CHAPTER 1: Redemption Beyond the Grave
September 11, 2001 – 15:00 GMT
London, England
I first met Audra more than a decade ago, during a miserable screwed-up moment when I felt weary of the world and wary of everyone in it. That August found me teetering on the brink of adulthood, awash in dizzying emotions I couldn't possibly manage. My parents had been dead about a year at that point. Since Audra was a ghost, she had a lot more practice with the whole dead thing.
The night we met, I was staying in a hotel not far from where she died. She'd been stuck there ever since. Guess I wasn't so much trapped as lost; when you're searching for love, searching for faith, searching for meaning, sometimes you get so wrapped up in it all that you forget how to move.
The hotel room where I've currently got myself stuck bears little resemblance to Audra's opulent haunt, and the naïve girl who dared befriend a lonely ghost resembles me even less. Last night, I was digging the pink-and-orange Lucite décor in this SoHo suite, the unfortunate side effect of a chemically-induced love for mankind which wore off hours ago. Now that I'm nursing a set of shag-carpet rug burns, the place is a Warholian nightmare.
Love, faith, meaning - my troubles started when Audra offered a glimpse of everything I sought. Damn foolish of me to think I could take her up on it without paying a price. Can't say she didn't warn me. Especially about the love bit.
You promised you'd help me, Delaney. Why did you leave?
"Shut up, Audra," I whisper. She hasn't shut up since yesterday. I'm not expecting her to start now.
They're dead because of you. You saw what he did. How could you let it happen?
I close my eyes and push her voice out of my head through sheer force of will. Is there still a connection between us or is it my guilty conscience talking? Wish I knew. But since that night, it's always been there.
All I wanted was to have my mind to myself for a few hours, but globe lights in the bathroom shine harsh reality on the end result. Mad-sex hair, smeared makeup, even a hickey, for chrissakes. I shut my eyes, opting to focus on the throbbing pain in my skull. Hardly a challenge. Right now, even my hair hurts.
"Hey Delaney," a male voice calls. Unfortunately, no chance this one's a figment of my imagination. "What the hell are you doing in there?"
Mostly, I'm trying to convince myself one night of smoking won't give me lung cancer. I turn on the tap, gulping cool water straight from the source. A hundred years or so of hard water left a brown stain around the drain and the liquid tastes like it came straight from the bottom of the Thames, but it feels like I'll never get enough.
Footsteps approach from the bedroom. "Delaney? You fall in?"
I wipe my face on his shirt. Since I have no hips, tits, or ass to speak of, it's a tent, but it covers things I no longer want exposed. "Just wondering how to live the rest of my life knowing I'll never see you again." Enough sarcasm dribbles out to make it clear the all-night, all-day screwfest is over.
"So let's do this again next time we're in the same city," he hollers back. Seems my sarcasm flew over his head. This does not bode well for a graceful exit.
First Officer Matthew Corcoran appears around the corner. Completely starkers. He was the co-pilot on my flight yesterday. I was about to deplane when he pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to help him redefine the word 'layover'. What can I say, I felt pity for someone whose pickup lines were that bad. We hit a bar and Audra started chattering. The rest is a blur.
"Give me your cell number." He finds his phone and waits for my digits.
I shake my head weakly. "Still hoping to make it to thirty next year. One more night like this and I might not."
Four Stoli and Red Bulls, three Dunhill Lights and two hits of Ecstasy ago, his cocky grin seemed much more endearing. "C'mon, Red, we had fun. You're insane in all the right ways and a few of the wrong ones too. All I want is your name."
Last thing I need right now is a transcontinental flyboy fuck buddy. "Fine. It's Spencer, Delaney Spencer."
"Liar." He reaches into the purse I left on the counter and starts rummaging.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
He finds my passport and holds it up so I can't grab it. "Few hours ago my dick was six inches up your ass. Now you're worried about my hand in your purse?"
I swear he wasn't this much of a prick last night. "Six inches? They let you fly a plane with that kind of depth perception?"
The slight on his manhood doesn't faze him. "Yes, Ms. Delaney Ann Nichols of Gloucester, Massachusetts, they do." His brow knits. "Nichols? From Gloucester? Had a buddy in the Gulf named Eric Nichols from the same place...damn good pilot. Any relation?"
He pronounces it Glo-cess-ter. It's Gloss-ter. And I haven't lived there for a very long time. If all this was Audra's idea of a joke, it's not funny. I manage to jump up and grab my passport. "No."
"Good. That guy would kick my ass if he found out I tagged his little sister."
Actually, he'd probably castrate you with a teaspoon. Eric got a little overprotective after Mom and Dad died. "Look, I'm going."
Matt steps behind me, pressing all five and seven-eighths inches of his erection against my back. "C'mon, stay. Just don't call me daddy again. Frickin' weird."
I freeze. If I said anything like that, it was Father, not daddy. But if I brought him up whilst in the throes, I was even further gone than I thought last night. Fortunately, Matt would rather fondle me than hear an explanation. My cell phone chirps. "Saved by the bell."
Or, according to the caller ID, my new boss's secretary. My transfer to our Washington office doesn't take effect until next week, but now I vaguely remember a conference call I was supposed to be on in New York. Fuck. I never used to be this forgetful.
Matt is still poking me when I flip open the phone. "Therese, I'm sorry about the –"
"Delaney, thank God." The tremor in her voice is not reassuring. She normally displays the emotional volatility of a sea cucumber. "Where are you?"
"London. I, uh, missed my connection. Is something wrong?"
"You haven't heard? Delaney, it's – it's devastating." Her words tumble out, but they don't make sense at first. "There's some sort of attack going on. I've been calling all our employees who are traveling, trying to make sure everyone is safe."
"Are they?" Prickling anxiety settles into my bones.
She doesn't answer for a moment. "No one is answering at the New York office."
My job involves managing charitable foundations for clients of a brokerage house, Lisbon and Son, LLC. We have a small office in the North Tower. Today was supposed to be my last day, so I figured there was no big deal playing hooky.
Therese tries to keep her voice even. "Delaney, I know you don't want to hear this, but I can't get Ben on his mobile either."
A coppery taste floods my mouth. Please God no. Ben is a fellow traveler from the trip to Russia which introduced me to Audra. We reconnected a few years later, around the time Leningrad kicked out the communists and changed its name back to St. Petersburg. Ben's also the 'son' in Lisbon and Son, and my former boss to boot. Among other things.
Matt is staring at me with growing concern. I point towards the TV. "Turn on the news. There's been some sort of accident in New York."
When Therese said a plane hit the Trade Center, I was thinking some off-his-meds moron in a Cessna. Sky News disabuses me of that notion in an instant. Breaking news alerts in bloody crimson scrawl all over the screen. On instinct, I start to cross myself, then think better of it. Me and God? Not on the best of terms.
Crashing nausea gets the better of me as the live videos continue to roll. Please, Ben, tell me today was the second day you were ever late for work. When I look up, Matt is standing over me with a towel. "Here. You okay?"
