I’m glad I’ve figured this out in time for my therapy session that afternoon. It’s in the main building, another key-card-controlled door with another baby-blue pile rug. This room is cozier than the dressing room, though, with a cushy couch, pleasantly dim lighting, and incense that smells, ironically enough, like sage. Despite myself, I relax right away, and fall even more at ease when the therapist, Deborah, introduces herself. She’s middle-aged and dresses like an earth mother, in a floor-length black skirt and knitted flowered top. She wears thick, dark-framed glasses, and gray streaks the black curls that cascade down her back. Her voice is hypnotically calm and makes me feel like she’d never judge me, no matter what I say.
Still, when she asks me why I want to move on, I know I have to have a truly tragic story, and it’s frightening to realize I don’t have to make one up.
“It all started when my father died,” I begin, then take her through all the highlights: meeting the love of my life only to have him kidnapped and nearly killed, then rescuing him and thinking everything would be okay . . . when it turned out he had a disease that was destroying his mind, and there might be no cure.
By the time I finish I’m crying, and Deborah gently tells me I can end all that pain by just letting go of myself and welcoming in Spirit Krysta, a whole new soul with none of Spirit Charlotte’s baggage. She asks me to sit cross-legged on the floor, and she joins me.
“Close your eyes,” she says, “and picture Spirit Krysta. Picture everything about her—how she dresses, how she wears her hair, what she likes to do . . . but most of all, picture her happy and enjoying life in your body, free from all the pain and suffering Spirit Charlotte had to endure.”
I close my eyes, and when she thinks I’m picturing it, she taps my knees, one at a time, back and forth.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Six times to lock in the image.
I know this technique. I was in therapy for almost a year after my dad died. It’s called EMDR, and it’s supposed to retrain the brain. I can see how it would work for people like the ones I’ve met at Transitions, especially if they’re taking “vitamins” that make them even more open to suggestion. In some ways, I’m not even sure it’s so terrible. The residents I talked to couldn’t bear to face another day the way they were; Transitions gives them a way to be happy again. Sure, in a perfect world it would be better if they could do that without creating a whole new persona for themselves, but if the world was perfect, they wouldn’t have had the trauma to begin with. And yes, “Spirit Burnham” is a charlatan pretending he believes in Walk-Ins, and he’s making a killing off their pain, but in a weird way he’s also maybe doing them a favor.
“Okay,” Deborah says. “You can open your eyes. How do you feel?”
I look into her kind face and inhale the strong scent of sage . . . and I burst into tears all over again.
“It’s okay,” Deborah says, pulling me into a hug. “It’s okay. It’s always hard when you come back to the present, but I promise, Krysta is coming, she is.”
I cry even harder because she doesn’t understand. Of course she doesn’t. I knew we were grasping at straws coming to Transitions, but I really hoped I’d find something that would help heal Sage. Instead all we’ve done is lose time coming all the way out to Arizona when we could have been doing more research at home.
“It’s not fair,” I sob. “After everything we’ve been through, it’s not fair. I can’t lose him now.”
“Spirit Krysta won’t,” Deborah says. “Spirit Krysta has nothing to lose, so she’ll be just fine.”
For a second I wish there really was a Spirit Krysta. It would be much less painful to stop caring so much and let a whole new person take over. Then I think of Sage losing his memories, and how tragic it would be to have those memories and throw them away willingly. No matter how much they make us ache, our memories are our lives. How can anyone let them go?
Maybe Brightley isn’t doing his residents a favor after all.
With another hug, Deborah sends me off to dinner. I consider trying to get out and head back to Sage, Rayna, and Ben right now, but I have to at least talk to the remaining residents on the off chance one of them has an actual insight into true soul-swapping. I doubt I’ll find anything, but I’m here, so I need to make sure. I follow Deborah’s directions to the opulent dining room in the main building and hear a wild buzz of excited chatter. I see Spirit Angus at the large dining table, resplendent in black pants and a maroon smoking jacket, and ask him what’s going on.
