Yet, as McKenna had once explained to him, the separation of dead passenger from living Vessel often led to a possession’s most deadly moment, when the departing dead, accidentally or otherwise, ran the highest risk of hooking into the Vessel’s mind and unthreading memories like satin ribbon from a wood spool.
Mc Kenna didn’t know how it happened or why, and Layne couldn’t supply an answer for her either, since he never remembered any of the ghost disembarkations after they’d occurred.
But Layne knew, thanks to Gage, that he hadn’t always returned unscathed or with all memories intact.
“No one wants to tell you, because they love you, bro, and don’t want to see you hurt, but it’s happened again.”
“Shit. What did I lose this time?”
“See that woman over there? The yummy little brunette?”
“Yeah, man. You kidding? That’s Mc Kenna, our gorgeous shuvani .”
“Yeeaahh. And she’s your wife too, bro.”
“Fuck me. My wife?”
Once Layne had recovered from the shock that he no longer remembered the time he and McKenna had spent together as a couple, he’d begun the process of getting to know her as a woman and partner all over again. His body had remembered hers well, with a heated and natural ease, and that had comforted them both for a time.
And despite the hurt and grief she had tried to hide from him, Mc Kenna had patiently taught him about their relationship, showing him photos and poems and trinkets from their time together, not understanding that she couldn’t awaken memories that had been stolen and were no longer there.
It had been a loss he and McKenna had never really recovered from, and the last thing he’d wanted was to put her through another nightmare like that, so he’d divorced her—even though he’d learned to love her again.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Sounded like Augustine had no intention of giving up or going away. If Layne had any hope of keeping his concentration intact enough to keep himself whole, he needed to persuade the Brit to keep as far away from him as possible.
And to keep the idiot from ringing that freaking bell.
Damping down the static buzz, Layne sent,
Okay, maybe not smooth and persuasive, but at least it was to the goddamned point.
Uneasiness curled though Layne.
Fury whipped through Layne like a downed and writhing power line. Sounded like the asshole was planning on sticking around.
A low and amused chuckle.
A cough.
Christ on a taco shell. Had Augustine just said ?
Surprise pulsed through Layne. A woman had murdered Gage, body and soul. For some reason, he’d imagined a man had been responsible.
Augustine challenged.
Images filled Layne’s mind, all his reasons why.
“That’s it, Layne, keep fighting, damn you,” Kallie says. “Don’t you give up.”
“I am fighting, woman. Quit pummeling me.”
The dark-haired swamp beauty in her red undies—filled out well enough to stop his heart again—quits pounding against Layne’s chest
and opens her eyes. Just mere pinpricks, her pupils, as though she’s been staring into the sun, her violet eyes gleaming with light and heat—a heat Layne feels inside of him with each renewed pulse of his heart.
If Augustine was telling the truth and a possibility existed that Kallie remained in danger, Layne couldn’t leave her well-being to chance. He couldn’t let Gage’s death have been for nothing.
Hoping he wouldn’t regret it, Layne hushed the static and thinned his shield. The white walls encircling him faded to translucency. What he saw stunned him into silence.
Augustine—or a self-projected image of him—stood at the bow of an old-fashioned three-masted ship, dressed in what Layne could only think of as pirate high fashion—feather-plumed hat; swashbuckler’s boots stretching above the knees of black breeches; red sash; a white shirt unlaced at the throat, its billowing sleeves fluttering in a breeze that didn’t extend to Layne. The thick smell of the sea filled Layne’s senses.
Augustine winked, a smug smile curving his lips.
SEVENTEEN
SOMETHING MORE THAN A DEATH SENTENCE
Layne followed a gaggle of pudgy sightseers clad in tourist regulation wear—sho
rts, sun visors, baseball caps, shades, and pungent sunscreen—through the black-iron gates of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. He paused on the gravel and seashell path, looking for McKenna in the city of the dead, among all the stone monuments to loss.
“Did she say why she chose to visit the cemetery?” Felicity asked.
“No,” Layne replied. “But I imagine it suited her mood.” Sunlight glinted on the white tombs and crumbling brick, and Layne shaded his eyes with the edge of his hand.