After wiping my mouth, I reply, "I have a - a friend who works there."
"Hope he got out." Matt's voice cracks. "Bastards hit the Pentagon too. Maybe a car bomb at the State Department. Nobody seems to know what's happening."
It's too much and tears start to fall. He hauls me into his arms until my sobs subside. Five minutes ago, I couldn't wait to get away from him. Now I'll take comfort anywhere I can get it.
He brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. "Listen, Delaney, I gotta do something." He swears under his breath, grabs his cell phone and dials a few keys. "Hey Tony? Yeah, I know, you're busy. Listen... I quit. Why the fuck you think? I'm going back in. Some towelhead pulls this kind of shit in my country? Last thing he's gonna do is deep throat one of my Tomahawks." He snaps the phone shut. "We're at war."
The singular clarity of his assertion hits with the force of a bludgeon. "With whom?"
His face fills with unfocused wrath. "I don't know. The Iraqis maybe. We'll bomb those fuckers right back to the Stone Age."
"Oh God." The dull ache in my head grows. The fact my life is a mess now is my own damn fault, but what brought Audra and I together was in my family, as in hers, the effects of war tend to linger long after the shooting stops. You won't find us on any casualty rolls, but the way I see it, Vietnam cost both my parents their lives, the Cold War ripped out my soul, and the last Iraq war ruined my relationship with my brother. "Do you have Eric's number?" I ask weakly.
"Wait – you said he was no relation!"
"I lied." I run into the bedroom to collect my things.
"Christ, you're that whackjob kid sister of his, aren't you?"
"Way to put two and two together, genius." I pull on my skirt and find my flats beneath a pile of condom wrappers. "Do you have his number or not?"
"Sorry." Matt pushes the door shut just as I pull it open. "Don't go. You won't be able to get home anyhow. Stay with me."
I've seen that look before; the certain warrior resigning himself to an uncertain fate for some larger purpose, seeking comfort at a dark hour wherever he can find it. This time, it won't be from me.
I duck under his arm and into the hallway, heading straight for the elevator. Rather than push the lobby button, I sink into a heap on the floor and wait for the doors to close.
The elevator's downward lurch nearly leaves my unsettled stomach behind. I run my fingers through tangled hair, drop my dizzy head between my knees to blot out the muzak, and begin to weep. Weep for Eric, who's probably fine. Weep for Ben, who's probably not.
Faces of all those I've lost through the years begin to flash across my eyes. All far too young. "God, please, no more."
You used to be stronger than this, chides Audra, sensing opportunity.
I bang my head on the elevator wall. "Go away, Audra, please go away."
You and Jonas made a mess of things, but it's not too late. You think God is punishing you? Finish what you started. Isn't that what your parents would say?
If she keeps this up, the flashbacks are going to kick in. They always do. I press my thumbs against my eyeballs, willing them away. "Not a chance."
There are very good reasons I haven't been back to Russia in eleven years, chief among them that she and dear Father Jonas MacNeil nearly got me killed the last time. And a few other people weren't so lucky. If God is punishing me, it's because I damn well deserve it.
I'm tired of existing like this, she sighs. Aren't you? Come back, Delaney. Hear me out. No matter what you decide to do, I swear, you'll never hear my voice again.*
A short time later, I walk through the vault-like façade of the Russian Embassy. I hand over my tear-stained application, hastily-purchased ticket and overlarge rush-processing fee to a yawning bureaucrat who seems ready to end her day without another jot of work. Her eyes flicker reproachfully over my walk-of-shame outfit. "I'll see what I can do."
I slump against the counter while she's entering my information. My skull is going to crack open if she types any louder and her tsk-ing makes me want to puke in her pencil cup.
Dragon lady folds her hands atop the counter, revealing chipped green nail polish. "I'm sorry, Ms. Nichols. On your previous trip to Russia, you did not pass through border control when you left."
"There's a logical explanation for that." Unfortunately, I was unconscious at the time and have no idea what it is.
When I bite my lip, she readjusts her acid-green reading glasses. "The Russian government believes you are still in the country, albeit illegally, since you overstayed your visa by approximately eleven years."
My jaw drops. "I'm standing right here in front of you."
"Yes, I can see that." Not even a hint of irony.
Let's see where the truth gets me. "See, I lost my passport in Leningrad in 1990."
She returns a Sweet n' Low smile. "This doesn't explain how you arrived home without passing through Russian exit controls."
Frigid cow probably has to visualize forms in triplicate to achieve orgasm. "No, but – look, it's a long story." Since it involves the phrase 'a ghost stole my passport', one I have no intention of telling. "Can't you call the American consulate?"
"They're preoccupied. Good day, Ms. Nichols." She walks away and turns off the lights.
I've had enough reality for one day. Travel for work puts me in London a lot. I've got a good friend in town I can go to when I need something to shut Audra up. The wench hasn't made a peep since I bought my plane ticket, but my memories and guilty conscience are just as bad. It's time to go see Nyx.*
The modern furnishings in the lobby of Nyx's Cambridge Circus flat might've leapt out of the latest Architectural Digest. I've never thought of her as a drug dealer, probably because on the rare occasions I use her as one, she doesn't charge me. She certainly doesn't need the money. Her father is an earl or viscount or something; she's always been his favorite.
Of course, Nyx isn't her real name. By day, you could mistake her for the head of the local PTA, except she'd rather eat her own head than have children. At night, it's a different story. Nyx, Goddess of the SoHo night, is a believer in the untapped connection between mind, body, and the world that lies beyond. Thanks to Audra, I'm pretty good at that last bit on my own.
A brass-buttoned doorman waves me into the elevator. Nyx opens the penthouse door in response to my knock, wearing a soft grey Chloé hip-length cardigan which probably cost more than my last-minute plane ticket. Don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly destitute, but she makes me look like a charity case.
Her ultra blonde highlights are swept into a sleek twist and she's got some sort of a weird potted plant in her left hand. Two-inch spikes spring from the waxy surface, the tips ooze iridescent sap. It looks like it could make you hallucinate if you even look at it funny.
"Delaney! Christ, you look like hell. Get in here before someone sees you and calls a priest. Or at least an exorcist."
Guess that's her idea of a joke. Still not laughing. She hustles me into her enormous white kitchen, sets the plant on the polished concrete countertop, and starts making me an espresso. Espresso is pretty much the only 'cooking' she does. She catches me staring numbly at a TV news report and turns the set off. "Thank goodness you weren't part of this madness."
Tears well up. "I haven't heard from Ben yet. I've called three times. The circuits are busy."
She drums her fingers. "I thought you two were off at the moment."
Whether he's alive or dead, we're off for good this time. Last week, I bitched him out in front of the entire office when he dared call me his girlfriend. Hence the hasty transfer to the Washington office. When I don't say anything, her expression softens. "Delaney, I'm sure Ben is fine."