“Oh, Spirit Charlotte, it’s wonderful!” he exclaims. “Spirit Lianne is transitioning! If all goes well, she’ll be leaving first thing in the morning!”
Have I met Spirit Lianne? I scan the room and quickly pinpoint the one person who isn’t here: the shy woman with the long brown hair. I guess when you transition, you can’t be bothered with meals.
The only empty seats at the table are between people with whom I’ve already chatted, but it doesn’t even matter, because no one wants to talk about anything except the exit of Spirit Lianne and the imminent arrival of Spirit Maggie.
It’s almost enough to make me lose my appetite, but the food is unreal. I remember what Spirit Angus said about how he’d pay the same thing he pays here for a good retirement community. I doubt if any retirement community would feed him as well as this, and my feelings about Brightley’s little venture become ambiguous all over again.
After dinner it’s clear the residents still can’t talk about anything but Spirit Lianne/Maggie, so I go back to my apartment, where I change into one of the baby-blue nightgowns now stocked in my dresser and lie down. I can see the three-quarter moon shining through the sliding door to my patio, and a single star next to it. Or maybe it’s Venus. Doesn’t matter; either way I can use its help. I close my eyes and whisper like I did when I was a little girl: “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.” I squeeze my lids tighter and concentrate with all my being. I wish I could find a way to help Sage. I wish it into the world until I’m exhausted, and at some point, without knowing it, I fall asleep.
I wake up to a roar of voices. I open my eyes and squint at the first rays of sunlight peering over the pink horizon. I roll out of bed, pull open the patio door, and step into the already hot morning. Spirit Lianne sits in a pool chair surrounded by residents, but it’s not Spirit Lianne anymore. This woman wears her hair pulled back into a ponytail, revealing her beautiful face to the world. She sits up straight, her shoulders pulled back, and speaks with animated gestures, laughing loudly and easily. Even her clothes have changed; she’s no longer in baby blue, but a red dress with a plunging neckline.
This must be Spirit Maggie, but is she a coping mechanism finally embraced by Spirit Lianne, or is there even a possibility she really is a whole new soul in Spirit Lianne’s body? And if so, how is she handling the soul transfer?
There’s only one way to find out.
I rummage through my dresser, pull out a pair of baby-blue shorts and a matching tank top, and head out to join the crowd. They’re like paparazzi surrounding a celebrity, and I flit around the outside of the circle, trying to figure out what I’ll have to do to get a second alone with her.
Turns out I don’t have to do anything.
“Stop, stop, stop!” Spirit Maggie waves her hand in the air, and the crowd quiets at her behest. Between the heads of two people between us, I see her eyes lock on mine. “I want to talk to Clea.”
A chill runs over my body. How does she know my name?
There’s a murmur of confusion among the crowd, then Spirit Angus follows her gaze. “You mean Spirit Charlotte?”
Spirit Maggie smiles and laughs. “Of course. Sorry. New here. I don’t remember all the names.”
The crowd eats that one up, and parts so Spirit Maggie can walk to me and link her arm through mine. “We’ll just need a sec,” she calls back to the crowd. “I promise I’ll be back to a
nswer all your questions!”
She cuddles my arm closer to hers like we’re best friends, and guides me along a path that loops around the back of the casitas.
“Why, Clea Raymond, as I live and breathe,” she says. “And I do live and breathe.” As if to prove it, she takes an exaggerated deep breath, then blows it out with a giggle.
“How do you know my name?” I ask.
“Oh, come on, you really don’t recognize me? I suppose I should be flattered. I didn’t exactly look my best the last time we met, but several hundred years will do that to a body, isn’t that right?”
She looks up at me again, and my heart thuds against my chest as her blue eyes match a memory: those same orbs, milky with cataracts, lolling inside a body mummified with age. My skin crawls and I try to pull away, but she holds me firmly in her grip, just like she did the last time I saw her.
“Magda.” It comes out only a whisper.
She clamps my arm tighter. Though her new body is young and vital, I still feel those ancient skeletal claws. “Well done!” she says.
