Living with the Dead Part 47

"Two months?"

"If you need more "

"No, I was just thinking... two months. That's... long. But, yes. I might not like it..."

"But you need it." He put his hands on her hips and turned her around, backing to rest against the railing. "I can't stop wanting to help, and by 'help,' I really mean guide, and by 'guide' I mean protect. That has nothing to do with you and whether you can take care of yourself. It's about me and what I want, which is to make life easier for you, because I know it isn't easy and it's only getting harder, and I'm scrambling madly to smooth those rough edges before you get hurt."

"I'm going to get hurt, Karl."

His hands tightened on her hips, as if the very idea was a threat to fight and defeat. After a moment, he said, "I know."

"I need to know I'll be okay, Karl. That I can do this on my own. That as much as I appreciate your help, I don't need need it." it."

They were quiet for a minute.

"Two months..." she whispered.

"And then I'll be back. You know that."

"I think that's part of it. Yes, I know you'll be back, and yet..."

"You don't quite trust it. You can't help thinking that I'll meet some glamorous Aussie at the opera house, seduce her for her jewels and decide this 'life mate' business isn't what I want after all." He looked down at her. "I know we don't discuss my past and I'm glad of it. But my past means I know exactly what else is out there, what I'm 'missing,' and I don't miss it at all."

"But don't you... get tired of it? My endless angst, my issues..."

"And don't you get tired of mine? Overly protective. Overly territorial. Ambivalent about the Pack. And forget the werewolf issues I'm a jewel thief. I have enough money, so why don't I settle down, get a nice office job so you don't have to lie to your friends and family "

Hope cut him off with a kiss. "I understood from the start that's what you are, what you need to be. I bought the whole package."

"As did I." He s.h.i.+fted her aside. "Wait here."

He went inside. A minute later, he returned.

"Put out your hand."

She smiled. "Do I have to close my eyes?"

"Of course."

She did. Something small and cold dropped into her palm. She opened her eyes to see what looked like a figure-eight charm. When she held it by the ring, though, the eight lay on its side. The symbol for infinity.

"I considered a ring, but feared that might be pus.h.i.+ng my luck. A more abstractly symbolic gesture seemed appropriate. I'd have hung it on your charm bracelet, but I don't know where you've put it."

"Some thief you are."

"I could take a look..."

She caught his sleeve, closed her hand around the charm and lifted her arms to his neck.

He caught her wrist. "There's an inscription."

She found it. Three words, repeated on the front and back. No matter what. No matter what.

"Yes," Karl said. "Quite possibly the least poetic inscription ever written."

"No it's..." She clasped the charm. "It's perfect."

"And I mean it, Hope. I'm here for you, no matter what. I always will be. You can never do anything that will scare me away. No matter how hard you try."

She laughed, the tears jolting free. He wiped them away.

"You're right," he said. "You have decisions to make and I shouldn't be a part of that. I don't need need to be. You'll make the right choice, and whatever you decide is fine with me... as long as it doesn't involve handing back my condo keys." to be. You'll make the right choice, and whatever you decide is fine with me... as long as it doesn't involve handing back my condo keys."

"It won't."

"Then, I meant what I said the other day. I'm just along for the ride. Council, Cabal, mercenary, I don't care. I come willingly, and it's not about following you or protecting you. I enjoy it. You aren't the only one who's finding that what satisfied those 'uncivilized urges' in the past isn't doing the job the way it used to. So consider your options, make your choice and call me home."

"I will."

FINN.

No one thought it would work.

Hope Adams had put Finn in touch with a necromancer named Jaime Vegas. Finn thought the name sounded familiar, though he wasn't sure where from.

She'd promised to walk him through it over the phone, but warned him the task was difficult enough for experienced necromancers, let alone one who'd never actively practiced the art. As Damon would say, he didn't have the juice.

From what little Finn had learned so far, most necromancers saw ghosts all the time, not sporadically at murder sites. Of course, no one not even Damon suggested Finn lacked the power to pull it off. They were just very, very cautious in their optimism.

