Kelley Armstrong - Women of the Otherworld 5

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HAUNTED

Women of the Otherworld 05

By

Kelley Armstrong

Contents

France/1666

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Massachusetts/1892

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

San Francisco/1927

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Cleveland/1938

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Edinburgh/1962

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Epilogue

Also by Kelley Armstrong

BITTEN

STOLEN

DIME STORE MAGIC

INDUSTRIAL MAGIC

HAUNTED

A Bantam Book/June 2005

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

Cover design by Jamie S. Warren Youll

Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed "s" are trademarks of

Random House, Inc.

ISBN 0-553-58708-0

Printed in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada

www.bantamdell.com

To my daughter, Julia.

Like Eve, I know I'll have to start letting go soon

but I'm not quite ready yet.

Acknowledgments

As always, I'm deeply indebted to everyone who helped get my book from that first spark of an idea to a

complete novel. Heaps of thanks to my agent, Helen Heller, and my editors: Anne Groell at Bantam US,

Anne Collins at Random House Canada, and Antonia Hodgson at Time Warner UK.

A special thanks this time around to my Web site moderators, who've really helped ease the workload

on my burgeoning discussion board. To Ian, John, Julia, Katrina, Laura, Raina, Sonny, Taylor, and Tina.

Thanks so much—without you guys, I'd never have time to actually write.

France/1666

MARIE-MADELINE LIT THE FLAME UNDER THE BOWL. A draft through the empty fireplace

blew it out. She adjusted the metal screen in front of the hearth, then moved the bowl and tried again. As

the flame took hold, smoke swirled through the room, filling it with the acrid stink of burning hair and the

sweet smell of rosemary.

"Entstehen, mein Nix," she said, tongue tripping over the foreign words. She recited the rest of the

incantation. The air rippled.

"You have failed… again," a woman's voice whispered.

Marie-Madeline's fingers trembled around the bowl. A few red-hot cinders tumbled out, and scorched

her hand. "It isn't my fault. You aren't giving me enough. This—it isn't easy. I need more."

"More?" the voice hissed, circling her head. "This is not one of your potions, witch. You cannot drink

until you've had your fill. What I give you is the power of will, a finite quantity of that which you so sorely

lack. Whether you choose to use it is your own decision."

"But I want to use it. Gaudin must have his revenge, and I must have my freedom."

The Nix's voice sounded at her ear, words blasting on a stream of hot air. "You are a fool, Marquise. A

mewling little worm of a woman who stumbled upon that spell to summon me, then lied to me and wasted

my time. You do not want resolve. You want deliverance. You want me to do this thing for you, to

absolve you of the responsibility and guilt of patricide."

"N-no. I'd never ask—"

"I will grant it."

Marie-Madeline went still. "You will… grant it?"

"You are not the only one to dabble in arcane magics, witch. I have a spell that I have been waiting to

use, waiting for the right vessel—a worthy vessel. With it, you can allow me to possess your body, carry

out this deed, and have my reward. Then you may claim the credit to your lover."

"What is the spell? Tell me now. Please. Gaudin grows impatient."

The Nix's chuckle wafted through the air. "As do I. Listen carefully, my Marquise, and we will be done

with this thing before daybreak."

The Nix opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor. Candles blazed all around her, their light so harsh it

made her blink. The smoke filled her nostrils. She coughed instinctively, then jumped, startled by the

sensation.

She lifted her hands. Human hands, soft and bejeweled. The Marquise's hands. She flexed, then clenched

them. The long nails drove into her palms and she gasped. So that was pain. How… intriguing. She dug

her nails in deeper, letting the pain course down her arms. Blood dripped onto her gown. She reached

down and touched it, lifted her finger to her nose, inhaled the scent, then stuck out her tongue and tasted

it.

The Nix pushed to her feet, wobbled, caught her balance. She'd taken on human form before, but never

like this, inhabiting a living being. It was very different. Awkward… and yet interesting.

She lifted her head and sniffed the air. Dawn was coming. Time to get to work.