Even her voice is new, but in it I hear that same wicked playfulness with which she tortured Sage and me in Japan. I watched her kill herself there, saw her shatter the glass charm that kept her alive, looked on as her ancient body crumbled to dust. She was dead . . . and now she’s back.
“So it’s true,” I say, stunned. “Brightley really does help people change places with other souls.”
Magda throws back her head and cackles like a fairy-tale witch. “Brightley? Burnham Brightley is a con artist. Spirits don’t need him to shoehorn them in and out of bodies. Anyone who ‘transitions’ here does it despite him. In the case of my little friend Lianne, this place almost stopped her—she enjoyed the ‘spiritual energy’ so much, she changed her mind about leaving. Do you know how hard I worked to convince her? It nearly destroyed me—I created constant visions and nightmares, twenty-four hours of horror a day, before she finally agreed to vacate.”
“You killed her?” I ask, repulsed.
“I helped her. She was a troubled girl. In and out of rehab, never happy . . . she didn’t want to live. How do you think I found her? I was a wandering soul looking for a host. Her pain called to me.”
“A wandering soul,” I say with grim satisfaction. “I guess you weren’t allowed to rest after all.”
She laughs again, and it turns my stomach. “That’s cute. You think I’m back because of some divine justice. I gave Sage the tools to destroy his soul, so mine was condemned to wander the Earth. No, Clea. I chose to come back. I could’ve had eternal peace. I tried it. But you know what I found out?” She leans close to whisper in my ear. I recoil, but her grip is too strong.
“Eternal peace is boring,” she says. “Deathly boring. The living world is far more exciting. Especially in a body like this.” She releases me and spins, making her red dress twirl. “I chose well, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re evil. I feel sorry for Lianne and anyone else you’ll meet in this lifetime.” I stalk away, but don’t get far before her sickly-sweet voice stops me in my tracks.
“Leaving so soon? Before I can help you keep Sage in his new body?”
Her words knock the air out of my lungs. When I turn around, her mouth is twisted in a confident smirk.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“How do you think? I’ve been right here while Lianne struggled. Everything she did, I did. I saw you asking people questions. I heard you talking to the old man about difficulties after a transition. There are only two reasons I can imagine why you’d do that. I’d like to think you’re so lost and depressed over Sage’s grisly demise that you want to give up and let another soul take over. But I don’t buy it. You’re too together; you handle yourself too well. That leaves the other option: Sage used the dagger I gave him, but his soul found a new host. And maybe he’s having troubles?”
“I don’t want to talk about this with you,” I say, but I don’t walk away. I don’t trust Magda at all, but she’s the only person here who truly understands, and I’m transfixed.
“I think you do. Tell me—unlike my dear Lianne, Sage’s host didn’t choose to leave his body, did he?”
“No.”
“And now it’s rejecting the new soul. Can’t be pleasant for Sage. Or for you, I imagine.”
The last thing I want is her fake sympathy. “I’m fine,” I say. “Sage will be too.”
“No, he won’t. Not unless you appease the ancient healers.”
“What?”
“I’m telling you what to do. If you want to save Sage, you need to appease the ancient healers.”
I have no idea what she means, but it doesn’t even matter. “Why would I listen to anything you say?” I ask. “All you ever wanted was for Sage to suffer.”
“Not true, Clea. Sage and I were together once . . . or don’t you remember?”
“Of course I remember.” Before Sage ever drank the Elixir of Life he was with Magda, but he left her for Olivia . . . me in a past life. “It’s why you hate him so much.”
“Oh, I think you know I have better reasons for hating him than that,” Magda says with a condescending laugh. “We both do. He destroyed my life and ended yours. But I’m like you now: I have a whole new body and a whole new life. Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad Sage suffered. He deserved it. But it’s enough.”
I don’t know what to say. Does she mean it? I search for the truth in her face, as young and beautiful as it had been in her first life. I see sympathy in her eyes, but can I trust it?
