Three

Amelia had never seen a setup like it, and Cormac trusted her experience more than his own with this sort of thing.

Along with the trivet, the candlesticks marked out a pentagram. The candles in them, all black, were lit, and the flames were each a different color: blue, red, yellow, green, and white. There had to be some trick to it, chemicals in the wick. The effect was unsettling. Apricot-sized quartz crystals sat at each place around the table. Incense burned in a ceramic bowl—sharp, with a bitter edge, not like what Amelia used, or the usual sage and sandalwood.

Rowan, with a bit of anise. Something else I'm not sure of, but I'd use those in a divination spell at least, I'll give him that.

A small gong marked with Chinese characters sat near the head of the table, where Vane stood, presiding. Lora, camera in hand, moved around the room snapping photos and taking video. She came in close to frame an artistic shot of thick gray smoke rising up from the incense, then moved to the back of the room to encompass the whole setting.

"Well, this is downright Satanic," Monty said, frowning.

"The pentagram is an ancient symbol with many meanings," Vane said. "It represents the four earthly elements, plus the ethereal plane. Now please, sit."

Cormac. Try to sit next to Vane, if you can.

Amelia wanted to be able to tell if Vane was pulling strings under the table, or flexing to activate hidden controls. However, Beck and Lora had already crowded in, while Cormac's tendency to linger in the back of rooms defeated them.

Glyn was also hanging back. He gestured to Cormac. "After you, Mr. Bennett."

"You go on."

They stared at one another, neither willing to have the other at his back.

Oh for God's sake, just go.

Frannie arrived last, and Monty glanced at her with what seemed like surprise, faintly sneering. Like he really couldn't see her as anything other than hired help. The singer started to say something, but June hushed him. For her part, Frannie seemed eager, leaning right up to the table and focusing on Vane. When the medium stepped back to turn off the lights, the room transformed. The cozy home-like setting was transformed by the uncertain glow of the spirit world. A couple of the others gasped, and Cormac was annoyed to notice the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Lora attached the camera to a tabletop tripod and switched a button—setting to video, it looked like. With everyone in their chairs, an anticipatory silence settled over them. The candle flames wavered in an unfelt draft. Silently, Vane settled in the chair at the head of the table and spread his hands in an inviting gesture.

"My friends. Prepare yourselves. We are about to make a journey. There is the world we know. And then there is the one... beyond!"

There was a thump—just his fist against the table, making the candle flames jump and the gong rattle. Frannie gasped, June let out a small squeal. Monty chuckled, but the sound came out nervously.

"My friends, I need your help," Vane continued. "Whether you believe or don't doesn't matter. I just need you to turn your thoughts... to the mysterious. Remain silent. Remain attentive. But most of all, whatever happens... remain calm. I beg you." He met the gazes of each of them around the table, so it seemed as if he asked them personally for their help. Drawing them into the ritual. "If the spirits believe you are afraid..." He shook his head slowly, as if to say he couldn't guess what would happen and wouldn't be responsible for the consequences.

Quite the showman, Amelia said. In the dark, lit from below by the multicolored candles, Vane had a haunted expression, as if had seen terrible things and lived to tell.

What are we looking for? Cormac asked. Amelia's attention had become sharp. His own vision went soft, as she stepped into his body, using his eyes, ears, nose.

I'm not even sure. In the old days it was all wires and toe cracking.

Toe cracking wasn't a thing. It couldn't be.

It worked for the Fox Sisters, apparently. I never saw them perform myself. Though in this modern day he might have recordings, smart speakers using voice-activated cues. I'd wager Lora is helping him.

Vane lifted his hands. "Entities on the ethereal plane, draw nigh. We are here to contact the unfortunate spirit that is said to inhabit this place, Tobias Wright. Tonight, we hope to hear his tragic story from his own spectral self. We will open a doorway to the shadow realm and ask Tobias to... step through."

Cormac could almost believe that someone was breathing over his shoulder. He resisted an urge to look behind him.