She carried the soup to the Marquise's father, bearing it before her like an offering, luxuriating in the heat

that radiated through the bowl. It was so cold here, the stone walls leaching drafts at every turn. She'd

commanded the staff to light more fires, but they'd only mumbled something vaguely obeisant, then

shuffled off and done nothing. Such insolence. If she were their master—but this was only a temporary

inhabitation, to test the spell.

As she stepped into the room, she looked at the old man, seated with his back to her. Then she glanced

down at the bowl of poisoned soup. The dose had better be right this time. Marie-Madeline had tested it

on her maid, Françoise, but the girl hadn't died, so her lover, Gaudin Sainte-Croix, had adjusted the

dosage. But rather than try again on a fresh subject, they'd declared the mixture sufficient.

Lazy, imperfect humans, and their lazy, imperfect half-measures. Like the servants who didn't wish to

venture outside the castle walls and chop more wood for the fire. What lessons she could teach them!

Perhaps she would. As she crossed the floor, looking down at the bowl of soup, she realized, with a jolt

of surprise, that the next move was hers. She could give the poison to Marie-Madeline's father or she

could feed it to the lazy servants who had ignored her command. For once, she was the actor, not the

spectator.

For three hundred years she'd had to sit by and hope humans used the resolve she gave them. Her

reward was pain and suffering and chaos. But if they failed, she was left hungry—as helpless as a starving

street urchin, begging for a crust of bread. That was what the humans had called the offspring of the

Nixen—urchins—as if they knew and laughed at the power they wielded over these demi-demons. And

yet, here she was, bearing in her hands the power of death, to deliver as she saw fit. She smiled. Perhaps

she would stay a little longer than Marie-Madeline intended.

Hearing her footsteps, Marie-Madeline's father turned. "You didn't need to bring that yourself."

She curtseyed. "It is a daughter's duty, and privilege, to serve her father."

He beamed. "And it is a father's joy to have such a dutiful daughter. You see now that I was right about

Gaudin Sainte-Croix. You belong with your husband, and with your father."

She bowed her head. "It was a passing fancy, one that shames me all the more for the shame it brought

on my family."

"We will speak no more of it," he said, patting her arm. "Let us enjoy our holiday together."

"First, you should enjoy your soup, Father. Before it grows cold."

For the next four days, d'Aubrey suffered the agonies of a slow death. She stayed at his side, genuinely

doing all she could for him, knowing it wouldn't save him, using the excuse to linger and drink in his

suffering. At last, he lay in her arms, a hairsbreadth from death, and he used his last words to thank her

for everything she'd done.

"It was my pleasure," she said, smiling as she closed his eyes.

It took six years for the Nix to grow bored of Marie-Madeline, and exhaust the possibilities of her silly

little life. Time to move on, to find fresh opportunities… but not before she had wrung the last bit of

merriment from this one.

First, she'd killed Sainte-Croix. Nothing personal in that. He'd been a fine lover and a useful partner, but

she had no more need of him, except to let him play his part in the last act of the drama. He'd died in his

laboratory, an apparent victim of his own poison, his glass mask having slipped off at an inopportune

moment.

After anonymously alerting the police about Sainte-Croix's death, she'd rushed to the commissary and

demanded the return of a box from the sealed laboratory. The box was hers, and must be returned

unopened. Naturally, that only guaranteed that the police would open it. Inside, they found the bond

she'd given Sainte-Croix for the poison used to kill the Marquise's father, plus Sainte-Croix's legacy to

her—an assortment of poisons the likes of which the French authorities had never seen. She'd fled Paris,

and taken refuge in a convent. The trial came and Marie-Madeline, having not appeared to defend

herself, was sentenced to death.

And so it was done.

The Nix returned to Paris, where she knew Marie-Madeline would be swiftly apprehended. Taking a

quiet room in an inn, she lay down on the bed, closed her eyes, and recited the incantation for ending the

possession. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and lifted her hand. Still human.

With a grunt, she closed her eyes and repeated the spell. Nothing happened. She snarled, gathered her

spirit form into a ball, and flung herself upward, saying the words again, voice rising, filling with fury as her

soul stayed lashed to this human form. For two hours, she battered herself against the flesh walls of her

prison.

