of budding breasts, wearing a purple T-shirt and a black mesh overshirt, torn jeans, and Doc Martens boots.
“I can see you,” she gasped, as if she could still breathe. “How did you do that?” Her accent was common, like typical American trash. He was repulsed by the sight of her. He would not employ one such as her to scrub the floor of his kitchens.
She turned around in awe, taking in the study. “I’m here. I can see everything.”
Now that he had succeeded in summoning this spirit, he was somewhat at a loss. The last thing he wanted to do was speak with her. He did not even care to speak with underlings here at the manor and preferred to pass down his orders in writing.
Mary stopped, looking at the shelves and candles and the antique table. “Wait. . . . Where am I?”
“You are in Wales,” he managed to answer.
“Wales? Where is that?”
Good God.
“They told me,” she babbled on. “They told me if you called me to appear, I could cross over to this side. I never thought . . .” She faltered, taking in the sight of him.
“Who told you?”
“The others. They were jealous when you called my name.”
But her words were spoken somewhat absently as she moved closer to him, studying him. He cared little for his own appearance anymore. He was a large man with a bone structure that almost made him look heavy. His dark hair hung at uneven angles around a solid chin. His feet were bare tonight. He wore black slacks and a loose shirt that hadn’t been laundered in weeks.
“I don’t know you,” she said, sounding like a pensive, confused child. “The others . . . they thought maybe my mother hired someone to find me. Someone to help me cross over. And that’s why I didn’t know your voice. I didn’t think I’d ever get back.”
As she said this, he knew what to do.
“I require your services,” he said.
“My what?”
“You’re from the Seattle area. I need you to find out if someone is still there, and tell me where she is, what she does, where she goes.”
Mary’s demeanor changed, and she looked him up and down dismissively. “I don’t think so. I’m going home.”
Finding this conversation more and more difficult, he said, “Yes, I will let you go home eventually. But you must do as I say first.”
Her transparent features twisted, making her nose stud rise slightly. “Screw that. I don’t even know you.”
He wasn’t certain his gift would work on a ghost, but he let the aura of fear flow outward, filling the room. “I summoned you here,” he said coldly. “And I can send you back with a word. Would you like to go back?”
Deep satisfaction washed through him at the sudden anxiety on her face.
But she surprised him by asking, “Is Wales a long way from Seattle?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do I get there?”
He blew out the candles and stood up. “You’re inside a stone manor, a large dwelling. Wish yourself outside, somewhere on the grounds.”
She looked at him disbelief. Then she glanced away and her expression grew intense. She vanished.
He waited a few moments before attempting the most crucial part. If he could not succeed in his next attempt, the entire summoning was a failure.
“Mary Jordane!” he called loudly.
She instantly appeared before him. Her mouth fell open. “What the . . . ?”
The sense of relief was sweet. She was his slave.
“Were you standing outside the manor?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Her eyes were wide.
“I called you. I can call you to my side from anywhere at any time. And I can send you back to the lost souls, to the in-between plane, and leave you there forever. Do you understand?”
She didn’t answer, but her eyes were locked into his. The reality of her situation was beginning to sink in.
“But if you serve me,” he went on, “if you do as I ask, when my task for you is finished, I will release you and let you remain in this world. You can haunt your family, your old school, anyplace you please, and remain here among the living. Is that what you want?”
Slowly, she nodded. “Just how am I supposed to find someone I’ve never met in Seattle?”
Was she attempting to stand up to him? He knew that others might admire her spirit. He did not.
“Because ghosts like yourself are drawn to dead,” he answered. “Eleisha is undead, a vampire.”
“Like you?”
“Yes.”
At least the girl wasn’t completely stupid, and she appeared to