Jenn Bennett - Bitter Spirits

“Move out of the way!” Winter roared from the other side of the coffin.

Aida glanced over her shoulder. Was he talking to her, or to his dead wife?

Yip shouted a command at the revenant. The rotting corpse turned and lumbered toward Aida.

“If you kill me now,” Yip yelled at Winter, “you will doom both of them. Your wife will not stop until Miss Palmer is dead—only I can command her. And if she kills the medium, her spirit will be tainted with blood debt. She will no longer be innocent, and she’ll be stuck in limbo on this plane.”

Stuck on this plane.

The words jarred something loose in Aida as she backtracked, eyeing the revenant as it shambled toward her, moving faster with each step. Doctor Yip had been too happy about the knowledge that she could potentially send his ghosts back across the veil.

Because he couldn’t.

Could she?

The ghost in the tunnel hadn’t budged, and this one carried the weight of a dead body. She honestly didn’t know if that was better or worse, but Yip had used the bones to call the spirit, and maybe she could use them to send the spirit back. All she could do was try.

White breath clouded her eyes. She concentrated. The revenant lifted rot-bedraggled arms and reached for her as Winter shouted something jumbled and elusive in the distance. Aida made a whip-fast decision to boost her chances by doing something she usually only did to call a spirit: she raised the lancet and jammed it into her own thigh with all of her force.

One second of brightness. One second of a clear mind, free of chatter and thought.

One second of trance.

She grabbed cold, slimy bone and pushed her willpower into a single command.

Leave.

Current crackled inside the revenant, sending a shock through Aida’s fingers. She jerked her hand back as the corpse quivered for a moment . . . then collapsed.

Aida’s next breath was clear.

With a grunt, she pulled the lancet out of her leg and glanced up. Winter stood a couple of feet away. His gun was pointed at the fallen corpse. Their gazes locked briefly. His nod was barely discernible, but she caught it right before his eyes flicked to Yip. His gun followed.

“Are you hurt?” Winter asked, voice even and low. He was looking at Yip, but talking to her.

“I’m okay.”

“Did they touch you?”

She knew what he meant. “No.”

The herbalist spoke up. “Do what you will, Magnusson. I will not run from you or beg for my life.” Blood stained the slice in his shirt where Aida had slashed. He held his hand over the wound on his leg.

Winter stepped over the corpse. “And I won’t enjoy taking it. But you put my family in danger. You kidnapped and nearly burned Miss Palmer alive, and she is under my protection. You cursed and poisoned me, and you defiled my wife’s corpse.”

“I don’t deny it. They are war crimes, and I don’t regret them.”

“Turn around, Aida,” Winter said in a quiet voice.

She could have protested. She didn’t. More for Winter than her own qualms. A little for Yip’s dignity. Some part of her still pitied him, even then. She turned around and closed her eyes. Her shoulders jumped when the gunshot cracked.

DOZENS OF MEN FILLED THE SHIP. SOME WERE WINTER’S MEN, some were tong members. Aida felt like a sideshow curiosity as Winter marched her past them while they took stock of the liquor. She kept her eyes forward and tried not to look too closely at the aftermath of the siege.

Both Bo and Ju were welcome sights outside. Bo squeezed her hand, and she gave them all a brief summary of what happened, but was interrupted when two police cars pulled into the dry docks’ gates in the distance. No sirens, no lights. But she doubted they were on a regular patrol route.

“I’ll deal with them and buy us some time,” Winter told Ju. “Tell everyone inside to stay calm and be prepared to truck the booze out before daybreak. Whatever can’t be hauled out tonight will have to be forfeited. And if any of Yip’s survivors want to defect, the tong leaders are going to have to decide if they want to give them safe harbor.”

“Both my men are dead?” Ju asked.

“By my hand,” Winter confirmed.

“Thank you.” Ju turned to Aida and bowed his head briefly, then strode to the ship.

Winter tilted Aida’s face up. Exhaustion weighted his eyes; his face was grim. She couldn’t imagine what was going on in his mind after seeing his wife’s body, but he didn’t speak of it. “I have to take charge of this, and it may take me hours. I want you to go back to the house. When I’m finished, we need to talk.”

She wanted to talk now. Wanted to tell him how sorry she was that he had to face Yip’s cruel creation . . . how sorry she was that he had to crusade onto the ship and do what he did. She knew he didn’t relish it.