Then she began to scream.

Nicolette peered out across the crowd amassed in the courtyard, praying she'd see no one she

recognized. If her mother found out she was here—she shuddered, feeling the sting of her mother's

tongue. Death is not a spectacle, she'd say. Nicolette should know that better than anyone. Yet she

wasn't here to see the Marquise de Brinvilliers die… not really. It was the spectacle surrounding the

spectacle that drew her, the chance to be part of something that would be the talk of Paris for years.

A young man pushed through the crowd, hawking pamphlets describing the torture of the Marquise.

When he saw Nicolette, he grinned as his eyes traveled over her.

"A pamphlet, my lady," he said, thrusting one at her. "With my compliments."

Nicolette glanced down at the paper he held out. Across the front was a crudely drawn sketch of a

naked woman, her body arching as if to a lover, limbs bound to the table, a funnel stuffed into her mouth,

face contorted with agony. Nicolette shuddered and looked away. To her left, an old woman cackled.

The pamphleteer pressed closer to her, mouth opening, but a man cut him short, and sent him off with a

few gruff words.

"You should not be out here, my lady," the man rumbled near her ear when the pamphleteer was gone.

"This is no place for you."

No, her place was up in the balconies, where she could watch with an unobstructed view, dining on

cakes and wine. Nicolette had tried to disguise herself, to blend in with the common folk, but they always

knew.

She was about to move on, when the prison doors opened. A small entourage emerged. At its center

was a tiny woman, no more than five feet tall, her dirty face still showing signs of the beauty she must

have possessed. Dressed in a plain shift and barefooted, she stumbled forward, tripping and straining at

the ropes that bound her, one around her hands, one around her waist, and a third around her neck.

As the guard yanked the Marquise back, her head rose and, for the first time, she saw the crowd. Her

lips curled, face contorting in a snarl so awful that the old woman beside Nicolette fell back, hands

clawing for her rosary. As the Marquise snarled, her face seemed to ripple, as if her very spirit was trying

to break free. Nicolette had seen ghosts before, had been seeing them since she was a child—as did her

mother and great-uncle. Yet, when the Marquise's spirit showed itself, everyone around her fell back

with a collective gasp.

Nicolette snuck a glance around. They'd seen it, too?

The guard prodded the Marquise into a tumbril. No horse-drawn gilt carriage for this voyage. Her

conveyance was a dirty cart, barely big enough to hold her, filthy straw lining the bottom. She had to

crouch in the cart like an animal, snarling and cursing as the cart disappeared.

Around Nicolette, the crowd began to move, heading for the Notre Dame Cathedral. She hesitated,

quite certain she didn't want to see the final part of the Marquise's journey, but the mob buoyed her along

and, after a few weak struggles, she surrendered.

They'd erected the platform before Notre Dame. Nicolette watched as they dragged the Marquise up the

steps, forced her down, and began cutting her long hair.

Nicolette had a better vantage point than she liked, but the crowd behind her was so thick she had no

chance of escaping. As she tried to divert her attention from the platform, a man stepped from the crowd.

A foreigner, with olive skin and dark wavy hair. That alone might have been enough to grab her attention,

but what held it was his beauty. Nicolette, who considered herself above such things, found herself

staring like a convent schoolgirl.

He looked like a soldier—not his clothing, which was everyday, but his bearing. A man who commanded

attention… yet not one eye turned his way. To Nicolette, that could only mean one thing. He was a

ghost.

The ghost climbed the platform. At the top, he stopped and stood at attention as the guard continued to

hack at the Marquise's hair. Clearly the ghost wanted a front-row seat. Had he been one of the

Marquise's victims?

Finally, as the executioner withdrew his saber from the folds of his robe, the ghost held out his hands,

palms up. An odd gesture, as if checking for rain. His lips moved. Something shimmered in his hands,

then took form. A sword. A huge, glowing sword. As he slid his hand down to the hilt, Nicolette realized

what he was, and dropped to her knees, crossing herself.

