"I cried out and the newly murdered cried within me. He twisted the knife, ripping into my heart which beat with them." Agony. No way to scream. He continued.
"I screamed and died for them. Died each death at once, more horrible than they had died, each screaming, all screaming. Their blood, now my own, poured out again. And the power of their souls flashed like white fire, flooded into the cellar, blazed into the symbols, and the cellar erupted in the phosphor white burn of the spell, blinding me as it spent." Silence.
"I felt something break within my chest. Darkness shrouded me, but I heard him, moving, laughing. He knelt beside me and touched my head.
"'You have done very well, he said. Even blinded, I could see the fleeting nimbus of his stolen power pulsing around him.
"I reached for him, and agony tore through my chest. I fell to the floor like an injured babe, unable to move or speak.
" 'I shall always be in your heart. He laughed again and left me." The touch of his telling began receding, draining me as he finished.
"I was awakened by the earthquake and the pealing of La Giralda's bells as the tower shook. The sun had risen, shining through rents in walls and ceiling. I crawled to a niche in the basement to hide from the overwhelming fury our spell, powered by their deaths and my blood, had poured into the earth. It was far more, far worse, than I had meant. It was a grandiose and pointless rage of destruction fit to Edward's own spite. Lisbon collapsed beneath the earthquakes, flood, and fire that swept it. Sixty thousand of your kind and mine ceased. And all for naught. Those of our kind who remained in Lisbon left the city and Edward was king of nothing.
"He ripped the sweetness of their souls from me and used it for himself, bled me, then left me bound to die. The tip of his knife is still lodged in my heart. When I find a way to remove it, he will die those two dozen deaths for me. One by one."
He stopped speaking and I lurched up. I stumbled forward. He didn't touch me, but walked me to the shop door and to the edge of the street. He rolled his shoulders and settled back into his modern guise as he stood beside me.
"Feelin OK?" he inquired.
I choked on an answer, gulping in normality and trying not to throw up.
"You're resting your hand on your belly and I can tell you're not pregnant. Weak stomach?"
I stammered against the bile in my throat. "I'm not a horror-movie fan and I've got too good an imagination."
"You asked. You'll be all right?"
"Just peachy," I gritted.
"Good. You need anything, call me. I want to watch him writhing in agony, the same way he left me."
I stepped away and walked to the corner, crossing the street against the light. I wanted to rush, to run, but didn't dare until I could no longer see Carlos.
I hurried to the Rover and crawled in, locking the door behind me. My belly clenched with cramps and nausea, my limbs shook and my headache shrieked.
Halfway across the bridge to home, the cramps began to ease, but the rest stayed with me.
Once in bed, I slept hard, but not restfully: first too deeply, then tumbled by nightmares. I got up once to vomit, then collapsed into bed again until eleven.
I felt only a little better when I finally got up. I showered for a time under near-scalding water. Chaos looked into the tub, but chose not to join me. When I got out of the shower, she licked my feet ankles dry while dancing around me. The water is always sweeter off of someone else's feet, and I laughed at her antics, even though it made my abs and head hurt.
I finished dressing, feeling bruised, putting on a skirt when the restrictive touch of jeans reminded me of ropes and sweat-tight sheets. Chaos and I contested for my breakfast until I declared victory by putting her back into her cage before I left for my office.
Lenore Fabrette called at 3:12. She was waiting to drive onto a ferry in Bremerton and needed directions. I gave them and said I'd look forward to seeing her soon. She tapped on my door a few minutes before five.
She was a too-thin woman with straw hair, her shoulders hunched against routine cruelty.
I stood up and extended my hand. "Ms. Fabrette? I'm Harper Blaine. Please sit down."
She sagged into the client chair. "Can we just get this over with? I've been arguing with the navy all day and I just want to get home."
"Sure. Can I ask you a question?"
"Oh, sure. I guess."
"Do you remember anything unusual about the organ?"
She pinched her lower lip with nicotine-stained fingers. "Aside from how ugly it was? Not much but that it was god-awful and it used to give my boy nightmares."
"Nightmares? How old is your son?"
"He's twelve now. He was six when we moved in. And I just hope that museum isn't having any trouble with it. 'Cause I don't want it back." Fabrette picked at her lip. "So, do you want to see these papers or what?" she asked, laying her hand on her purse in her lap.
"Sure."
She pulled out an envelope and slapped it onto the desk.
"There. Take a look, then tell me what you think."
I pulled two sheets of photocopy from the envelope. One was an insurance appraisal, which put a value of twenty-five hundred dollars on the organ. The other sheet was the receipt for the donation of an organ with a description that seemed to match the one I had from Sergeyev.
"Damn," I snickered, staring at the letterhead on the donation receipt.
"What's the matter?" Fabrette demanded, reaching for the sheets.
"The organ was donated to the Madison Forrest Historical House Museum, here in Seattle," I said.
She cringed back a little. "So what's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. It's just… The organ was in Seattle for twenty years, moved to Anacortes for ten, and then came right back to within three miles of where we're sitting."
"Does that mean you don't want those papers?"
"Oh, no. I want them and my client wants them and you've been very helpful to bring them to me." I shoved the papers into a drawer and pulled out a check I'd already prepared. I held it out to her. "That's the payment my client authorized. I just need you to sign this receipt for me," I added, pushing over the form and a pen.
She looked at the check, then stared at me. "That's five hundred dollars," she whispered. "Are you sure that's right?"
"Yes, that's right. Just sign the receipt, please."
Mute, she clutched the pen and scrawled quickly on the form.
She raised her eyebrows as she handed the paper back to me. "Are you sure?"
I took it and put it in the drawer with the donation receipt. I smiled at her. "Yes, I am. Thank you for coming down here, Lenore. You've been a lot of help."
She nodded, mute, and got to her feet, edging out the door as if I might turn on her and snatch the check away.
As the door clicked closed, I shook my head, swallowing pity she wouldn't have appreciated.
An hour later, I'd put Fabrette out of my mind as I plowed through routine chores. I was down in the lower drawers looking for more fanfold paper for my printer when I heard the door. "Just a second," I called, grabbing the paper and pulling it up with me. I knocked my skull on the bottom of the desk. I raised my head, shaking back momentary giddiness, and found a man standing just behind the client chair. I blinked at him.
He was still and cold as wax, wearing a very plain dark suit and a white shirt with a strange collar that was buttoned all the way to his throat, but no tie. He was skinny, but had a round face with broad, flat cheekbones and slightly tilted eyes in translucent skin. His hair was dark brown. He blinked back at me. His left hand fluttered up over his coat buttons and rested on his chest.
"I have startled you," he said. His odd accent gave him away.
"Mr. Sergeyev. I didn't know you were in town."
"For little time, only. You make progress? Of my request?"