Songs of Love & Death

Martin stared at the screen in bewilderment and horror. He typed back Child? I’m talking about Kaskia!

The new voice was slower to reply this time, and not quite as accusatory.

MY CHILD. MY DAUGHTER.

Martin thought of Ivan at the supermarket. Then he typed, I didn’t know.

The voice on the laptop screen still resolved in capitals, but the tone no longer came across as menacing.

WOULD NOT. KASKIA LIKES TALK. STORIES. LIKES STORIES.

“Yes,” Martin said softly, remembering; and then typed, Yes. So then she is not a famous singer and musician?

LIKES SINGING.

Of course, he replied. The sad story about her pet dying?

DEAD. YES. OLDER SISTER’S.

Martin said, “Oh dear.”

GOOD GIRL. GOOD GIRL.

Yes, Martin typed again. Smart girl. Don’t punish, please.

The voice did not answer. Martin wrote, slowly now, Your daughter changed me. I don’t know how, or in what way. But I am different because of her. Better, perhaps—different, anyway. Tell her so.

Still no answer. Martin was no longer sure of the voice’s presence, but he asked, One other question. Every time we spoke, Kaskia and I, there was an image of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I thought it was a picture of her. Not?

GOOD-BYE KASKIA FRIEND.

“Good-bye,” Martin said softly. “Good-bye, Kaskia.”

The laptop went dark and still. Martin touched the One Key, but nothing happened. He had an odd feeling that nothing would again; the computer had served its purpose, at least for him. He shut it off, unplugged it, wrapped the power cord around it, and put it in a drawer.

After two cups of strong percolated coffee, he called Barry. When his cousin—hungover and grumpy, by the sound of him—answered the phone, Martin said, “Barry? Do you remember the old Prince Albert sting?”

“Prince Albert?” Barry was definitely hungover. “Say what?”

“You remember. Big fun for bored kids on rainy afternoons. Call up a smoke shop, a candy store, ask them if they’ve got Prince Albert in a can. Remember now?”

A hoarse chuckle. “Right, sure, yeah. They say yes, and we say, ‘Well, let him out right now, he can’t breathe in there!’ Then we giggle like mad, and they call us little motherfuckers and hang up. What the hell put that in your head?”

“Just Memory Lane, I guess.”

“Hey, I heard about Lorraine. That really sucks. You okay?”

“I guess. Not really sure what okay is right now. I guess so.”

“Okay means there’s better out there, lots better. Seize the weekend, like they say in Rome—old Cousin Barry’s going to hook you up with one of his Midnight Specials. Meanwhile you’re crazy free, right?”

“Crazy, anyway.” To his own surprise, Martin realized he was smiling. “We’ll see about the free part.”

There were bathroom-sink noises at the other end. “’Scuse me—trying to make an Alka-Seltzer one-handed. Hey, you still happy with that computer I sold you? I got a buyer, if you’re not.”

Martin hesitated only briefly. “No, I’m fine with it. Great little machine.”

Barry cackled triumphantly. “Told you it’d change your life, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. But thanks anyway.”

Martin’s smile widened slowly. Standing alone in the kitchen, he closed his eyes and listened to the stars.

Yasmine Galenorn

Harder even than trying to live in two worlds is being trapped between them, like a bug between sheets of glass…

New York Times bestselling author Yasmine Galenorn is a mystery and paranormal romance author perhaps best known for her seven-volume Otherworld series, which details the adventures of the half- human, half-faerie D’Artigo sisters, who work for the Otherworld Intelligence Agency, and which includes Witchling, Changeling, Darkling, Dragon Wytch, Night Huntress, Demon Mistress, and Bone Magic. Galenorn is also the author of the five-volume Chintz ’n China series, including Ghost of a Chance and Murder Under a Mystic Moon, which straddles the borderline between mystery and fantasy; and she has also written eight books on modern paganism, the most popular of which is Embracing the Moon. She also writes under the pseudonym India Ink. Her most recent book is a new Otherworld novel, Harvest Hunting.

Man in the Mirror

He’d been rambling around the house for years in a fog so thick that he could no longer count the years that had passed. Chained to the house by a chance meeting in a mirror, he was a shadow of his former self, a whisper on the wind, a glint of light against the glass.

The house had sat empty for ten years, although his mother still came in to clean every now and then, but mostly, there was silence. The only way he kept up with what was happening in the world was to listen to the conversations between May, his mother, and the rare friends she brought with her.

He’d come to believe he’d never have another chance to laugh, to smile, to be grateful for what existence he had. And he’d been lonely. So lonely, wondering if he’d ever have the chance to speak to anyone again. If nothing else, he wanted out—wanted to move on.

But today, something shifted—a breeze echoing through the empty rooms swept with it the hint of perfume —the fragrance of hesitation, of anger—and desire. And the scent touched him, woke him fully. Someone new had arrived. Someone he once hated, but now who promised him the chance of life again. The house would become a home again, and perhaps—perhaps he would have a chance.

SOMETIMES, THE ONLY way to exorcise old ghosts is to pack your bags and move in with them. And so, on one of those rare clear mornings in the Pacific Northwest—before the clouds had a chance to gather—I loaded my Pathfinder and left Seattle for what I hoped would be the last time. For all its beauty, the city was a constant reminder of the nightmare that had haunted me for over a year.

Three hours and two pit stops later, I pulled up in front of the rainbow-arched trellis straddling the drive leading to Breakaway Farm. Wild rose canes wound around the latticework, waiting for spring, sparkling with early dew. The trellis guarded an iron gate barring the road to the house, and in the moments just before sunrise, mist rolled silently along the ground, an ankle-deep shroud obscuring the path.

I let the motor idle as I slipped out of my seat and wandered over to the gate, staring at the lock. The key dangled like a promise from my key chain, a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could find some semblance of peace. On the other hand, now that I was actually here, the idea seemed a little crazy. Maybe I was just stirring up trouble for myself.