As dense as the crowd was, the angel noticed her gesture, his eyes meeting hers. In that moment, every

misdeed she'd ever committed flashed through her head, and her gut went cold, certain she was being

judged… and found wanting. But the angel's lips curved in the barest smile, and he tipped his head, as

casual as a passing neighbor. Then his gaze returned to the Marquise, and his expression hardened.

The executioner's saber sliced down. A sigh rose from the crowd as the Marquise's head thumped onto

the platform. Nicolette didn't see it fall. Instead, she stared, transfixed, as a yellow fog rose from the

Marquise's body. The fog twisted and grew dense, taking on the form of a young woman.

The angel lifted his sword, and his voice rang out, as clear and melodious as the bells of Notre Dame.

"Marie-Madeline d'Aubrey de Brinvilliers, for your crimes, you have been judged."

As he swung that huge sword, the spirit flowing from the Marquise's body threw back its head and

laughed.

"I am not the Marquise, fool," it spat.

The angel's brows knitted in a look of confusion as human as the nod he'd given Nicolette. But the sword

was already in flight, cleaving toward the ghost.

The spirit's lips twisted. "You have no jurisdiction over—"

As the sword struck the spirit, it let out a scream that made Nicolette double over, hands to her ears. All

around her, people jostled and pushed, trying to get a closer look at the Marquises body as they set it

afire, oblivious to the screams.

Nicolette raised her head. There, on the platform, stood the angel, with the spirit skewered on his sword.

The thing twisted and shrieked and cursed, but the angel only smiled. Then they were gone.

Chapter 1

"COME ON," SAVANNAH WHISPERED, TUGGING THE young man's hand.

She climbed a wooden fence into the backyard of a narrow two-story house.

"Watch out for the roses," she said as his feet threatened to land in the border. "We gotta come this way

or the old bugger next door will bitch about me having friends over when no one's home."

"Yeah," the boy said. "I get shit from my folks about that, too."

"Oh, Paige and Lucas don't care, as long as I clean up and don't have any monster parties. Well, they

might care if they found out I was bringing a guy over. But if that old man sees me having friends over?

He starts telling people that Paige and Lucas are crappy guardians, shit like that. Makes me want to—"

She swallowed her next words and shrugged. "Tell him off or something."

I was less than a half-dozen paces behind, but they never turned around, never even peered over their

shoulders. Sometimes that really pisses me off. Sure, all teenagers ignore their mothers. And, sure,

Savannah had a good excuse, since I'd been dead for three years. Still, you'd think we'd have a deeper

connection, that she'd somehow hear me, if only as a voice in her head that said "Don't listen to that girl"

or "That boy's not worth the trouble." Never happened, though. In life, I'd been one of the most powerful

women in the supernatural world, an Aspicio half-demon and witch master of the black arts. Now I was

a third-rate ghost who couldn't even contact her own daughter. My afterlife sucked.

Savannah took the boy through the lean-to, dragged him away from Lucas's latest motorcycle restoration

project and into the house. The back door swung shut in my face. I walked through it.

They shed their shoes, then climbed the small set of stairs from the landing to the kitchen. Savannah

headed straight for the fridge and started grabbing sandwich fixings. I walked past them, through the

dining room, into the living room, and settled into my favorite spot, a butter yellow leather armchair.

I'd done the right thing, sending Savannah to Paige. Quite possibly the smartest thing I'd ever done. Of

'course, if I'd been really smart, Savannah wouldn't have needed anyone to take her in. I wouldn't have

been in such a hellfire rush to escape that compound, wouldn't have gotten myself killed, wouldn't have

endangered my little girl—

Yes, I'd screwed up, but I was going to fix that now. I'd promised to look after my daughter, and I

would… just as soon as I figured out how.

Savannah and her friend took their sandwiches into the dining room. I leaned forward to peer around the

corner, just a quick check in case… In case what, Eve? In case she chokes on a pickle? I silenced the

too-familiar inner voice and started to settle back into my chair when I noticed a third person in the dining

room. In a chair pulled up to the front window sat a gray-haired woman, her head bent, shoulders racked

with silent sobs.

Savannah brushed past the woman, and took a seat on the opposite side of the table. "Did you hear Ms.