Bullshit. If she was sure he was fine, she'd call him Ben-dover, like she usually does. "It's not just him."
She turns away from the espresso. "Audra? The MDMA I gave you last night didn't help?"
Besides me, only two people know what happened with Audra. Nyx is … well… the other one. "I can't take living like this anymore. I booked a flight to St. Petersburg, then couldn't get a visa. I swear, I'll walk back if I have to."
A demitasse appears in front of me. "So was it you or your subconscious death wish wot decided to book a holiday in Spooksburg?"
I flop forward onto her counter, resting my pounding head on my forearms. "I don't have a death wish. I'm going insane here, and it all started there. Maybe it ends there too."
She picks up her mobile. "Something tells me I'll regret this, but I know a bloke who does passports. When's your flight supposed to leave?"
"Nyx, I could kiss you."
"We tried that once, love. Wasn't your thing." As my face flushes, she makes a call to her 'bloke', then covers the mouthpiece. "Five hundred quid. You're good for it, right?"
I know how much trouble comes with falsifying a visa; right now, I don't care. I nod and wait for her to hang up, biting my lip. "Have you got something I could take for tonight?"
Her eyebrows rise. "Two days in a row? Bit unusual for you."
My jaw drops. She's giving me a lecture on substance abuse? "The only reason I'm not dead is because I was too busy screwing a stranger to show up for work. How am I supposed to deal with that?"
She throws up her hands. "Screw the Catholic guilt thing, D. I swear, you get off on that more than the sex. You're fucked up like the rest of us. Deal with it."
"I am. A few hours of peace first, Nyx. All I'm asking."
Clearly frustrated, she walks towards a cabinet, producing a brown glass vial. I eye it nervously, hoping it has nothing to do with the demon plant on the counter. Tangling with an angry Aztec cactus god doesn't feel like much of an improvement over being constantly mind-fucked by a persistent Soviet tsipochka.
"This is ketamine. Few drops, under the tongue. You'll be out of your head in no time." When I reach for the vial, she pulls it back. "Promise me whatever you're doing in Russia is the end of it. Swear to me this is the last time you're going to need my kind of help."
I nod solemnly and grasp the vial. Knowing Audra, there's a good chance I'm not going to need anyone's help after this. "You have my word."***
September 11, 2001 – 9:30 PM
Bucharest, Romania
Jonas: The smell is a good indication I'm too late. Gunpowder lingers in the stifling institutional air, filling my heart with a sense of futility. It's not an unfamiliar feeling.
That's you, moy dorogoy, a voice whispers in my ear. A day late, a ruble short. Never quite manage to get the job done right. Too bad for this one.
I ignore her at first. Almost always do, but some days it's easier than others. This isn't one of them. "You know damn well why I'm late, Audra."
The sapphire pilot flame on the kitchen stove flares red-orange, raising the hair on the back of my neck. It indicates the presence of something more difficult to disregard. Another ghost, one who hates me more than the one in my head. One who delights in knowing I failed today.
A silver flask weights my breast pocket. Today and always. My father gave it to me on his death bed. Grudgingly. I unscrew the cap and pour a few drops of its precious contents into my hand. "Get lost. I've had enough trouble from you for one lifetime."
My hand tips, dripping a thin stream onto the pilot. The droplets curve and fall with slow, unearthly gravity. The spirit in the flame tries to push them away, but they fall into the burner anyway. The light sputters and dies, a safety valve slams shut. The gas pipes in the old building creak and bang, emitting a groan that seems to emanate from the ninth circle of hell. The spirit is weak now, a condition which won't last. Of that much and little else, I'm certain.
With a fleeting sigh of resignation, I return to my assigned task; more accurately to salvaging its remnants. I flip a switch on the far wall. Fluorescent lighting left over from the Communist days flickers to life overhead, illuminating a steel desk. The charity manager's body slumps over the faux-wood surface. Bits of skull and gray matter form a guilty spot on the wall behind him, dripping down as one gelatinous mass. When I touch his hand, it's still warm. Ten minutes earlier and I might've had a chance to talk him out of it. Too bad indeed.
"Go with God." These days, I have to force myself into an ecclesiastical mindset. My calling to the priesthood used to be more tangible. With a wave of my hand, I make the sign of the cross over the body. Suicide is supposed to preclude salvation, but I rarely toe the party line anymore. The rites of marriage, baptism, saying mass... haven't done any of them in years. The church finds other uses for me nowadays. I'm here because Rome wants the matter of the dead guy's 'creative accounting' settled quietly.
There are other things I should do, but there are thirty kids downstairs who need attention more. He's God's problem now, not mine.
This dank Romanian orphanage is my penance for sins I've only confessed to God. I'm here often enough to know each of the children by name. To them, I'm simply Papa. Even without my confession, the cardinal who sends me here knows what haunts me all too well: there are other children, children born long ago. Children I couldn't save.
Another lonely, sleepless night lies ahead. Despite my vocation, I haven't always slept alone, nor well since I left the woman who shared my bed. You'll sleep when you're dead, the cardinal once told me. Cold comfort, I thought, knowing the dead don't always sleep.
Vibrations from deep within my pocket startle me out of my thoughts. It takes a moment of fumbling before my fingers grasp the offending device. Everyone who has this number knows better than to call it for anything less than an apocalypse. There's already been one of those today. I spent the better part of an hour talking to a doomed friend in the middle of it, wondering if the woman we both love was safe. Audra thoroughly enjoyed making me beg for the answer.
The caller's number flashes on the display. I hit the answer key and bring the phone to my ear, absentmindedly flipping through the blood-spattered accounting ledger atop the desk. My fingerprints won't matter. I'm not planning to leave it for the cops to find. "What is it, Tory?"
"'Ello, cuz. How's my favorite dirty vicar?" Her put-on Cockney accent and irreverent tone belies her breeding. Most likely belies her purpose for the call too.
That's when I notice a trail of small, bloody footprints leading away from the desk. Bugger. If one of the kids saw this mess, I'm really in for a long night. I wipe a hand over my unshaven face. "A little busy. What do you need?"
"It's what you need, love. To get to London. Tonight. I convinced my father to send the jet to fetch you. You won't get here any other way right now, so swallow your pride and get your arse to the airport. She's going back, Jonas."
Dread fills my soul. Audra lied. She's far from safe. "You were supposed to stop her. Remember?"
Knowing laughter assaults my ears. "Nothing stops Hurricane Delaney, darling. You know that. I wouldn't have had a chance and neither will you. Look on the bright side. The second chance you've always been afraid to take? You're getting it anyway. On a platter. Try not to bollocks it up this time."***
September 11, 2001 – 10:00 PM
London, England
Delaney: "Terribly sorry, Ms. Nichols, but we have no new information." The gate agent puts on a brave face, trying to pretend I'm not annoying her. We both know I am. Thanks to Nyx, I'm back at Heathrow with my falsified travel documents as a misty rain falls outside. The place is a nightmare of confused and saddened humanity, and I can't find anyone who has the slightest idea when my flight will depart. Safe to think it won't until sometime tomorrow. Unfortunately, the chaos has the airport hotels booked solid.