A melancholy air permeated the cemetery, sieving into the crypts, black-iron railings, and the living like a ghost into a Vessel. But since the uncrossed-over usually lingered at places they’d known in life, or in the spots where they’d died, Layne found cemeteries peaceful and relaxing—ghost-free.
The sorrow he felt emanating from the crypts and well-trod paths belonged to all of those left behind over the centuries.
Felicity shifted beside him, and he caught a whiff of her body-warmed perfume—fresh-cut roses, a welcome distraction from the odd sensation in his head of Augustine’s presence.
The ghost in the cargo hold.
As a safeguard against personality and essence meshing, they’d decided that whoever wasn’t in charge—the one not steering the tandem bicycle—would stay out of the way, tucked behind a shield of static, a shield Layne taught the Brit how to create and shape.
The transition had been as easy as the riders of that mythical tandem bicycle switching seats while pedaling, and doing so without touching each other. Once during the shift, Layne’s mind had grazed against Augustine’s like a ship scraping along the rough face of a glacier. Images and sensations not his own had bled into Layne’s consciousness.
He finds himself standing beneath an old-fashioned big-top circus tent, a deck of slick new cards in one hand and a black top hat in the other—hands less scarred than his own—the gaslight-heated air pungent with sweat, fresh sawdust, and animal shit. He feels the burn of booze in his belly and tastes the oak bite of good whiskey on his tongue. The loud and cheerful whistles of a calliope accompany the trumpet of elephants and the raucous roar of an entertainment-hungry crowd.
But what holds his attention is a man in a dust-grimed tuxedo hurling knives at a woman strapped to a huge spinning wheel. . . .
She never, ever flinches, that one. She revels in the danger. God, but she’s beautiful. She’d make one hell of a magician’s assistant, with her nerve and long legs.
Pain skewers Layne’s thoughts—no, Augustine’s thoughts—and the images disintegrate, a painting scrubbed clean from its canvas.
Layne had no idea what Augustine had experienced from his memories, if anything, but planned to ask him later.
They’d agreed to signal each other whenever they needed to switch places. Augustine had chosen his fricking clanging bell as his signal and, just to get back at him, Layne had selected the sound of a revving and unmuffled Harley.
“Did Ms. Blue agree to meet you at a specific spot?” Felicity asked.
Listening to a tour guide’s spiel about Marie Laveau’s tomb—“Visitors often chalk X ’s or crosses on her tomb for luck. . . .”—Layne shook his head. “Nah. I’ll find her. Place ain’t that big.”
Gravel crunched beneath Layne’s boots as he headed up the narrow path, past a wall of small pizza-oven-like tombs, the stones sealing their arched mouths painted a clean, fresh white. He caught peripheral flashes from cameras as the tourists immortalized their visit.
“Hardly the proper place to hold a private discussion,” Felicity commented.
“No choice. Mc Kenna’s here and I need to speak to her. Augustine’s gonna be busy later and not so willing to switch places.”
“Of course,” Felicity murmured.
He spotted McKenna standing in front of a wall tomb painted a vivid cornflower blue. Stones, flowers—yellow marigolds and pink roses—and pictures surrounded it. Despite the May heat and humidity, she wore her leather jacket and jeans.
She studied the pictures taped beside the gaily painted tomb, her hands jammed into her jacket pockets, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. But grief tightened the line of her jaw, her throat.
Layne sauntered to a stop beside her. “Hey, buttercup.”
Mc Kenna swiveled around, lifting her shades to the top of her head as she did. Her joyous gaze darted from his face to Felicity’s, then back, before morphing into one of wariness.
“What’s she doing here?”
“Protecting Augustine’s interests,” Layne replied.
“Interests? You sound like Layne, but I need you to tell me something only Layne would know. Nothing tha’ fooking Augustine or his Bond assistant could look up.”
“But what if Lord Augustine had delved through Mr. Valin’s memories?” Felicity asked. “Then he’d know practically everything about Mr. Valin—including things we couldn’t look up.”
“Yeah, that’s helping the situation,” Layne muttered.
“Trust me, I’ll know the difference,” Mc Kenna said.
Rising up on her tiptoes to meet him halfway, she grabbed a handful of dreads and gently tugged Layne down into a soft-lipped kiss, her warm tongue darting between his lips. She tasted of wintergreen toothpaste, cool and clean.