Vane produced an object: the pocket watch from the mantle over the fireplace. It was antique, tarnished to a dark shade. Holding it flat in his palm, he showed it around the table so all could see, then placed it on the pentagram in the middle of the table. A focus. A connection with the past. Assuming it had actually belonged to Tobias.

"Now, please take the hands of your neighbors," Vane ordered.

"June, switch places with me," Monty hissed.

"What? Monty, just sit—" But the singer was already fumbling out of his chair and pulling at June's arm.

"I'm not holding hands with a man. No offense." He nodded at Glyn in a way he probably thought was polite.

"And what if I do take offense?" Glyn said, leering a bit with an arch to his eyebrow.

"June!"

"All right, fine!"

A muscle in Vane's jaw twitched.

The couple settled in their new seats, which placed Monty between June and Beck. This was apparently acceptable.

Glyn thickened his precise accent to say, "Really, Mr. Connor. I won't bite. Unless you ask nicely." It was an old joke, but nicely deployed. Monty's eyes widened, as if in horror, and he refused to look at Glyn, who seemed to be enjoying himself.

Glyn now arched that same brow at Cormac, who was seated on his other side. "Will you take offense?"

"I'm tough, I can take it," Cormac said, gripping his offered hand.

In fact, Amelia appeared to be delighted by their neighbor. Frannie took hold of his left hand, and the circle was complete.

"Friends," Vane intoned a bit desperately. "We have a somber task before us! Let the light fill your vision, the air fill your senses. Steady your breathing. Focus on your breath, breath that Tobias Wright no longer has for himself. We must breathe for him if we wish him to speak!"

A reliable meditation technique. In spite of themselves, they all began to match their breaths to the rhythm of Vane's steady speech, until they were all breathing together, and even the flickering of the candle flames seemed to settle into the rhythm.

"The veil is thin... the spirits are close..."

The smell in the room changed, the incense abruptly shifting to a sharper, sweeter odor. Cinnamon maybe?

Oh, very nice. Timed release, so once the rowan burned down the next scent is ready. Excellent timing, good showmanship there.

"Is that pot?" Monty exclaimed. June hushed him.

"No," Vane hissed. "It's my secret blend of divinatory herbs."

"He sells it on his website if you like it," Lora added in a loud whisper.

Vane closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to be gritting his teeth. "Please, I'm begging you to be quiet. The spirits are very close. But you have to focus!"

The air grew warm, heady. Frannie's hand in Cormac's was shaking slightly. She was squeezing just a little too tightly, and Cormac couldn't get her to loosen her grip without disrupting the proceedings. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted. Falling easily into the half trance Vane was attempting to induce in them.

In a slow, haunted voice, Vane asked, "Tobias Wright. Are you here with us this evening? Can you give us a sign? Tobias Wright, we have opened the door, and we humbly ask for a small sign of your presence."

"I think I heard something!" June hissed.

There had been no sound apart from the room's ambient noise. The wind gusting against the windows was the same as it had been.

The more of a show Vane put on, the less inclined Cormac was to take him seriously. Still, he hadn't sensed any odd movements. No hiss of speakers, no sign of electronics. He watched Lora; she'd remained sitting still.

If nothing happens, that doesn't particularly mean he isn't psychic.

Vane continued, undaunted. He took a deep breath... and suddenly tilted his head. His brow furrowed. "I'm sensing... a spirit presence is here. A soul from another realm has joined us."

The tension around the table ratcheted up a notch. Even Monty held his breath. Somehow, Frannie's grip on Cormac's hand tightened even more.

"It's very strong!" Vane said, his demeanor of control slipping in his excitement. "I am sensing... sensing..." Vane straightened, his shoulders stiffening. "There is a spirit here," he said softly, and now he sounded confused. Wondering. He was off script.

"Is it Tobias?" Beck murmured.

"Shh," Vane said. "There's... someone... Died and not dead? Not the murderer but the murdered..."

"That's not my ghost," Beck said, blinking.