I head off to find a place to hide from the world for the rest of the night. A swim and shower at one of the West End pools got me into fresh clothes, but the exercise didn't clear my head the way it usually does. I find the only empty seat in a darkened corner and sink into it.
Eyes closed or open, all I see are explosions, interspersed with faces of the dead. If I have to spend all night like this, I'm going to lose it. Tomorrow, everything is going to change. Tomorrow, I get my life back. Tomorrow can't come soon enough.
I thumb the cap of Nyx's vial, contemplating whether to open it. On one hand, I'm not going to sleep without it. On the other, if Ben calls, I won't hear the phone.
Audra comes tiptoeing back into my head, the nagging voice of doubt. He's not going to call, Delaney. You know that by now.
Hearing her voice again is the kicker. Maybe she's telling the truth. Maybe she's screwing with me. Her little puppet on a string, that's me. The problem with pissing off ghosts is the amount of time they have to make you regret it. Audra never believed I held up my end of our bargain, a conclusion I find hard to dispute. I pop the vial and bring it to my lips, grimacing as the taste of licorice mixed with mouthwash hits my tongue.
I'm not sure how much time passes, but somewhere along the way, my body melted into a mass of blue plastic in human form. Strangely comforting. A warm glow undulates around my mind. It seems almost animate, wanting to protect me from something sinister I can feel but can't see. I seek a place deeper inside the glow, and my awareness dims with every step I take. That blissful separation is all I know until morning.*
Hours later, the warm glow retreats. I did my best, it whispers, then dissolves like so much nothingness. The whirr of an electric motor convinces me to open my eyes; a maintenance man with a floor buffer bobs in an out of view at the end of the hall. For a fleeting instant, it feels like there's someone behind me in the other row of chairs, but when I turn, the seat is empty. Frankly, it's not an unusual feeling for me. Although, given the lingering effects of the ketamine, I'm not feeling much yet.
Across the terminal, a newspaper box slams shut, having disgorged a copy of the morning edition. I get up and stumble over to see the headline. "NOUS SOMMES TOUS AMÉRICAINS!" The other broadsheets express similar degrees of shock, sympathy, and solidarity. It's too horrible to comprehend. The man with his floor buffer is going about his business while travelers filter through the terminal in a shell-shocked daze. Still, life goes on, for the rest of us.
I turn my attention to the departure monitors. All the US-bound flights are cancelled, but many others are on time. Except...
BA0878 ST. PETERSBURG SCH: 09:30 ACT: DELAYED
Figures. I feel that same presence behind me again, a nervous energy. What I see when I turn makes me wonder if I'm still hallucinating. Or at least hope I am...
He's a slender six-foot-two to my five-seven, with uncooperative dark blonde hair that was probably almost white when he was a kid. The seen-it-all jadedness in his hazel eyes puts him in his late thirties, but the rest of his well-tanned, patrician face looks younger. He could have been any one of the idle rich prats who've tried to charm me out of my skirt all those evenings over the years…but he wasn't. Not by a long shot.
He was, however, the first.
"Hey." The barest trace of an old London accent tinges his voice, hesitant and unsure.
I stare at him pointedly. "Something I can help you with?" Go away. Please, if you ever cared, go away. If I'm still hallucinating, maybe I can make him disappear. Worth a shot.
"Are you okay?" He stubbornly refuses to cease existence.
"If I say yes, are you more or less likely to leave me alone?"
He frowns. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the broomstick this morning. Or shall I assume it's me?"
Normally, 'bitch' is a compliment in my book, but I'm not in the mood. "Probably. I'm very friendly under normal circumstances. In fact, the last guy who tried to chat me up around here got way more than he bargained for out of the deal."
"I didn't need to know that." The thinnest hint of annoyance slips into his voice.
He wipes his hand over his face, over at least a day's worth of growth, nervously smoothes the tailored Italian suit which undoubtedly looked better yesterday. A power-red tie hangs loose around his neck, his dress shirt is rumpled and he's got his suit coat slung over his left shoulder.
I know he's struggling with what to say next, so I decide to put us both out of his misery and hold out my hand. "Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Delaney. And you are?"
For a long moment, he simply stares at me. Then he clasps his hand around mine, his grip strong and painfully comforting. "Fine, I'll play along. I'm Jonas, Delaney. It's a pleasure."
With my hand in his, I feel a memory of something I'd long since put behind me. Finally, my good sense returns and I pull my hand back. "Is it? Good for you, Jonas. Now get the hell away from me."
If he contemplates doing as I ask for even a second, he doesn't show it. "You don't really want me to go, do you? We could be here for a long time. Our flight is delayed."
There is no 'our' here, you bastard. There's me, there's you. About to part company, and the sooner the better. No goodbye, just like the last time. "I don't remember telling you where I was going."
"You're going to Leningrad."
"St. Petersburg. They changed the name about a decade ago. In case you missed it."
"Call it Petrograd for all I care. Same bloody place. It's where you're headed, though I'll be damned if I understand why."
"Mind telling me how you know?" And like bloody hell you don't understand why.
"Well, you're standing about two inches from a screen that shows it as the only delayed flight. Beyond that, yeah, I mind."
His words make me realize I'm standing embarrassingly close to the monitors. And the bemused grin he's sporting tells me he's enjoying it far too much. I step back, cursing my addled brain. "You're easily the most maddening hallucination I've ever experienced." He obviously knows I'm faking, but I'm not sure what else to do to get rid of him. Why the hell is he here?
"Christ, D, what the fuck are you on?"
Don't you dare call me that. "Mm, think it was an orgasm pill. Made the sex so… fucking… amazing…" I close my eyes and loll back on the last three breathily-spoken words. Unfortunately, the ketamine nearly sends me to the floor as penance. I have to grab his arm to keep myself upright. Real smooth, Delaney.
His entire body goes rigid. "Any guy who screwed a woman in your condition should have his head examined."
"Excuse me?" I let go of his arm. It's pathetic to react with indignity at a patriarchal remark when you're relying on the person making said remark for physical support. Even more so when said person isn't exactly one to talk.
"You heard me. And you look like shit, by the way." His hand balls into a fist and it looks like he's about to punch one of the monitors. The anger on his face fades into uncomfortable familiarity and he steps in close.
"Sod it. Everything that bastard did to you, Audra let it happen. Everything he did to us. Remember? Because I sure as hell do. If you've gone mad enough to go back for more, at least let me help." He backs me up towards the bank of monitors, whispering his words conspiratorially, perhaps afraid someone will overhear and realize he's as mad as I am. "You can't do this on your own, D."
"Stop calling me that," I whisper back. When we met before, I didn't know him as Jonas. At least not at first. But he always called me D.