She wanted to tell him how grateful she was that he did it.

But most of all, she wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him she was sorry about their fight and how stubborn she’d been and how stupid she’d been not to answer him when he confessed his feelings to her. “Winter—”

The police cars rounded a building and headed toward them, halting any chance of her saying anything she needed to say at that moment.

“Bo,” Winter said. “Get Will to drive her.”

He gave her once last glance, exhaled heavily, then walked away.

Cold and empty, she complied and left in a daze, riding in silence with one of Winter’s men back to Winter’s house in Pacific Heights. Four armed guards emerged from the home’s gates. Her driver gave three of them a mumbled update while another let her inside.

Lamplight kept vigil in an otherwise quiet house. The clock in the side corridor said it wasn’t quite midnight. Breathing in the consoling scent of orange oil, she plodded to the foyer with no thought other than a hot bath, but halted on her way to the elevator.

Lined up against one wall were her things—the elegant steamer trunk and several other pieces of luggage Astrid had bought her after the fire. She stood in front of them as her last remaining column of strength collapsed.

“He wants me gone,” she murmured to herself.

This was what he wanted to talk to her about when he got back. Not reconciliation, but a good-bye. Her weary mind dredged up the sting of his words on the ship. It was a fling. She was giving it up for free—just a skirt, nothing more.

“Miss Palmer.”

Aida wiped away tears and turned to face Greta. “He’s delayed . . . I’m . . .” She inhaled deeply and righted herself. “I need a bath and a change of clothes, something to eat. Then I’ll need a ride to the train station, please.”

The frosty housekeeper didn’t reply as Aida walked past her and headed upstairs.

She bathed quickly, sloughing off sweat and blood and the scent of death. One of the maids brought her fresh stockings and underclothes, a dress from her luggage. It wasn’t until she was fixing her hair that she noticed all the mirrors had been removed again.

After eating, she trudged to the foyer and found Jonte waiting for her.

“Miss Palmer,” he said. “I’m relieved to know you are all right.”

“Thank you.”

“But I must implore you to stay. Wait for Winter. Talk to him.”

“I think we’ve done all the talking we need to do.”

“Are you certain?”

She nodded and spoke rapidly to keep herself from falling apart. “Can you take me to the train station? I didn’t realize there was so much luggage. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage it all. The steamer trunk is bigger than I am.”

Jonte started to say something, but Greta strode in.

“You’ll hurt your back, Jonte,” she reprimanded in her singsong voice. “Get Christopher to help.”

They began speaking in Swedish—an argument, from the tone of it—so Aida turned away to give them privacy and surveyed the luggage. Something unfamiliar sat next to the steamer trunk. A battered wooden footlocker. She stepped closer to inspect it.

Over dull green paint, black words were stamped across the top. Her gaze rapidly jumped from one to the next: U.S.A. 36TH DIVISION. PVT—a rank, private. A brigade. Distantly familiar numbers. And two words that stilled her breath: SAM PALMER.

She dropped to her knees in front of the locker.

Her pulse drummed in her fingertips as she flipped the unlocked latch and cracked open the lid. The musty scent of old canvas and boot polish wafted up . . . a very particular smell she remembered from the scarce weekends Sam came home from training, field dust and army barracks. Engine oil and rain.

Her shaking hand lighted on folded fatigues, sleeve cuffs still dingy with wear. Several uniforms lay beneath. A hat. A canvas bag of old toiletries and his razor set. Three books, one she’d given him for Christmas the year before he died.

Inside a khaki canvas cap lay a few smaller things: two circles of metal stamped with his name and number, strung on a piece of cord; a creased photograph of a pretty young girl Aida had never seen; and a folded Western Union form.

She carefully opened it and scanned the yellowed paper. Sam’s name. A date: the day before he died.

Then on the recipient line, Aida’s name. The Lanes’ old address in Baltimore.

It was a telegram request. He’d filled it out, but the payment hadn’t been tallied by the clerk. A telegram that was never sent.

She read his hastily penciled words in the box designated for the message:

Have some big news for you. Sit down because you will not believe. I met a local girl named Susan. You will like her. I asked her to marry me and she said yes. I know. A shock. Do not tell Aunt and Uncle yet. Will tell you more in a letter later.