"No. It's... a woman, maybe?" Vane said, pleading, "Spirit. Can you give me a sign? Reach out, and I'll listen!"

Cormac sat very still.

Cormac. Is he talking about me? Can he sense me?

He asked Amelia, Are there any ghosts here? Is there anything else?

I can't tell, not without working some sort of scrying spell.

Vane shook his head in evident bafflement. He wasn't the only one. "The signs here are jumbled, confusing. Some spirit has come to communicate with us. I need all of your energies to help illuminate the unreal. Your life energy can give power to this otherworldly voice!"

Should I say something? I don't want to be illuminated. Not here, like this.

Although it might give everyone a big shock if Cormac suddenly started channeling the spirit realm.

"There's definitely a presence here," Vane insisted. "But she's not forthcoming. We must make her feel welcome. This is a safe space. Spirit, we ask nothing of you! But if you feel moved to give us a sign. One small sign."

Oh, he sounds sad...

Cormac shifted a foot and cracked a toe. In the breath-held stillness, the noise sounded a lot louder than he expected, especially given his heavy boots. Frannie nearly jumped out of her chair. Beck gasped. Monty muttered a small curse. Vane smiled, a devilish expression in the candlelight.

Cormac grinned a little. So did Glyn, sitting beside him and casting his gaze downward, under the table.

"Spirit, thank you," Vane murmured. "You honor us. Do you have a message for us? Anything. At all."

The moments dragged on, the wind outside kept blowing. The incense burned out, leaving the air smelling sooty. Candles wavered, and Vane let out a sigh.

"Sometimes, the spirits keep their secrets to themselves." His showman's voice of authority returned. "The veil closes. The other plane is out of reach. At least... until each of us in our turn makes that final, permanent journey to the other side. If we are lucky, our journeys will be less fraught than Tobias's. Now raise your hands—" He raised his, along with Lora's and Beck's. The rest of them followed suit. "—and break the bonds, returning our own selves to—we hope!—the safety of the material plane!"

They dropped hands. It was like a rope had been cut, and a weight settled back into Cormac's arms. The material world. Mundanity. Cormac sighed. There was a bit more business with blowing out candles and ringing the gong to "clear the energies." The lights came on, and everyone blinked at each other like mice dragged out of their dens.

Beck leaned toward Vane. "Does that mean I have two ghosts?" Her eyes lit up, excited.

"I really don't know," Vane said. "That was just... weird. That really didn't go the way I expected."

"It's all a show," Monty said, frowning. "That's what I think."

Lora said to Vane, "You got a sign, and you just let it go. Why didn't you follow up? An unexpected ghost and you didn't follow up?"

Vane tipped up his chin. "I do not command the spirits, I am merely their conduit. Hey, that would make a great clip. Can you film that?"

She held up the camera, found the angle, and Vane repeated the line, standing over the remains of his séance in a lordly manner. "I do not command the spirits..."

Glyn sidled up to Cormac and said softly, "Did you really have to crack your toe at right that moment?"

Cormac looked at him. "Maybe the spirit told me to do it."

I did not. That was all you!

Some of the old spiritualists insisted that they really could communicate with the spirit world, that they really were passing along messages. But the bells and tricks and sleights of hand were the only way they could convince anyone else that what they could do was real. That was the problem—unless you had some kind of second sight of your own, how would you ever know they were telling the truth?

Cormac had second sight of a certain kind, he supposed. He just didn't want to share.

Frannie stood, brushing her hands on her jeans; they might have still been trembling a little. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I could use a cup of coffee. Anyone?"

Vane and Lora yes, June yes but decaf, and Monty asked for whiskey. Frannie seemed happy to have a job to occupy her after the small adventure.

Beck approached Cormac, an eager glint in her eyes. Taking him by the arm, she pulled him to the parlor, out of sight and earshot of the others. "Well? What do you think?"

Cormac wasn't sure how to assess Vane and his skills as a spiritualist. His performance was dramatic, but he didn't seem to be using the classic tricks. No stunts, no funny noises. When he said he sensed the spirit of a woman who was dead but not dead... well, he wasn't wrong.