"No. Let me buy you breakfast. You'll feel better. We can catch up, talk about old times." His continuing advance forces me to take yet another step back, in a direction where I'm running out of real estate.
His next words go directly in my ear, and I feel his breath, warm against my neck. It's torture, hearing her voice in my head all the time; hearing his may drive me mad. "I'll even let you keep pretending you don't know me," he says. "Abuse me all you want. You know I can take it. But get over the idea you're going back without me. Not gonna happen. Got it?"
"I hate you," I murmur. "You realize that, right?"
With a wan nod, he stoops to pick up my bag. "Just like I said you would. Now shall we?"
Eventually, I decide to follow his lead. What can I say, the offer to let me torture him won me over. Besides, he'll be gone before too long… if history is any guide
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September 11, 2001 – 15:00 GMT
London, England
I first met Audra more than a decade ago, during a miserable screwed-up moment when I felt weary of the world and wary of everyone in it. That August found me teetering on the brink of adulthood, awash in dizzying emotions I couldn't possibly manage. My parents had been dead about a year at that point. Since Audra was a ghost, she had a lot more practice with the whole dead thing.
The night we met, I was staying in a hotel not far from where she died. She'd been stuck there ever since. Guess I wasn't so much trapped as lost; when you're searching for love, searching for faith, searching for meaning, sometimes you get so wrapped up in it all that you forget how to move.
The hotel room where I've currently got myself stuck bears little resemblance to Audra's opulent haunt, and the naïve girl who dared befriend a lonely ghost resembles me even less. Last night, I was digging the pink-and-orange Lucite décor in this SoHo suite, the unfortunate side effect of a chemically-induced love for mankind which wore off hours ago. Now that I'm nursing a set of shag-carpet rug burns, the place is a Warholian nightmare.
Love, faith, meaning - my troubles started when Audra offered a glimpse of everything I sought. Damn foolish of me to think I could take her up on it without paying a price. Can't say she didn't warn me. Especially about the love bit.
You promised you'd help me, Delaney. Why did you leave?
"Shut up, Audra," I whisper. She hasn't shut up since yesterday. I'm not expecting her to start now.
They're dead because of you. You saw what he did. How could you let it happen?
I close my eyes and push her voice out of my head through sheer force of will. Is there still a connection between us or is it my guilty conscience talking? Wish I knew. But since that night, it's always been there.
All I wanted was to have my mind to myself for a few hours, but globe lights in the bathroom shine harsh reality on the end result. Mad-sex hair, smeared makeup, even a hickey, for chrissakes. I shut my eyes, opting to focus on the throbbing pain in my skull. Hardly a challenge. Right now, even my hair hurts.
"Hey Delaney," a male voice calls. Unfortunately, no chance this one's a figment of my imagination. "What the hell are you doing in there?"
Mostly, I'm trying to convince myself one night of smoking won't give me lung cancer. I turn on the tap, gulping cool water straight from the source. A hundred years or so of hard water left a brown stain around the drain and the liquid tastes like it came straight from the bottom of the Thames, but it feels like I'll never get enough.
Footsteps approach from the bedroom. "Delaney? You fall in?"
I wipe my face on his shirt. Since I have no hips, tits, or ass to speak of, it's a tent, but it covers things I no longer want exposed. "Just wondering how to live the rest of my life knowing I'll never see you again." Enough sarcasm dribbles out to make it clear the all-night, all-day screwfest is over.
"So let's do this again next time we're in the same city," he hollers back. Seems my sarcasm flew over his head. This does not bode well for a graceful exit.
First Officer Matthew Corcoran appears around the corner. Completely starkers. He was the co-pilot on my flight yesterday. I was about to deplane when he pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to help him redefine the word 'layover'. What can I say, I felt pity for someone whose pickup lines were that bad. We hit a bar and Audra started chattering. The rest is a blur.
"Give me your cell number." He finds his phone and waits for my digits.
I shake my head weakly. "Still hoping to make it to thirty next year. One more night like this and I might not."
Four Stoli and Red Bulls, three Dunhill Lights and two hits of Ecstasy ago, his cocky grin seemed much more endearing. "C'mon, Red, we had fun. You're insane in all the right ways and a few of the wrong ones too. All I want is your name."
Last thing I need right now is a transcontinental flyboy fuck buddy. "Fine. It's Spencer, Delaney Spencer."
"Liar." He reaches into the purse I left on the counter and starts rummaging.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
He finds my passport and holds it up so I can't grab it. "Few hours ago my dick was six inches up your ass. Now you're worried about my hand in your purse?"
I swear he wasn't this much of a prick last night. "Six inches? They let you fly a plane with that kind of depth perception?"
The slight on his manhood doesn't faze him. "Yes, Ms. Delaney Ann Nichols of Gloucester, Massachusetts, they do." His brow knits. "Nichols? From Gloucester? Had a buddy in the Gulf named Eric Nichols from the same place...damn good pilot. Any relation?"
He pronounces it Glo-cess-ter. It's Gloss-ter. And I haven't lived there for a very long time. If all this was Audra's idea of a joke, it's not funny. I manage to jump up and grab my passport. "No."
"Good. That guy would kick my ass if he found out I tagged his little sister."
Actually, he'd probably castrate you with a teaspoon. Eric got a little overprotective after Mom and Dad died. "Look, I'm going."
Matt steps behind me, pressing all five and seven-eighths inches of his erection against my back. "C'mon, stay. Just don't call me daddy again. Frickin' weird."
I freeze. If I said anything like that, it was Father, not daddy. But if I brought him up whilst in the throes, I was even further gone than I thought last night. Fortunately, Matt would rather fondle me than hear an explanation. My cell phone chirps. "Saved by the bell."
Or, according to the caller ID, my new boss's secretary. My transfer to our Washington office doesn't take effect until next week, but now I vaguely remember a conference call I was supposed to be on in New York. Fuck. I never used to be this forgetful.
Matt is still poking me when I flip open the phone. "Therese, I'm sorry about the –"
"Delaney, thank God." The tremor in her voice is not reassuring. She normally displays the emotional volatility of a sea cucumber. "Where are you?"
"London. I, uh, missed my connection. Is something wrong?"
"You haven't heard? Delaney, it's – it's devastating." Her words tumble out, but they don't make sense at first. "There's some sort of attack going on. I've been calling all our employees who are traveling, trying to make sure everyone is safe."
"Are they?" Prickling anxiety settles into my bones.
She doesn't answer for a moment. "No one is answering at the New York office."
My job involves managing charitable foundations for clients of a brokerage house, Lisbon and Son, LLC. We have a small office in the North Tower. Today was supposed to be my last day, so I figured there was no big deal playing hooky.
Therese tries to keep her voice even. "Delaney, I know you don't want to hear this, but I can't get Ben on his mobile either."