Finn had pa.s.sed those warnings on to Robyn and she'd been quicker than anyone to a.s.sure him that she understood, that if it didn't work, that was okay. Which wasn't true. Yes, she'd understand. But it wouldn't be okay. Not for her. Not for Damon. Not for Finn.

They tried it in Robyn's apartment, just the three of them: Finn, Damon and Robyn. He'd followed the ritual and then... A flicker of images, like a film strip on fast forward. It lasted only a second or two, and when his vision cleared, he was in a strange apartment, sitting in a leather beanbag chair.

Finn touched the chair. He could see his fingers make contact, but couldn't feel the leather. He poked it. His fingers pa.s.sed through, the leather still smooth.

From the other room, he heard... his voice. Singing. A song he didn't recognize, in a timbre he didn't recognize. A sob. Then a cry that he knew even if he couldn't make it out was Robyn saying a name. Damon's name.

He pictured Robyn leaping from her chair, her face...

The apartment next door went silent, and he imagined her throwing herself toward him. His arms outstretched. Robyn in them. Robyn kissing him. But not him. Not really him.

He imagined it and...

He stopped imagining it.

As he sat there, trying not to eavesdrop, an idea wriggled up from the deepest part of his brain. It had been burrowing there since he'd first realized he might be able to let Damon into his body.

It wasn't so much an idea as an impulse. One that if he decided to follow through on, he knew he couldn't think too much about. Do it or don't.

He pushed to his feet. At the door, he reached for the k.n.o.b. His fingers pa.s.sed through. He paused a moment, staring at it. From the next room came a chuckle, then a snuffle a laugh breaking off in a sob. Finn squared his shoulders and stepped through the door.

Down the hall. He paused outside the elevator, but had no idea how that would work, and wasn't about to s.h.i.+mmy down elevator cables. To the stairwell then. To the lobby. Out the front doors.

He stopped in the doorway. Did he want to do this? It felt like the right thing to do, and he supposed that was what counted. As for what he he wanted, he honestly didn't know anymore. It had been too long since he'd considered it. wanted, he honestly didn't know anymore. It had been too long since he'd considered it.

He did know one thing. He was tired. Tired of being in Los Angeles. Tired of solving cases no one seemed to care about. Tired of the whispers, the looks, the laughs. Tired of being different. Tired of being alone.

A shoe squeaked behind him. Before he could turn, a man walked through him, striding down the sidewalk, briefcase swinging.

Finn made it a dozen steps before a voice called, "And where do you think you're going?"

Finn turned. To his left was an abstract sculpture. A woman in jeans, boots and a T-s.h.i.+rt sat on it, reclining against a curved piece of steel, her face in shadow.

"I'm talking to you, Detective," she said.

She stretched and stood and, for a moment, Finn saw the girl from the photograph in Sean Nast's office. Nast's little sister. But this woman was older at least Finn's age, with dark eyes, not bright blue. Still, the resemblance was uncanny.

"I asked where you think you're going." The woman walked toward him, her foot pa.s.sing through a discarded soda bottle. A ghost.

"It's okay," he said, because it was all he could think of. A polite nod, then he turned to head on his way.

"Actually, it's not okay." The woman walked in front of him and turned around. "You can't leave Damon in your body. An insanely n.o.ble gesture, Detective Findlay, but you can't. The Fates let you pull off the body switch, but it's temporary. I'm here to make sure of that. And neither of us, I'm afraid, has any say in the matter."

Finn stepped to the side. The woman put out her hands and murmured something. The air between her hands glittered, then s.h.i.+mmered, a sword taking form. A huge one, with glowing symbols etched into the metal.

"Pretty, huh? Being a necro, you know what this is, right?"

Finn shook his head.

The woman sighed. "It's the outfit, isn't it? I know, they keep trying to make me wear the uniform, but those wings are just so d.a.m.ned uncomfortable. Have you ever tried sitting with wings stuck to your shoulders? And the halo? Does nothing for me."

"An... angel?"

