* * *
Avery’s eyebrows ascended at record speed. There was a witch on the church’s doorstep, clad in an emerald-green Kinsale cloak.
“Sorry, we don’t have midnight mass,” he joked, trying to lessen the tension.
Gavenia chuckled nervously. “And I’m sorry for coming so late, but . . .” She glanced behind her as if uneasy. “I don’t want O’Fallon to know I’m here.”
He’s turned in for the night.” Collapsed was closer to the truth.
“Good. He needs to rest after . . .” She seemed to be struggling for words. The blue eyes reached his. “I have a rather unusual request to make.”
“Well, it’s been a rather unusual night.” He welcomed her inside and then locked the door behind them. “We can talk in the library.”
As they negotiated their way through the church’s hallways, Avery took a quick glance at his watch, pressing the button to illuminate the dial. It was nearing midnight—his joke had been closer to the mark than he’d realized. Sleep was going to be at a premium the way folks were lining up at his door.
As they sat in the library’s two armchairs, flanked by walls of books, Avery scrutinized his visitor closely. His first impression of her at the Alliford’s had been correct—she had intelligent eyes and a bearing that spoke of an old soul. No wonder Doug is intrigued by her.
Gavenia gingerly rearranged her position in the armchair, apparently trying to get comfortable.
“Sorry, the chairs here aren’t very well padded, even for a library,” Avery apologized.
“No, it’s okay. My hip gives me problems every now and then.”
“Old football injury?” he joked, testing the waters.
She smiled instantly. “No, a wayward broom.”
He returned the grin, pleased she was beginning to loosen up. “I was hoping you could explain what happened to Doug tonight.”
The witch nodded. “He touched Bradley’s penknife and collapsed. I thought he was having a heart attack. He never told me he was psychic.”
“He’s very uncomfortable with that.”
She chuffed. “No kidding.” Gavenia hesitated, and then continued, “I’m trying to figure out how to explain this you.” She gave a wan smile. “It’s . . . rather strange.”
“I’ll try to follow along,” Avery offered.
“By experiencing such an intense a vision, O’Fallon opened himself up psychically. Suddenly he sensed all sorts of stuff that scared the hell out him. Worse yet, all sorts of things noticed him.”
Avery leaned forward. “What sorts of things? Do you mean devils?”
She shook her head again. “Nothing to do with Satan or demons or anything like that. These are earthbound forms. Some are souls that haven’t crossed over and others are, well . . . just entities. They haven’t been enveloped by the Light. They don’t belong here and so they seek energy to feed on.”
“So Doug has the kind of energy they want?”
“Yes. His gift attracts them. Tonight he glowed like a lighthouse after the penknife incident. That’s the only reason I didn’t call the paramedics.”
“Do you appear the same to these . . . entities?”
“Not as much anymore. I’ve learned how to shield my gift from them, but they’re still out there and I consider them a threat.”
Avery sighed and studied his hands. “None of my professors at the seminary ever got into this sort of thing.”
“I suppose not.”
“Did one these things come after Bradley in his room?”
She stilled. “Yes. Gregory told you about that?”
Avery nodded. “I thought maybe he’d had too much to drink, but now . . . How would you know if you were being targeted by these things?”
“You’d feel paranoid; you’d see visions and hear voices.”
Avery shifted awkwardly. “What happens if you try to ignore them?”
“They keep working on you like termites on a log, sucking energy, draining you, taking over your thoughts.”
“Could it lead you to consider suicide?”
“Perhaps.”
“Good God,” he said. “Did you tell Doug all this?”
Gavenia shook her head. “He wasn’t listening. He was too afraid of what’d he’d seen. I know how that is.” She lowered her eyes and with a slight movement she placed her left hand over its quivering mate.
“You said you had an unusual request for me?” Avery asked.
Gavenia reached into a pocket, pulled out a satin pouch, and handed it to him.