Layne kissed her back, the old, familiar heat burning through his veins, coiling in his belly. Even as he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, he knew he shouldn’t. Knew he was plucking at the half-healed scars of old wounds on both of them. Knew he needed to let her go before their affection decayed into something bitter and they started hating each other.
But all the knowing in the world couldn’t seem to make him release her—not after spending time locked away from his own body—couldn’t stop him from drinking in her clean scent of soap and wildflower shampoo.
“Why did you divorce me?” she murmured against his lips.
“You know why,” he whispered back.
“No, ye choob—this is yer prove-yerself question.” She pulled back and studied his face.
Layne noticed she kept her grip on his dreads. His scalp prickled. He met her clear gaze and held it. “You could’ve picked a different question.”
“Aye, I coulda. But I didn’t, so answer it.”
A muscle jumped in Layne’s jaw. “Because you deserve to be with a man who will always remember you.”
Mc Kenna’s gaze softened. “It is you, then, luv.” She gave his dreads one hard and painful jerk before releasing them. “And yer still an arsehole.”
“Virgin Mary in a sidewalk stain, woman! Quit yanking at my hair.” Layne pulled his arm back, ending their half-embrace without a problem this time.
“I will—when you quit being an arsehole.”
“Fascinating. Nomad mating ritual.”
“No, it ain’t,” Layne and Mc Kenna denied in unison.
“Ah. I see,” Felicity murmured, her tone saying the opposite. “In that case, might we get to the business at hand?”
“What business is that?” McKenna asked, suspicion edging her voice again.
Layne half turned to face Augustine’s assistant. “Look, you need to back off and let me handle this.”
Felicity tilted her head, her sleek hair swinging against her face like a strawberry-blonde silk curtain, her hazel-eyed gaze probing him. “Will there be violence if I don’t?” Excitement danced in her voice.
“Nope.”
“Will there be violence with Ms. Blue?”
“Make that another nope.” At least, he hoped not.
Felicity sighed. “A pity.” She turned around and walked back up the path.
Layne swiveled to face Mc Kenna. “Let’s walk.”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?” she muttered.
“Cuz you’re not,” Layne replied.
Mc Kenna held his gaze for a moment, her dark eyes scanning him deep. A crease appeared between her eyes. “All right, let’s walk, then.”
As they strolled along the path, easing p
ast chattering tourists, she said, “I’m surprised Augustine split yer body so soon. I honestly thought I’d hafta wrestle him out of there.”
Layne drew in a deep breath. He glanced at McKenna. “Augustine didn’t split. He’s still inside.”
Mc Kenna stopped and stared at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted wings or a unicorn’s horn or maybe a huge honking eye in the center of his forehead. “But that isn’t even bloody possible,” she said, her tone bewildered. She wriggled a finger first in one ear, then the other. “Would ye repeat that?”
“You heard right, Kenn. I’m still carrying Augustine. We’ve worked out a system that allows us to switch—”
“A system? A bloody system?” Fury torched the uncertainty from McKenna’s voice. “He was supposed to get out of yer body and go into the bleeding light or whatever it is ghosts do when they leave a Vessel. Not create a system so he could stay longer!” She knuckled a fist into Layne’s biceps. “And you let him?”
Layne rubbed his arm. Woman had pointy damned knuckles. “Yeah, I did.”
“Why the hell would ye do tha’?”
“Because he’s got a right to see justice done to the woman who murdered him.” Layne grasped Mc Kenna’s shoulders. “Once I realized we could do it without losing ourselves, I felt this was business he needed to see through to the end—if he’s ever to cross over.”
“But that’s not your concern!”
“Ain’t it? What’s the purpose of a Vessel, then? I gotta believe we’re this way for a reason, that we can do some good, something useful, otherwise . . .” He shrugged. “We’re just fucked.”
Sympathy glistened in Mc Kenna’s dark eyes. “But the risk is too high. The loss of self and sanity.” She shook her head. “You’ve held on better and longer than any Vessel I’ve ever heard of, but that could change if you interact with the dead inside of you, if you try to guide them.”
“I can do this, Kenn. I’ve got to do it. Hell, I am doing it.” Layne rubbed his thumbs back and forth across Mc -Kenna’s jacketed shoulders, the leather sun-warmed and smooth as butter. “Augustine gets his justice, then he leaves.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”