"Don't sound so skeptical. You'll hurt my feelings." She lifted the sword. "Point is, this baby has a point. A very sharp one. And you do not want to feel it. So we're doing this the easy way. We let Damon and Robyn have their reunion, and you go back into your body, and n.o.body gets hurt. Got it?"

Finn said nothing.

"d.a.m.n, you're stubborn, aren't you?" She stepped closer. With the boots, she was almost as tall as Finn. "You're going back, Detective. That's not an option. If you get away from me, I hunt you down and introduce you to the sword. And don't ask me to look the other way and let you go, because it won't help. In minutes, they'll have another angel here to dump you back into your body before Damon's allotted hour is up, and I'll get my a.s.s kicked for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up. No one will thank you for that, least of all me. So you are going back."

"Can I ?"

"No. Whatever the question is, the answer is no. Your life isn't over, you have to finish it. That's not up for negotiation. The most I can do is extend Damon's visit a little. Take you for a walk, get caught up in the chitchat, give him a couple of hours..."

Finn could tell arguing would do no good. He did hesitate, though, enough to make the angel sigh and lean on her sword, toe tapping. Then he nodded.

"Good man. We'll go this way. I thought I saw a park. If we catch a mugging in progress, I might be able to use my sword. Not a full-fledged soul-chopping, mind you. But a little nick that'll sting like a son of a b.i.t.c.h. Always fun."

They turned onto the sidewalk.

"I hear you met Sean the other day."

Finn glanced at her.

"Sean Nast."

"Right..."

"Did he seem okay to you? His dad has been worried. Well, we both have actually. Sean's a good kid, but he really doesn't belong in the Cabal and Kris hates seeing..."

ROBYN.

Robyn was burning her sc.r.a.pbook. It was a grand symbolic gesture that should, she admitted, have an equally grand setting curled up by a ma.s.sive fireplace, feeding pages into the blaze. In an apartment, it wasn't nearly so grand... or so simple. She had a metal garbage can by the open patio doors, a fan blowing the smoke out and wet towels draped over the smoke detectors. And she had to remove the newspaper clippings from the plastic pages before lighting them. But she did have a gla.s.s of wine beside her, which helped the atmosphere.

It took nearly an hour to go through the sc.r.a.pbook, back to front. Then, finally, she held the first clipping. Damon's death notice. She looked at it, at his unsmiling face, at the cold harsh facts of his death... and she held the lighter to the corner.

As she watched the article crumble into black ash, she smiled. She'd kept that article as her last memory of him... and now it wasn't. She had a new one of Damon right here, in this room, holding her, talking to her, singing to her.

It had been strange at first, seeing him in Finn's body. But all she'd had to do was close her eyes and it was Damon. His voice, his touch, his kiss and, most of all, his words.

She'd envied people who had last moments with their loved ones, a chance to say final words before they pa.s.sed. But even then there would be things they hadn't realized they wanted to say until it was too late. She'd gotten that chance and she would never forget what a blessing it was, no more than she'd forget who'd given it to her.

Even just telling her Damon was still "alive" in some way, that he still lived, still existed, had been an amazing gift. Relaying his words to her would have been wonderful. But Finn had done more. And he'd paid the price, exhausted and weak, still dragging himself into work the next morning, determined not to hand her case off to another detective.

When the doorbell rang, Robyn dropped the last corner of the article into the garbage can and hurried to the door. No one had buzzed from downstairs, so it must be Hope, having forgotten to stick the apartment key on her ring again.

Hope had moved in yesterday. Robyn had invited her to stay with her for the rest of her work exchange. There was nothing keeping Robyn in L.A. once the issues with the case were resolved, she could return to Philadelphia and get a new job there. But Hope had come here for her, and now she'd stay for Hope. Hope insisted Karl was just on a business trip, but Robyn got the feeling there was more to it and that her friend could really use the company.

When she checked out the peephole, though, it wasn't Hope.

"The landlord let me in," Finn said when she opened the door. "I brought those papers you need to sign."

"I'd have come to the station," she said, taking them.

He shrugged. "I was in the area."

"Do you have time for a coffee?"

Finn hesitated. "He's not with me."

"I know that."