“Doug needs some sort of talisman, something tied to his faith that will shield him. His rosary will help, but he needs a bit more than that.”
Pulling open the drawstrings, Avery slid the pouch’s contents onto his palm and blinked in surprise. It wasn’t what he had expected. “It’s a Saint Bridget’s Cross,” he said, looking at the witch in astonishment.
Gavenia gave him a nod. “Our two faiths have her in common, even though we spell her name differently. Since O’Fallon’s Irish, I asked Brigit to empower the cross, to protect him as a Celtic goddess would one of her own.”
“What do you want me to do with it?” Avery asked, intrigued.
“As O’Fallon’s Catholic, I’d like you to ask your Saint Bridget to do the same. By combining our strengths, maybe we can keep him safe.”
Avery puzzled over the unusual proposal; it definitely wasn’t in line with church doctrine.
They gauged each other for a moment.
“Doug and I have argued about his psychometric ability for the last five years. He’s fought me all the way,” he said, buying time.
“Apparently they did cover some of this in seminary.”
Avery gave a shrug. “I’m an avid reader.”
The witch exhaled deeply. “I made a vow to Brigit that I will not compromise Doug’s faith in any way.” She gestured toward a statue of the saint that sat in the corner of the library in a lighted niche. “She is his strength. I have no right to interfere.” Gavenia abruptly rose, as if she’d run out of arguments. “I leave the decision in your hands, Father,” she said, indicating the cross.
“I’ll pray on it,” Avery said, slipping the item into the pouch and tucking it into his shirt pocket.
After locking the rectory door behind her, he felt in his pocket for the cross. How would he reconcile the witch’s request with his faith? With a low sigh, Avery headed toward the private chapel. He had a number of hours of prayer ahead of him, and only God and Saint Bridget could show him the way.
* * *
The smell of fresh coffee beckoned to Gavenia only a moment before Ari drew open the curtains and flooded the bedroom in brilliant, burning light.
“Goddess, what are you doing?” Gavenia mumbled, pulling a pillow over her head.
“Time to get up.”
She raised the pillow sufficiently to see that it was just past seven. Ari always started the day at the crack of dawn. “Go away,” Gavenia ordered.
A heavy plop made the bed shake.
“Page ten, left-hand column. The picture sucks.”
Gavenia slowly maneuvered herself upright and tugged the morning paper closer. She flipped to the designated page, sought out the article, and swore at the headline: QUEEN OF THE PSYCHIC CHARLATANS.
She skimmed the article, praying it wasn’t as bad as she feared. It proved worse. Bill Jones had faithfully transcribed every word and added a few dramatic embellishments. His summary of her performance, as he called it, was scathing.
In a spectacle unworthy of a B-movie actress, Ms. Kingsgrave hysterically spouted a blood-soaked tale about my mother’s brutal murder. While I admit this is Hollywood and some poetic license is allowed, my mother is alive and approaching her sixty-fifth birthday. I didn’t hang around long enough for the hook, but I knew it was coming. Charlatans like this want money. Despite her protestations, I knew the scam was in play the moment she channeled my dead mom.
“You lying bastard,” Gaven
ia growled, slinging the paper across the room, where it descended in a flurry at her sister’s feet. Ari adopted their aunt’s favorite stance, leaning on the doorjamb, her arms crossed over her chest.
“So, what do you intend to do?” she demanded.
“What can I do? By tonight Letterman will be doing a Top Ten list with my name on it.”
“Fight back.”
“With what?” Gavenia snarled, rising out of bed. Her left thigh immediately cramped, and she rubbed it furiously.
“With whatever it takes,” Ari replied, straightening up and dropping her hands to her sides. “Talk to Llewellyn. He’ll help you.”
“Suing the paper isn’t going to make this go away. I just have to ignore it, and in a few weeks—”
“Stop it! Just stop it!” Ari gave the papers at her feet a furious kick, and they hurtled into the air, then settled to the floor like massive leaves. “Don’t you see what you’re doing?” she challenged.