A coppery taste floods my mouth. Please God no. Ben is a fellow traveler from the trip to Russia which introduced me to Audra. We reconnected a few years later, around the time Leningrad kicked out the communists and changed its name back to St. Petersburg. Ben's also the 'son' in Lisbon and Son, and my former boss to boot. Among other things.
Matt is staring at me with growing concern. I point towards the TV. "Turn on the news. There's been some sort of accident in New York."
When Therese said a plane hit the Trade Center, I was thinking some off-his-meds moron in a Cessna. Sky News disabuses me of that notion in an instant. Breaking news alerts in bloody crimson scrawl all over the screen. On instinct, I start to cross myself, then think better of it. Me and God? Not on the best of terms.
Crashing nausea gets the better of me as the live videos continue to roll. Please, Ben, tell me today was the second day you were ever late for work. When I look up, Matt is standing over me with a towel. "Here. You okay?"
After wiping my mouth, I reply, "I have a - a friend who works there."
"Hope he got out." Matt's voice cracks. "Bastards hit the Pentagon too. Maybe a car bomb at the State Department. Nobody seems to know what's happening."
It's too much and tears start to fall. He hauls me into his arms until my sobs subside. Five minutes ago, I couldn't wait to get away from him. Now I'll take comfort anywhere I can get it.
He brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. "Listen, Delaney, I gotta do something." He swears under his breath, grabs his cell phone and dials a few keys. "Hey Tony? Yeah, I know, you're busy. Listen... I quit. Why the fuck you think? I'm going back in. Some towelhead pulls this kind of shit in my country? Last thing he's gonna do is deep throat one of my Tomahawks." He snaps the phone shut. "We're at war."
The singular clarity of his assertion hits with the force of a bludgeon. "With whom?"
His face fills with unfocused wrath. "I don't know. The Iraqis maybe. We'll bomb those fuckers right back to the Stone Age."
"Oh God." The dull ache in my head grows. The fact my life is a mess now is my own damn fault, but what brought Audra and I together was in my family, as in hers, the effects of war tend to linger long after the shooting stops. You won't find us on any casualty rolls, but the way I see it, Vietnam cost both my parents their lives, the Cold War ripped out my soul, and the last Iraq war ruined my relationship with my brother. "Do you have Eric's number?" I ask weakly.
"Wait – you said he was no relation!"
"I lied." I run into the bedroom to collect my things.
"Christ, you're that whackjob kid sister of his, aren't you?"
"Way to put two and two together, genius." I pull on my skirt and find my flats beneath a pile of condom wrappers. "Do you have his number or not?"
"Sorry." Matt pushes the door shut just as I pull it open. "Don't go. You won't be able to get home anyhow. Stay with me."
I've seen that look before; the certain warrior resigning himself to an uncertain fate for some larger purpose, seeking comfort at a dark hour wherever he can find it. This time, it won't be from me.
I duck under his arm and into the hallway, heading straight for the elevator. Rather than push the lobby button, I sink into a heap on the floor and wait for the doors to close.
The elevator's downward lurch nearly leaves my unsettled stomach behind. I run my fingers through tangled hair, drop my dizzy head between my knees to blot out the muzak, and begin to weep. Weep for Eric, who's probably fine. Weep for Ben, who's probably not.
Faces of all those I've lost through the years begin to flash across my eyes. All far too young. "God, please, no more."
You used to be stronger than this, chides Audra, sensing opportunity.
I bang my head on the elevator wall. "Go away, Audra, please go away."
You and Jonas made a mess of things, but it's not too late. You think God is punishing you? Finish what you started. Isn't that what your parents would say?
If she keeps this up, the flashbacks are going to kick in. They always do. I press my thumbs against my eyeballs, willing them away. "Not a chance."
There are very good reasons I haven't been back to Russia in eleven years, chief among them that she and dear Father Jonas MacNeil nearly got me killed the last time. And a few other people weren't so lucky. If God is punishing me, it's because I damn well deserve it.
I'm tired of existing like this, she sighs. Aren't you? Come back, Delaney. Hear me out. No matter what you decide to do, I swear, you'll never hear my voice again.
I slump against the counter while she's entering my information. My skull is going to crack open if she types any louder and her tsk-ing makes me want to puke in her pencil cup.
Dragon lady folds her hands atop the counter, revealing chipped green nail polish. "I'm sorry, Ms. Nichols. On your previous trip to Russia, you did not pass through border control when you left."
"There's a logical explanation for that." Unfortunately, I was unconscious at the time and have no idea what it is.
When I bite my lip, she readjusts her acid-green reading glasses. "The Russian government believes you are still in the country, albeit illegally, since you overstayed your visa by approximately eleven years."
My jaw drops. "I'm standing right here in front of you."
"Yes, I can see that." Not even a hint of irony.
Let's see where the truth gets me. "See, I lost my passport in Leningrad in 1990."
She returns a Sweet n' Low smile. "This doesn't explain how you arrived home without passing through Russian exit controls."
Frigid cow probably has to visualize forms in triplicate to achieve orgasm. "No, but – look, it's a long story." Since it involves the phrase 'a ghost stole my passport', one I have no intention of telling. "Can't you call the American consulate?"
"They're preoccupied. Good day, Ms. Nichols." She walks away and turns off the lights.
I've had enough reality for one day. Travel for work puts me in London a lot. I've got a good friend in town I can go to when I need something to shut Audra up. The wench hasn't made a peep since I bought my plane ticket, but my memories and guilty conscience are just as bad. It's time to go see Nyx.
Of course, Nyx isn't her real name. By day, you could mistake her for the head of the local PTA, except she'd rather eat her own head than have children. At night, it's a different story. Nyx, Goddess of the SoHo night, is a believer in the untapped connection between mind, body, and the world that lies beyond. Thanks to Audra, I'm pretty good at that last bit on my own.
A brass-buttoned doorman waves me into the elevator. Nyx opens the penthouse door in response to my knock, wearing a soft grey Chloé hip-length cardigan which probably cost more than my last-minute plane ticket. Don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly destitute, but she makes me look like a charity case.
Her ultra blonde highlights are swept into a sleek twist and she's got some sort of a weird potted plant in her left hand. Two-inch spikes spring from the waxy surface, the tips ooze iridescent sap. It looks like it could make you hallucinate if you even look at it funny.
"Delaney! Christ, you look like hell. Get in here before someone sees you and calls a priest. Or at least an exorcist."
Guess that's her idea of a joke. Still not laughing. She hustles me into her enormous white kitchen, sets the plant on the polished concrete countertop, and starts making me an espresso. Espresso is pretty much the only 'cooking' she does. She catches me staring numbly at a TV news report and turns the set off. "Thank goodness you weren't part of this madness."
Tears well up. "I haven't heard from Ben yet. I've called three times. The circuits are busy."
She drums her fingers. "I thought you two were off at the moment."
Whether he's alive or dead, we're off for good this time. Last week, I bitched him out in front of the entire office when he dared call me his girlfriend. Hence the hasty transfer to the Washington office. When I don't say anything, her expression softens. "Delaney, I'm sure Ben is fine."