"He puts on a good show. And..." Cormac had to give him credit. "I think he's onto something. Not sure how good he is really, but he's got sensitivity." Not that he was ready to explain how he knew this. He didn't know any of these people well enough to introduce Amelia to them.

He thought Beck would be happy to get an endorsement, but she tilted her head quizzically. "Then why didn't he sense Tobias?"

"Maybe Tobias wasn't talking tonight."

"But then who's the woman he mentioned? Do I have two ghosts?" Her voice lifted at this, as if two ghosts meant twice the marketing opportunities.

"Couldn't say," Cormac evaded.

"Maybe he'll lead another séance tomorrow. Since it looks like we're all going to be here awhile." She glanced out the window and sighed.

Beck went off to check on her other guests, leaving him with Glyn, who was leaning against the doorway, looking off toward the kitchen. And eavesdropping, apparently.

"You really believe in ghosts?" Glyn asked.

Cormac ducked his gaze. "Maybe not the way you're thinking. Glowing shapes knocking things off bookshelves? No. But... there's something out there."

He expected Glyn to scoff. Make some wry British quip, quote a little Shakespeare, "more things in heaven and earth..." Instead, he got a faraway look in his eyes. "Yes. I suppose that's one way of putting it. Something..."

Cormac wondered what the man had seen that he couldn't explain. But Glyn shook off the expression and glanced at his tumbler, which he'd reclaimed. "Well then, time for a touch-up, I think." He strolled to the sideboard with the decanters. The level of alcohol in the man's glass seemed to have hardly diminished. Glyn wasn't drinking, just holding the glass. A crutch.

Back in the dining room, Vane packed up his paraphernalia while Lora watched the video playback on her camera. Could the video have caught anything? Cormac wouldn't have thought so, but he wouldn't put money against it.

They were arguing. "I don't know what it was," Vane hissed loud enough to carry. "I need to sleep on it. Try again tomorrow. I don't know."

"You usually know."

He angrily tugged closed the zipper on his case. "Anything?"

Lora continued glaring at the screen. "No. Just... candles. Not even an orb."

"That's because orbs are bullshit," Vane said.

Cormac was liking him better and better.

The medium glanced up and caught Cormac watching. Cormac waved. "Don't mind me, just heading to the kitchen." He sauntered through to the next door.

"There's something off about that guy..." Vane whispered to Lora.

We really ought to tell him about me, Amelia said. He knows there's something here, centered on you, but because he isn't expecting it he has no idea what to look for.

Later, Cormac would think about that later.

Monty stormed out of the kitchen just as Cormac reached the door, intending to go in and ask Frannie if she needed any help carrying out the drinks. They'd have crashed into each other if Cormac hadn't deftly stepped aside. Monty drew up short, startled. Glaring, he seemed to be about to spit some insult. Faced with Cormac's impassive response, he walked on by. The man was rubbing his chin and wincing.

In the kitchen, Frannie was leaning on the sink, gripping the edge, white knuckled. He almost backed right out again, uncertain what he'd walked into. But Frannie quickly straightened and wiped away a stray tear. Cormac put the pieces together.

Don't you dare ignore it. Say something. Amelia's fury boiled. She'd connected the pieces faster than Cormac had.

"Did he do something?" He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, where Monty Connor had fled. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." She chuckled nervously. "He's just being old school. Thinking he can cross lines, you know? I decked him."

"Good. But you should tell Beck," Cormac said. "She's not going to want him around if he's being an ass."

"No, it's fine. Beck has enough to worry about." She folded a towel, put it by the sink. Looked around the kitchen again. "But, you know, if you could keep an eye on him for me."

"Sure thing," he said, and held the door open for her as she carried out a tray of steaming mugs.