Lenke might not be back before the city finals? She'd better be. Callahan doesn't know the difference

between a dead ball and a free ball."

The boy snorted. "I'd be surprised if that moron could tell a basketball from a football. At last week's

practice…"

I tuned them out and focused on the woman. As I drew near, I could hear her muted sobs. I sighed and

leaned against the dining room doorway.

"Look," I said. "Whatever happened to you, I'm sure it was bad, but you have to move on. Go into the

light or click your heels three times or whatever. Get thee to the other side, ghost."

The woman didn't even look up. Only thing worse than a stubborn spirit is a rude one. I'd seen her here

at least a dozen times since the kids had moved in, and not once had she so much as acknowledged my

presence. Never spoke. Never left that chair. Never stopped crying. And I thought I had a lousy afterlife.

I softened my tone. "You have to get over it. You're wasting your time—"

She faded, and was gone. Really. Some people.

"Where's that new stereo you got?" the boy asked through a mouthful of multigrain bread.

"In my room." Savannah hesitated. "You wanna go up and see it?"

The boy jumped to his feet so fast his chair tumbled over backward. Savannah laughed and helped him

right it. Then she grabbed his hand and led him to the stairs.

I stayed at the bottom.

A moment later, music rocked the rafters. Nothing I recognized. Dead three years, and I was already a

pop-culture has-been. No, wait. I did recognize the song. "(Don't Fear) the Reaper"… but with a techno

beat. Who the hell was this? Not Blue Oyster Cult, that's for sure. What kind of crap—? Oh God, I was

turning into my mother. I'd avoided it all my life and now—

A man walked through the wall. Two inches taller than me. A decade older. Broad shoulders. Thickening

middle. Thinning blond hair. Gorgeous bright blue eyes, which followed my gaze to the stairs.

"And what does our daughter desperately need your help with today?" he asked.

Kristof Nast's contribution to "our daughter" had been purely biological, having not entered her life until

just days before the end of his. My choice, not his. After I'd become pregnant, I'd skedaddled. Took him

thirteen years and a mortal blow to the head, but he'd finally caught up with me.

He cocked his head, listened to the music, and pulled a face. "Well, at least she's out of the boy-band

stage. And it could be worse. Bryce went through heavy metal, then rap, then hip-hop, and at each phase

I swore the next one couldn't be any worse, but he always found something—" Kristof stopped and

waved a hand in front of my eyes.

"Come on, Eve," he said. "Savannah's taste may be questionable, but she doesn't require musical

supervision."

"Shhh. Can you hear anything?"

He arched his brows. "Besides a badly tuned bass guitar and vocals worthy of a castrated stray cat?"

"She has a boy up there."

Another frown, deeper this time. "What kind of boy?"

"Human."

"I meant what 'sort' of boy. This isn't the same one—" He closed his mouth with an audible click of his

teeth, then launched into a voice I knew only too well, one I heard in my head when he wasn't around.

"All right. Savannah has a boy in her room. She's fifteen. We both know they aren't up there on a study

date. As for exactly what they're doing… is that really any of your business?"

"I'm not worried about sex, Kris. She's a smart girl. If she's ready—and I don't think she is—she'll take

precautions. But what if he's ready? I barely know this guy. He could—"

"Force her to do something she doesn't want?" His laugh boomed through the foyer. "When's the last

time anyone forced you to do something against your will? She's your daughter, Eve. First guy who puts

a hand where she doesn't want it will be lucky if he doesn't lose it."

"I know, but—"

"What if they do turn that music down? Do you really want to hear what's going on?"

"Of course not. That's why I'm staying down here. I'm just making sure—"

"You can't make sure of anything. You're dead. That boy could pull a gun on her and there's not a damn

thing you could do about it."

"I'm working on that!"

He sighed. "You've been working on it for three years. And you're no better off than when you started."

He hesitated, then plowed forward. "You need to step back from it for a while. Take a break."

"And do what?"

"Well, funny you should ask. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I happen to have a temp job

Kelley Armstrong - Women of the Otherworld 5 - Haunted

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