“I’m admitting there’s nothing I can do.”
“No, you’re playing the victim, again. You used to be the strong one, the one who stood up to bullies, the one who always kept me safe. Now you’re—” Ari waved a hand and gave the papers at her feet another vicious boot. “Now you duck and run.” She grabbed Gavenia’s cane from the door handle and held it up. “This is a prime example. There is no reason you need this. I know your leg hurts, but you’ve refused physical therapy and you hobble around like an old woman. Hell, even Lucy walks better than you do, and she’s had her hip replaced.”
Gavenia’s mouth dropped open. “What is this, Pooh?”
“Don’t play innocent. You’re doing all this on purpose. Look at your hand!”
Gavenia refused to look down. She knew the hand was quaking.
“You wear it like a badge of honor. Don’t you know how that makes me feel?” Ari didn’t wait for an answer, but plunged ahead. “Guilty, that’s how I feel. Is that what you want? Well, you’ve got it.”
“Why would I want you to feel guilty?” Gavenia snapped, grabbing on to the bedpost for support.
“Because you kept me from being taken by those perverts. I never would have survived in that steel cage. I never would have had the guts to escape. They would have . . .” She faltered and stepped backward, unsteadily. “You fought those guys off and gave me time to escape. If not, I’d be dead.”
“Ari, I never—”
“No, you’ve never said it, but I feel it every day of my life. My sister could have died because of me. If you hadn’t told me to run . . .” She looked away, wiping tears from her eyes.
“They needed two girls for their plans,” Gavenia said solemnly.
“What?”
“Two. That’s why they didn’t kill me right off. They were trying to find another girl.”
“You never told me that!” Ari said, stunned.
“There was a lot I didn’t tell you.”
Her sister’s face twisted from confusion back to anger. “Well, we’re a pair, aren’t we? We switched places all those years ago. Now you’re too scared to do anything, too frightened to defend yourself even when you’re in the right.”
“And you’re too blind to see you married a man who ran you like a top, who remade you in his own image,” she shouted, gall in her voice.
Ari’s eyes flared. “Damn you!” She swung out the room, her feet pounding down the stairs followed by the crashing slam of the front door. Paul hadn’t been at her side during the entire confrontation; Ari’s seething anger had driven him away.
Gavenia sat on the bed with a trembling breath. She clenched her fists but it didn’t keep the memories at bay.
They’d been in the park next to their aunt’s house, always a safe place. Gavenia was five years older than Ari and had been assigned the task of keeping her ten-year-old sister safe. As Ari ran to catch an errant Frisbee, a van had pulled up along the curb and a man had stepped out. Something about him had frightened Gavenia, and the moment he moved toward her sister, she’d shouted for Ari to run. In the end, it had been Gavenia who’d been kidnapped.
She’d spent three days in a cage in the woods. Once she’d escaped, but had been caught almost immediately and returned to her prison. Her captors, one old and one young, hadn’t raped her, but she knew they would once they found another girl that fit their specifications, however sick those might be. She also knew this wasn’t the first time they’d committed this hideous crime.
Seventy-two hours later she’d been found in that cage courtesy of Llewellyn, who had never given up hope. She could still remember him crying as he helped her to freedom. Despite that joy, her tormentors had escaped and continued to kidnap and kill. They’d never been caught.
Her sister was right—from the moment Gavenia was freed, she’d collapsed into herself. If she took no risks, nothing bad would happen every again. She’d carefully constructed her life, choice by choice, all with one thing in mind: staying safe. The accident in Wales had proven her theory didn’t hold water. Life was dangerous no matter how hard you tried to hide from it.
Welcome to the real world, Bart whispered from his place near the window.
“Did you hear all that?”
He nodded. So did most of LA.
“Is she right? Am I an emotional cripple because of . . . ?” Gavenia couldn’t say the words.