They gathered in the parlor, sipping their drinks and listening to the wind moan. Monty didn't pick up the guitar again, thank goodness. Vane had replaced the pocket watch on its stand on the mantle, its place of honor. Everyone spread out to their own seats; the parlor was almost not quite big enough for all of them. Small talk went on around Cormac, who tuned it out as he looked out the window over the front drive. The snow was still falling hard and had drifted up to the Jeep's front grill. The little Miata was nearly covered. He'd meant to just stay overnight, leave in the morning. But no one was leaving in the morning, not with this.

We'll make the best of it, then. Amelia may not have had a body, but her sigh was evident.

"How?" Cormac murmured. He wasn't sure he could manage being polite for an entire weekend.

We sleep in, she murmured. We eat a large breakfast. Sit by the fire and read a book. Surely this house has a library somewhere that we haven't seen yet.

He sensed longing from her. She could have these experiences through him—indirectly, one step removed. Right now, she was thinking what it would be like to have her own body. To smell the old wood and feel the warmth of a wool blanket draped over her lap. He never knew what to say, to try to comfort her in these moments. Only that she needed comfort, which he wasn't very good at delivering. If she had her own body, he might hold her hand. Or scuff his foot on the rug, like he was doing now.

Vane was glancing at him across the room, surreptitiously studying him. Glyn was openly regarding him, as if he were a puzzle. Would it seem strange if Cormac spent the whole day in his room tomorrow?

You'll have to come out to eat sometime.

And Frannie was a good cook. There was that, at least.

Speaking of, Frannie bowed out first, claiming she had an early start, getting breakfast ready for the guests, and fled to her room on the ground floor, behind the parlor. That started the general retreat. Cormac was second. Soon the lights were out, and they'd all climbed the stairs to their rooms.

Cormac's was on the third floor. It was nice, with more of the cozy, Victorian cottage decor. Paintings of flowers on the walls, lace runners on the dresser and nightstand. Overstuffed chair by the window, brocade curtains. A little chilly maybe, like the house's heating system wasn't quite up to the task. The bed was nice. Brass fittings, what seemed to be a handmade quilt. But too soft. Cormac stretched out on it and felt like he was sinking.

The nightstand included a shelf with a handful of books. Including a few by Glyn Farrow, his name glaring along the spine in bold letters. Curious, Cormac picked one out, titled Fatal Storm, and opened to a random page to read.

Bryce Stone raced down the icy slope, hot on the heels of the masked gunman, who hesitated, glancing back, his dark eyes glittering malevolently through the holes of his balaclava as he once again raised his weapon—and fired. Bryce reacted instantly, ducking behind a stand of towering pines, feeling the hum of air as the bullet whipped past him...

"I hate this guy," Cormac muttered. "I can already tell I hate him."

It's certainly... exciting?

Bryce Stone was apparently a police detective as well as a former military officer, and occasionally worked as a consultant for British intelligence. A wide enough range of skills and experience to ensure that Glyn could write about his adventures across dozens of books and never be bored. They might even have been good reads, but the problem was Cormac heard the words in Glyn's voice. He decided he couldn't stand that voice, and therefore couldn't stand Bryce Stone, who didn't even exist.

He shut the book and put it back on the shelf.

Really, I think he's charming. I'd like to speak with him further. Hear about how Brighton is these days.

"I think he's gay," Cormac stated.

She paused a moment—he could just about see the quizzical tilt to her head. So? I said I wanted to speak with him, not have relations.

The bedrooms on this floor shared a bathroom. Cormac went out for one last stop, and as he returned to his room, he heard urgent voices from one floor down. He carefully stepped into the shadowed corner to listen. A man and a woman, speaking in a hushed whisper. Cormac just happened to be in exactly the right spot for the sound to carry up the stairs.

"Monty Connor, you got five hundred acres of prime development land out of that deal." That was Beck, her cheerful hostess personality completely replaced by rough tension.

"Not to mention mineral rights." And that was Monty Connor, sounding smug as ever.

She hesitated. "What do you mean, mineral rights?"

"Turns out there's a neat little copper deposit smack in the middle of the plot. Worth quite a lot, I reckon. Did Jim not tell you about that, either?"

"Then why do you need the house, too?"

