'Which companies?' This Mariketa was certainly no-nonsense when it came to money.
'Um, there's General Electric and International Business Machines. I think it's called just IBM today—'
'Okay, I have cartoon dollar signs in my bulging cartoon eyes. I'll be right over. Knock on the mirror closest to you while I'm on the phone.'
Did Mariketa need the mirrors for her spells? Néomi's heart fell. 'But they're all broken.'
'Doesn't matter. Just need a sliver.' Néomi dutifully knocked, and Mariketa said, 'And I've... got it. All right, when a witch of superlative gorgeousableness climbs out of your mirror, don't ghost out on me.'
Climbs out of my mirror? 'Oh, I assure you—'
The phone was now emitting a long, unbroken tone!
'Please hurry, Miss Mariketa!'
'Hey, just call me Mari.' In a feigned somber tone, she sighed, 'And I shall call you... Spirit Friend.'
Smiling stupidly, Néomi turned off the phone and tossed it to the bed. She was giddy—she was... hopeful.
She began to pace anticipating Mariketa's—Mari's arrival. With their singing, music, and cards, those females were like the bons vivants she'd adored. And one was coming to visit!
Life was suddenly new and different and full of promise.
It couldn't be this easy. But, what if, what if, what if?
25
Conrad sat hunched in a tree atop a hill, overlooking the chaos of the gathering. He scanned the crowd for Tarut, but so far had spied nothing. Even in this throng, the demon would be easy to spot. He was eight feet tall.
Though the risk in being here was great, Conrad was prepared. His hand was nearly regenerated. The drugs had all but worn off. And he was holding strong mentally.
Bullshit.
He was addicted to Néomi. I'm addicted to a ghost. Conrad couldn't feel her presence, couldn't smell her scent. And it was killing him.
Behind his sunglasses, his eyes darted. Only his own survival mattered, he told himself again and again. She didn't matter to him. Damn it, she doesn't!
Yet over the last three days, as his anger abated, he'd come to realize that she hadn't withheld his freedom for malicious, or even selfish, purposes. Her expression had been tormented when she'd handed the key to him. As long as he lived, he'd never forget how she'd looked in the rain, the glitter of electricity all around her lovely face.
With each hour, he remembered more of his enraged tirade. He'd accused her of keeping him in danger from his enemies. Yet she'd been watching over him like a sentinel whenever he'd slept. If anyone had attacked Conrad at Elancourt, he didn't doubt she'd have put them on the ceiling.
And he'd questioned whether she would've let him starve when the blood supply ran out, demanding to know if she gave a damn about that at all—when in fact, it was Néomi who'd coaxed him to start drinking the bagged blood anyway. Every sunset she'd brought him a cup filled to the rim, though she detested the sight of it. 'I just can't see it without remembering,' she'd said. 'When I died, I was bathed in it, in Louis's... .'
Conrad had known that—he'd seen it spilling out over her floor the night of her dance. Exasperated, he'd said, 'Then why do you keep bringing it?'
She'd blinked at him. 'Because you need it.'
Why would Néomi let a self-professed murderer loose? She'd been tortured by one.
Go back for her, his mind whispered. And do what with her? He'd never soothed the hurt feelings of a female. He wasn't smooth with words like Murdoch.
Why would she want to have anything to do with him after the things he'd said? He'd been so damned hard on her. He remembered telling her to rot in hell—she'd whispered that she already was.
He grasped his forehead. What is wrong with me?
She'd endured eighty years of that hell, only to have a vampire destroying her home, punching her walls. And even before those years, Néomi had suffered. The bastard who killed her had made sure of it. Robicheaux hadn't plunged the knife and then looked on in horror at what he'd done. He'd taken hold of that blade and sadistically twisted it.
And Conrad couldn't even torture and slaughter the one who had done this to her.
His eyes widened. But he could desecrate the bastard's grave for her! Now I'm thinking. And of course Néomi would want to know about Conrad's gesture because it would please her. He would have to return, if just to tell her.
The idea heartened him, made being here a fraction more bearable.
When her mirror bulged out, somehow becoming pliable, Néomi gasped. A briefcase flew out of the glass, landing with a thud on her studio floor.
Then came hands, parting the mirror like a curtain.
From the opening, a comely redhead crawled out, her face alight with a smile. Following her was an eerily pretty black-haired woman with arresting golden eyes—and pointed ears. The glass closed seamlessly behind them.
'I'm Mari MacRieve,' the redhead said. She hiked a thumb at her friend. 'This is Nïx the Ever-Knowing. She's a Valkyrie.'
Shaking off her astonishment, Néomi said, 'It's such a pleasure to meet both of you.' Turning to the black-haired woman, she said, 'Nïx? I know some people who are searching for you.'
'They always are, dearling,' Nïx sighed, then fogged and buffed her nails, which looked more like small, elegant claws. She asked Mari, 'How are you doing with all these mirrors?'
Mari let out a breath. 'Hanging in there.'
'She's a captromancer,' Nïx explained. 'She uses mirrors for her spells and for travel.'
'But,' Mari said, 'I've got this foreign greedy power inside me that makes me get all entranced in mirrors if I'm not careful. So I can't live with 'em, can't live without them.' Mari turned in circles. 'Wow, what a place!'
Néomi noticed that she had a piece of paper taped on her back that read, I Do Ghouls.
'Oh, dear,' Néomi said, pointing delicately. 'Mari, you have a... '
Mari patted behind her until she snagged the page. 'Damn Regin.' After reading it, she crumbled the paper, then glared at Nïx. 'When is Lucia getting back? I can't handle Reege by myself anymore.'
Nïx shrugged. 'Don't worry, I've got Regin taken care of. Folly, a rogue Valkyrie and Regin's archnemesis, arrives next Friday at a quarter after four.'
Mari exhaled with relief. 'Ah, your foresight is a beautiful thing. I wish mine was a fraction as strong as yours.'
'No foresight needed. I bought Folly a ticket. I'm flying her in from New Zealand first-class. Regin will be furious at the betrayal—but sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.'
'You are wise,' Mari said, then returned her attention to a bemused Néomi.
'How is it that you both can see ghosts?' Néomi asked.
Mari answered, 'Because I'm a witch, and because she's damn old and powerful.'
'Old as carbon,' Nïx agreed. 'And so powerful I'm working on my demigoddess badges.'
Néomi didn't think Nïx looked a day older than Mari, but what did she know? 'Can either of you tell me how I became a ghost?'
Mari shook her head. 'No one really knows for certain, but I've heard it has to do with a soul being too strong, even after death, to pass on. Oh, and usually you have to have a sturdy spirit anchor.'
'Spirit anchor?'
'Yeah, if you die in a place that you loved or that had meaning for you, it can anchor your spirit there.'
Néomi had loved Elancourt—the property had been all she'd had that was permanent and lasting. She'd wanted to plant roots, to watch children play in the gardens and the folly. To grow old here with someone she