Do you think you’re an emotional cripple?
“Don’t answer a question with another question,” she said. “I know that tactic. It’s called reflection. Lucy uses it on her patients.”
Really?
She opened her mouth to protest and then let it go. Her hand continued to flutter in her lap. The trembling had begun the day after she’d been pulled from the cage. The older man had made her hold hands with him while he talked to her. He’d made her do other things as well, always with that hand and it was now a permanent reminder of that horror. She’d prayed it would rot off, and her prayers had been ignored. Lucy said she needed to exorcise her demons, and then it would stop shaking.
But you haven’t. Isn’t twenty-two years long enough? Bart asked, watching her closely.
“Eternity isn’t long enough.”
Then you’ll be forced to deal with this in the next life. Gavenia’s eyes widened in astonishment. That shouldn’t surprise you. It’s the way it works.
“Goddess,” she said, and rubbed her face wearily. One thing at a time. “So what do you think I should do about . . . that,” she asked, pointing to the pile of newsprint on the floor.
A coward dies a thousand deaths. . . .
“Meaning?”
What have you got to lose?
“It could get worse.”
You didn’t think that the night you broke out of that cage and escaped into the woods. You fought back.
“That was different.”
Was it? Bart challenged, moving a few steps closer to her. Life is a series of tests, Gavenia. Some are bigger than others, but all are important.
“What about you? Do you get tested?” she growled.
Her Guardian nodded. Sometimes I pass them. He faded from view, leaving behind the sunlight streaming through the window in long, airy shafts.
Gavenia limped into the bathroom and tried to turn the faucet in the shower. Her jittery hand made the task difficult. Angered, she slammed it against the tile with a loud thump; pain catapulted into her shoulder. The hand convulsed into a fist, the nails digging into her palm like barbed wire.
“I hate you!” she shouted, sinking to her knees on the chilly tile floor. “I hate you!”
The words echoed in the small room. As she leaned against the shower door, she thought she could hear her captor’s brutal laughter. He didn’t care if she hated him or the mark he’d left on her body. He’d had all the power.
“Just like Jones,” she whispered.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I want you to be careful,” Avery said as they shared breakfast in the rectory’s kitchen after mass.
“I’m fine now,” O’Fallon said for the third time, amused.
“Bullshit,” Avery replied, followed by a belated glance toward the door, most likely to ascertain whether the rectory’s housekeeper was within earshot.
O’Fallon nearly choked on his orange juice. “Don’t do that,” he said, coughing again. “Priests don’t use that word.”
“This one does when he knows he’s being lied to. You’re not fine. You’re in trouble, and we both know it.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Avery glowered; it wasn’t an attractive look when mixed with the clerical collar. “You’re denying everything that happened last night?”
O’Fallon shook his head. “No. I’m . . . embracing it.”
The priest’s face screwed up in confusion. “What? I don’t understand.”
“You’ve been too busy warning me to realize the situation has changed. I spent some more time talking to Ben’s ghost last night. I know why you put me on that case.”
Avery slowly lowered his fork, never once removing his eyes from his guest.
O’Fallon continued, “You hoped that if I found out why he killed himself, maybe I’d get the hint that I could end up the same way.”
“Are you upset I used you like that?”
“Somewhat, but I’ll get over it,” O’Fallon replied, watching his friend closely.
The priest speared a sausage. “It was the only way I could tell you.”
“It worked.”
Avery frowned. “I figured you’d be really pissed at me.”
O’Fallon shrugged. “After last night . . .” A deep inhalation. “I can’t be angry with you, my friend.”
The priest chewed on the sausage and followed it with a sip of coffee. “You need to be careful.” He extracted a pouch from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table. “This will help.”
O’Fallon cleaned his fingers on a napkin and took possession of the pouch. A silver Saint Bridget’s cross dropped into his palm, and he looked up in surprise.