"Don't need anything, now, do I? But I have to say, it's a nice house. You did a good job making it pretty."

"You can't," Beck breathed. "You wouldn't."

"Already have, darlin'."

Footsteps stormed off, and a door closed harder than necessary. Monty chuckled softly.

What was that about?

None of their business, was what. Jim had been Beck's husband. Cormac vaguely remembered him from back when he was a kid, when his father knew the family. The house had been in his family, that was how Beck got hold of it. Sounded now like it hadn't been that simple. But how did Monty Connor tie in?

He waited another minute before turning back to his room, and spotted movement at the other end of the hall. Glyn Farrow, standing at his open door. He must have heard the argument, too. Cormac met the man's gaze briefly. Glyn pressed his lips together in what might have been an apologetic smile before retreating into his room, shutting his door.

So much for the restful weekend.

Stripped down to sweats and a T-shirt, he shut off the light and climbed into bed. And lay there with his eyes wide open. Maybe he just wasn't used to being comfortable. He punched the fluffy pillows in a futile attempt to flatten them.

Cormac. For God's sake, rest.

He forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths and closed his eyes. Opened them again on a mountain meadow that existed only in his imagination. His and Amelia's.

Winter never came to the forest of his mind. He hadn't really thought about it before, but this mental construct almost always existed in high summer, with wild flowers blooming and a warm sun pouring over it. There had been storms, fog, uncertainty, but never snow. Cormac had to concede: he liked summer.

He lay back in the grass, hands pillowing his head, watching voluminous white clouds against the pristine blue sky. Here, his shoulder didn't ache at all. He could remember what it felt like to not have a gunshot wound, and so that was how he existed here. He listened to birdsong in the trees. Some unfamiliar calls had crept in—English birds, imagined there by Amelia. Made him smile. And this was an odd, uncomfortable feeling. He had income from interesting work, a warm place to sleep, reasons to smile. He might have been happy. Or at least contented. He hardly knew what to do with the feeling.

Amelia was pacing. She always did this when she had some problem to mull, as if this imagined body's movement was enough to simulate the real thing. They had raised the question of how real this all was—if they imagined touching each other, and they felt the contact, was it real or imagined? And then they shied away from it. It was philosophy, and had no answer.

Real or not, she said that pacing helped her think. "Just because there's a story about a ghost does not mean that there really is a ghost." Hesitating, she looked at him. He was not being helpful. She was about to point out that he was not being helpful.

"But," he prompted.

Her expression pursed thoughtfully. "One must consider what is meant by the phrase ‘haunted house' to begin with. There are the stories, cursed spectral forms gliding down the hallways, moaning and banging on doors and all that. Hampton Court Palace is supposed to be littered with ghosts. Catherine Howard's is said to run screaming down the gallery behind the chapel. But with so many tourists tromping through does anyone ever see them? Then there's the haunting of an old church that has seen services within its walls for a thousand years. Where all those prayers have seeped into the stone and given the building some weight. Some aura. Is that a haunting?"

Cormac generally left the existential questions to her. He was the muscle. She sighed, and here, in their minds, that finally had some meaning: her lips parted, her chest fell with the exhaled breath. He liked watching her.

"This house has been so remodeled, so done over, any aura it might have carried from its earlier days is lost, I fear," she said. "Who's to say if any spirits linger?"

"You?" Cormac suggested. "Vane felt you because you were sitting right there. None of his séances are going to work as long as you're there. You drown everything out." Which meant Vane really was psychic. How about that?

"I might almost be insulted by that." She crossed her arms, quirked her lips wryly.

Here, she had a body. Here, he could take her hand. "How about we worry about it in the morning? Maybe we can talk to him and let him know what went wrong."

She settled onto the grass next to him, and he did it, took hold of her hand possessively and pressed it to his chest, just as he might have done if they were in that real too-soft bed together. Finally, she settled next to him, her head on his shoulder, and he could sleep.

The light of dawn woke him just before Frannie's scream did, when she walked into the kitchen and discovered Monty Connor's body.