Before I can figure it out, Burnham Brightley’s voice rings out. “Spirit Maggie, there you are! We’ve been looking for you; it’s time to leave!”
Magda and I both turn to see Brightley speed-walking toward us, Spirit Bitsy at his side. The rest of the residents follow in a throng close behind.
“Oh look!” Magda chirps happily. “They’ve all come to say good-bye. How sweet!” She smiles and waves, then starts walking toward them. Panic speeds my heart and I grab her arm.
“Okay,” I hiss, “I’m listening. ‘Appease the ancient healers.’ What does that mean? What do I have to do?”
But Magda isn’t listening. She dislodges herself from my grip and stands next to Brightley, smiling for the crowd.
“Spirit Maggie,” Brightley announces, “it is my privilege to congratulate you on your successful transition. Your paperwork is complete, and your car service is waiting out front. Shall I escort you to your new life?”
He extends an arm and Magda bats her eyes flirtatiously as she takes it. “I would be honored, Spirit Burnham.”
They head off toward the main building, the other residents closing around them. As they go, Magda looks over her shoulder to me. “Good luck!”
Good luck? No. I need more. I have to know what to do.
“Wait!” I race after her, pushing through the other residents until I can grab her free arm. “Magda! Maggie! You can’t leave yet. You have to tell me what to do!”
“Unhand Spirit Maggie, Spirit Charlotte,” Brightley says, tsking. “It’s time for her to go.”
I ignore him and lock eyes with Magda. “Please.”
Magda winces. “My arm. You’re bruising me.”
Brightley looks over my shoulder and nods. Immediately, two of the facilitators, a burly man named Andrew and one of the middle-aged women, grab my arms and pull me away from Magda, who keeps walking away with the crowd. I flail wildly, kicking and squirming until my captors’ grip loosens enough for me to run back to Magda and throw myself on her, clutching her shoulders and spinning her to face me. “Tell me!” I beg. “If you really want to help, please, tell me!”
She nods and leans in even closer. “Seek the Greeks,” she says, and it looks like she’s about to add more, then her eyebrows furrow at something just over my shoulder. I spin around to follow her gaze . . . just in time to see a man with a syringe.
By then it’s too late.
I wake
up in a world of fuzzy edges. I’m in bed, and the sun pierces my eyes. It’s not the king-size bed from my sprawling Transitions apartment. This is a twin bed, in a small room with a single window high on the wall, vinyl flooring, and a door that sits halfway open, revealing a tiny bathroom.
Where am I?
I try to sit up, but I can’t. There are thick bands of fabric over my chest, waist, and legs.
I need to get to Sage. Appease the ancient healers, Magda said. Seek the Greeks. I don’t know what it means, but I’m sure Ben can help me figure it out.
“Hello?” I scream. “Hello? HELLO?”
The door opens, and Spirit Bitsy walks in.
“Hello, darling,” she says. “I’m sorry about all this, but you were violent, and we had to take precautions. It’s for your own safety as well as the safety of the other transitioners.”
“I understand.” Better to appease her. She’ll be more likely to let me go that way. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me, but I’m feeling much better. I need to leave. I need to get out of here. Now. I need to go.” I’m rambling, but I can’t stop. Whatever they shot me with hasn’t completely worn off, and I’m not as in control as I need to be.
Spirit Bitsy clucks. “You’re still so agitated. Spirit Burnham said we might need to keep you sedated for a few days.”
“A few days? No! You can’t! I need to leave! Let me talk to Brightley—Spirit Burnham! Please!” I already know what I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him I’m undercover, that I have no desire to expose him, but my friends are expecting me, and if they don’t see me right away, they’ll tell the press, and he will be exposed. I’ll tell him who I really am, so he knows people would listen if a story about me hit the news. He’ll know it isn’t worth the publicity. He won’t even argue. All I have to do is talk to him and tell him. . . .
I feel the sharp stick of a needle in my arm, and soon I can’t remember what I want to tell him. I do know the bed is very comfortable, and I don’t even mind the restraints. If I relax, I don’t even feel them.