Bullshit. If she was sure he was fine, she'd call him Ben-dover, like she usually does. "It's not just him."
She turns away from the espresso. "Audra? The MDMA I gave you last night didn't help?"
Besides me, only two people know what happened with Audra. Nyx is … well… the other one. "I can't take living like this anymore. I booked a flight to St. Petersburg, then couldn't get a visa. I swear, I'll walk back if I have to."
A demitasse appears in front of me. "So was it you or your subconscious death wish wot decided to book a holiday in Spooksburg?"
I flop forward onto her counter, resting my pounding head on my forearms. "I don't have a death wish. I'm going insane here, and it all started there. Maybe it ends there too."
She picks up her mobile. "Something tells me I'll regret this, but I know a bloke who does passports. When's your flight supposed to leave?"
"Nyx, I could kiss you."
"We tried that once, love. Wasn't your thing." As my face flushes, she makes a call to her 'bloke', then covers the mouthpiece. "Five hundred quid. You're good for it, right?"
I know how much trouble comes with falsifying a visa; right now, I don't care. I nod and wait for her to hang up, biting my lip. "Have you got something I could take for tonight?"
Her eyebrows rise. "Two days in a row? Bit unusual for you."
My jaw drops. She's giving me a lecture on substance abuse? "The only reason I'm not dead is because I was too busy screwing a stranger to show up for work. How am I supposed to deal with that?"
She throws up her hands. "Screw the Catholic guilt thing, D. I swear, you get off on that more than the sex. You're fucked up like the rest of us. Deal with it."
"I am. A few hours of peace first, Nyx. All I'm asking."
Clearly frustrated, she walks towards a cabinet, producing a brown glass vial. I eye it nervously, hoping it has nothing to do with the demon plant on the counter. Tangling with an angry Aztec cactus god doesn't feel like much of an improvement over being constantly mind-fucked by a persistent Soviet tsipochka.
"This is ketamine. Few drops, under the tongue. You'll be out of your head in no time." When I reach for the vial, she pulls it back. "Promise me whatever you're doing in Russia is the end of it. Swear to me this is the last time you're going to need my kind of help."
I nod solemnly and grasp the vial. Knowing Audra, there's a good chance I'm not going to need anyone's help after this. "You have my word."
Bucharest, Romania
Jonas: The smell is a good indication I'm too late. Gunpowder lingers in the stifling institutional air, filling my heart with a sense of futility. It's not an unfamiliar feeling.
That's you, moy dorogoy, a voice whispers in my ear. A day late, a ruble short. Never quite manage to get the job done right. Too bad for this one.
I ignore her at first. Almost always do, but some days it's easier than others. This isn't one of them. "You know damn well why I'm late, Audra."
The sapphire pilot flame on the kitchen stove flares red-orange, raising the hair on the back of my neck. It indicates the presence of something more difficult to disregard. Another ghost, one who hates me more than the one in my head. One who delights in knowing I failed today.
A silver flask weights my breast pocket. Today and always. My father gave it to me on his death bed. Grudgingly. I unscrew the cap and pour a few drops of its precious contents into my hand. "Get lost. I've had enough trouble from you for one lifetime."
My hand tips, dripping a thin stream onto the pilot. The droplets curve and fall with slow, unearthly gravity. The spirit in the flame tries to push them away, but they fall into the burner anyway. The light sputters and dies, a safety valve slams shut. The gas pipes in the old building creak and bang, emitting a groan that seems to emanate from the ninth circle of hell. The spirit is weak now, a condition which won't last. Of that much and little else, I'm certain.
With a fleeting sigh of resignation, I return to my assigned task; more accurately to salvaging its remnants. I flip a switch on the far wall. Fluorescent lighting left over from the Communist days flickers to life overhead, illuminating a steel desk. The charity manager's body slumps over the faux-wood surface. Bits of skull and gray matter form a guilty spot on the wall behind him, dripping down as one gelatinous mass. When I touch his hand, it's still warm. Ten minutes earlier and I might've had a chance to talk him out of it. Too bad indeed.
"Go with God." These days, I have to force myself into an ecclesiastical mindset. My calling to the priesthood used to be more tangible. With a wave of my hand, I make the sign of the cross over the body. Suicide is supposed to preclude salvation, but I rarely toe the party line anymore. The rites of marriage, baptism, saying mass... haven't done any of them in years. The church finds other uses for me nowadays. I'm here because Rome wants the matter of the dead guy's 'creative accounting' settled quietly.
There are other things I should do, but there are thirty kids downstairs who need attention more. He's God's problem now, not mine.
This dank Romanian orphanage is my penance for sins I've only confessed to God. I'm here often enough to know each of the children by name. To them, I'm simply Papa. Even without my confession, the cardinal who sends me here knows what haunts me all too well: there are other children, children born long ago. Children I couldn't save.
Another lonely, sleepless night lies ahead. Despite my vocation, I haven't always slept alone, nor well since I left the woman who shared my bed. You'll sleep when you're dead, the cardinal once told me. Cold comfort, I thought, knowing the dead don't always sleep.
Vibrations from deep within my pocket startle me out of my thoughts. It takes a moment of fumbling before my fingers grasp the offending device. Everyone who has this number knows better than to call it for anything less than an apocalypse. There's already been one of those today. I spent the better part of an hour talking to a doomed friend in the middle of it, wondering if the woman we both love was safe. Audra thoroughly enjoyed making me beg for the answer.
The caller's number flashes on the display. I hit the answer key and bring the phone to my ear, absentmindedly flipping through the blood-spattered accounting ledger atop the desk. My fingerprints won't matter. I'm not planning to leave it for the cops to find. "What is it, Tory?"
"'Ello, cuz. How's my favorite dirty vicar?" Her put-on Cockney accent and irreverent tone belies her breeding. Most likely belies her purpose for the call too.
That's when I notice a trail of small, bloody footprints leading away from the desk. Bugger. If one of the kids saw this mess, I'm really in for a long night. I wipe a hand over my unshaven face. "A little busy. What do you need?"
"It's what you need, love. To get to London. Tonight. I convinced my father to send the jet to fetch you. You won't get here any other way right now, so swallow your pride and get your arse to the airport. She's going back, Jonas."
Dread fills my soul. Audra lied. She's far from safe. "You were supposed to stop her. Remember?"
Knowing laughter assaults my ears. "Nothing stops Hurricane Delaney, darling. You know that. I wouldn't have had a chance and neither will you. Look on the bright side. The second chance you've always been afraid to take? You're getting it anyway. On a platter. Try not to bollocks it up this time."
London, England
Delaney: "Terribly sorry, Ms. Nichols, but we have no new information." The gate agent puts on a brave face, trying to pretend I'm not annoying her. We both know I am. Thanks to Nyx, I'm back at Heathrow with my falsified travel documents as a misty rain falls outside. The place is a nightmare of confused and saddened humanity, and I can't find anyone who has the slightest idea when my flight will depart. Safe to think it won't until sometime tomorrow. Unfortunately, the chaos has the airport hotels booked solid.
