plaintive “mew” in a bid to get my attention. Finally, deciding that tactic had failed, she rose up on her haunches and began pawing at my leg.
“What?” I asked, stopping and looking down toward her.
She screeched out a fresh meow then dropped back to all fours and trotted toward the doorway. Stopping, she looked back at me and squeaked again.
“Here,” I told her as I stepped over to the back door and swung it open. “You want out?”
Instead of making a dash for the opening, as was her usual response, she turned and seated herself. Still staring at me, she issued a vocal demand once again.
“I don’t speak cat,” I told her, swinging the door shut and returning to the counter. “Here’s the deal. You learn to speak English, I’ll learn to speak cat.”
It wasn’t long before she was right back at trying to trip me by weaving through my legs, and this time she was even more vocal. I switched off the burner with an exasperated sigh and turned my attention back to her.
“What?!” I demanded.
She immediately turned and trotted toward the doorway again.
“Did Timmy fall down the well or something?” I quipped for my own amusement.
She stopped at the threshold and squeaked impatiently.
I gave up and followed. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure I was really trailing behind her then continued through the dining room and living room before finally parking herself at the front door and staring up at me expectantly.
“So, the back door isn’t good enough for you?” I asked.
She simply pivoted her ears then “mewed” again.
Rather than continue to deal with her annoying behavior, I stepped over to the door and unlatched it. Once I had swung it open and pushed the storm door out a few inches, she darted onto the porch and scurried down the stairs.
Behind me, the pendulum clock bonged out a single chime, announcing that it was now half past noon. Since I was already at the front door, I poked my head out and glanced at the mailbox. I could see a circular or two peeking up from the top of the receptacle, so I stepped out and gathered up the mail as well as a medium-sized parcel that was sitting beneath it.
Before returning to my interrupted culinary endeavor, I sorted through the pile, separating junk from bills and arranging them in stacks on the dining room table. The rectangular box was addressed to Felicity, care of her company, Emerald Photographic Services, so I placed it beneath her assortment of business correspondence.
On my way back to the kitchen, I detoured into the hallway and called down the stairs to my wife, “Felicity… Lunch in about five minutes.”
Her voice floated back up to me. “Okay.”
“Oh, and the mail is here,” I added. “You got a package.”
“Who is it from?” she asked.
“Sorry, I didn’t pay any attention. Want me to check?”
“I bet it’s that effects lens I ordered,” she called back. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“Okay.”
I returned to the stove and set about the task of turning the cold sandwiches into hot ones while the microwave hummed along, doing the same for a large dish of tomato soup. I heard the rhythmic thump of Felicity’s feet against the stairs followed by the door to the basement opening then closing.
“Something smells good,” she announced in a loud voice. “But, since you’re cooking, I guess I’d better reserve judgment until I actually taste it.”
“Very funny,” I called back.
“Well, I thought it was,” she giggled. Her voice was a bit closer this time, and I could hear her shuffling through the mail in the dining room. After a brief pause she asked, “So, what are we having?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Aye, now I’m worried.”
“You’re in rare form today,” I replied.
I heard paper tearing as she opened the package. Following a half-minute or so of silence, she muttered, “Oh, dammit.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, still focusing my attention on flipping the sandwiches in the skillet.
“Well, it’s not my lens,” she replied, a semi-disgusted tone hugging her voice. “There was a card on top under the wrapping. Listen to this-‘Merry Christmas. I just wanted to say goodbye. Hope they fit. Forever at your feet, mat.’”
“Hope they fit?”
“I think the creep sent me a pair of shoes.”
“Gods… Well, let’s hope he really means goodbye,” I returned. “So what would you like to…”
I never got the chance to complete the question as it was unceremoniously cut off by a horrified scream. I started immediately, and the spatula I had been holding fell from my hand and clattered loudly on the floor. For the second time in as many days, I found myself racing from the kitchen with the acrid burn of fear churning through my stomach.
This time, however, I somehow knew it wasn’t going to go away.
“So, you just found it on the front porch?” Ben asked, staring at me intently, his pencil poised over his notebook.
We had positioned ourselves in the kitchen, keeping out of the way of the crime scene technician as she
