Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,57
sharpen with any of my senses, and I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it.
Then I felt something I did recognize, a familiar vibration humming on my skin, singing through my psyche. For the first time in memory, my heart didn’t sing along with it.
“No you don’t,” I growled to the powers of the universe. Because it always helps to order the Almighty around when you’re already neck deep in alligators.
The guard stared at the curtain of air, wavering like a heat mirage on hot summer asphalt, and a spark of interest penetrated his numb shock. “What’s that?”
The Veil, shimmering between worlds, waited with neutral, eternal patience while I literally held this guy’s life in my hands.
“No,” I ordered him. “Do not go there.”
“But I see my mom.” He lifted a hand with a childish wave. “Hi, Mom!”
“Not yet.” I tried to sound commanding and not pleading, but pretty much failed. “The EMTs will be here soon. You’ll have plenty more days to walk these halls telling people to step back from the paintings.”
The Egyptian girl gave a delicate snort. “If you wish him to stay, you might offer better temptation than that.”
“Look!” said the guard as the pulse of his blood under my fingers stumbled. “There’s my dog!”
“That is not playing fair.” I ground my teeth on the bit of my determination and pressed more firmly on the wound so not a drop more blood would escape. “Dogs and moms are not fair!”
Cleopatra walked around us both, kicking out her linen skirts with fancy gold- and jewel-covered sandals. “Are you some sort of priestess? You have a funny way of talking to your god.”
“That’s what Sister Michaela always told me.”
She made a tutting sound. “I think perhaps you aren’t very good at this. His soul is fading.”
“What?” My vision wavered, and I dredged up the effort to bring the guard into sharper focus. It was more than difficult. His image was washed out, like a photo left to fade in the sun.
“Let him go,” said Cleo, not quite an order, “while his soul is still strong enough to make the journey to the afterlife.”
I didn’t want her to be right, but I could feel the electric current fizzle and spark. If anyone could recognize the end of life and the beginning of death, it should be me. But I didn’t want to lose. I wanted to grab hold of this ghost—this soul—and tie it to his body so he couldn’t die.
I could hear, out of the fog of reality, the pounding of running feet on the marble floor. Just a moment longer. I couldn’t let him slip when help was so close.
Death wasn’t my enemy. But the jerkwad who thought it was his to hand out on a whim—he was going to get a kick into the next world when I caught up with him.
Carson was back, crouching beside me. “The guards are coming, and they’re on the phone with nine-one-one.”
“Okay,” I said tightly, startled by how little time must have gone by since he left. “Do you think, with your superpower, you could use my energy or whatever to give this guy a boost so he’ll make it long enough for the EMTs to get here?”
I couldn’t look away from the ghosts, but based on the jolt of tension where Carson’s shoulder pressed against mine, the idea must have shocked him. His voice, though, was level and businesslike. “I could try, but I don’t know what that would do to you.”
“Look at the floor,” I said. “That’s lifeblood there. It’s the total opposite of my thing, but even I can feel the energy in it. If you could use even a little of it …”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ve got it.”
Most people would take a deep breath before diving in. Carson just slid in close, getting one hand down where the blood was freshest and warmest and putting his other on the guard’s chest. I felt a tug of friction, like something pulling against the cat’s cradle of invisible string between me, the ghost, the Veil, and his body.
“Over his heart,” said Cleopatra, watching with clinical interest. “That is where the soul resides.”
It was also what pumped the blood to the brain and the lungs, so I relayed the message. “Over his—”
“I heard you,” said Carson, and adjusted his hand up and slightly left. He’d heard her, which was interesting, but not something I could analyze just then. The tingle of friction became a burn, as if a binding