I head off to find a place to hide from the world for the rest of the night. A swim and shower at one of the West End pools got me into fresh clothes, but the exercise didn't clear my head the way it usually does. I find the only empty seat in a darkened corner and sink into it.
Eyes closed or open, all I see are explosions, interspersed with faces of the dead. If I have to spend all night like this, I'm going to lose it. Tomorrow, everything is going to change. Tomorrow, I get my life back. Tomorrow can't come soon enough.
I thumb the cap of Nyx's vial, contemplating whether to open it. On one hand, I'm not going to sleep without it. On the other, if Ben calls, I won't hear the phone.
Audra comes tiptoeing back into my head, the nagging voice of doubt. He's not going to call, Delaney. You know that by now.
Hearing her voice again is the kicker. Maybe she's telling the truth. Maybe she's screwing with me. Her little puppet on a string, that's me. The problem with pissing off ghosts is the amount of time they have to make you regret it. Audra never believed I held up my end of our bargain, a conclusion I find hard to dispute. I pop the vial and bring it to my lips, grimacing as the taste of licorice mixed with mouthwash hits my tongue.
I'm not sure how much time passes, but somewhere along the way, my body melted into a mass of blue plastic in human form. Strangely comforting. A warm glow undulates around my mind. It seems almost animate, wanting to protect me from something sinister I can feel but can't see. I seek a place deeper inside the glow, and my awareness dims with every step I take. That blissful separation is all I know until morning.
Hours later, the warm glow retreats. I did my best, it whispers, then dissolves like so much nothingness. The whirr of an electric motor convinces me to open my eyes; a maintenance man with a floor buffer bobs in an out of view at the end of the hall. For a fleeting instant, it feels like there's someone behind me in the other row of chairs, but when I turn, the seat is empty. Frankly, it's not an unusual feeling for me. Although, given the lingering effects of the ketamine, I'm not feeling much yet.
Across the terminal, a newspaper box slams shut, having disgorged a copy of the morning edition. I get up and stumble over to see the headline. "NOUS SOMMES TOUS AMÉRICAINS!" The other broadsheets express similar degrees of shock, sympathy, and solidarity. It's too horrible to comprehend. The man with his floor buffer is going about his business while travelers filter through the terminal in a shell-shocked daze. Still, life goes on, for the rest of us.
I turn my attention to the departure monitors. All the US-bound flights are cancelled, but many others are on time. Except...
Figures. I feel that same presence behind me again, a nervous energy. What I see when I turn makes me wonder if I'm still hallucinating. Or at least hope I am...
He's a slender six-foot-two to my five-seven, with uncooperative dark blonde hair that was probably almost white when he was a kid. The seen-it-all jadedness in his hazel eyes puts him in his late thirties, but the rest of his well-tanned, patrician face looks younger. He could have been any one of the idle rich prats who've tried to charm me out of my skirt all those evenings over the years…but he wasn't. Not by a long shot.
He was, however, the first.
"Hey." The barest trace of an old London accent tinges his voice, hesitant and unsure.
I stare at him pointedly. "Something I can help you with?" Go away. Please, if you ever cared, go away. If I'm still hallucinating, maybe I can make him disappear. Worth a shot.
"Are you okay?" He stubbornly refuses to cease existence.
"If I say yes, are you more or less likely to leave me alone?"
He frowns. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the broomstick this morning. Or shall I assume it's me?"
Normally, 'bitch' is a compliment in my book, but I'm not in the mood. "Probably. I'm very friendly under normal circumstances. In fact, the last guy who tried to chat me up around here got way more than he bargained for out of the deal."
"I didn't need to know that." The thinnest hint of annoyance slips into his voice.
He wipes his hand over his face, over at least a day's worth of growth, nervously smoothes the tailored Italian suit which undoubtedly looked better yesterday. A power-red tie hangs loose around his neck, his dress shirt is rumpled and he's got his suit coat slung over his left shoulder.
I know he's struggling with what to say next, so I decide to put us both out of his misery and hold out my hand. "Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Delaney. And you are?"
For a long moment, he simply stares at me. Then he clasps his hand around mine, his grip strong and painfully comforting. "Fine, I'll play along. I'm Jonas, Delaney. It's a pleasure."
With my hand in his, I feel a memory of something I'd long since put behind me. Finally, my good sense returns and I pull my hand back. "Is it? Good for you, Jonas. Now get the hell away from me."
If he contemplates doing as I ask for even a second, he doesn't show it. "You don't really want me to go, do you? We could be here for a long time. Our flight is delayed."
There is no 'our' here, you bastard. There's me, there's you. About to part company, and the sooner the better. No goodbye, just like the last time. "I don't remember telling you where I was going."
"You're going to Leningrad."
"St. Petersburg. They changed the name about a decade ago. In case you missed it."
"Call it Petrograd for all I care. Same bloody place. It's where you're headed, though I'll be damned if I understand why."
"Mind telling me how you know?" And like bloody hell you don't understand why.
"Well, you're standing about two inches from a screen that shows it as the only delayed flight. Beyond that, yeah, I mind."
His words make me realize I'm standing embarrassingly close to the monitors. And the bemused grin he's sporting tells me he's enjoying it far too much. I step back, cursing my addled brain. "You're easily the most maddening hallucination I've ever experienced." He obviously knows I'm faking, but I'm not sure what else to do to get rid of him. Why the hell is he here?
"Christ, D, what the fuck are you on?"
Don't you dare call me that. "Mm, think it was an orgasm pill. Made the sex so… fucking… amazing…" I close my eyes and loll back on the last three breathily-spoken words. Unfortunately, the ketamine nearly sends me to the floor as penance. I have to grab his arm to keep myself upright. Real smooth, Delaney.
His entire body goes rigid. "Any guy who screwed a woman in your condition should have his head examined."
"Excuse me?" I let go of his arm. It's pathetic to react with indignity at a patriarchal remark when you're relying on the person making said remark for physical support. Even more so when said person isn't exactly one to talk.
"You heard me. And you look like shit, by the way." His hand balls into a fist and it looks like he's about to punch one of the monitors. The anger on his face fades into uncomfortable familiarity and he steps in close.
"Sod it. Everything that bastard did to you, Audra let it happen. Everything he did to us. Remember? Because I sure as hell do. If you've gone mad enough to go back for more, at least let me help." He backs me up towards the bank of monitors, whispering his words conspiratorially, perhaps afraid someone will overhear and realize he's as mad as I am. "You can't do this on your own, D."
"Stop calling me that," I whisper back. When we met before, I didn't know him as Jonas. At least not at first. But he always called me D.
"No. Let me buy you breakfast. You'll feel better. We can catch up, talk about old times." His continuing advance forces me to take yet another step back, in a direction where I'm running out of real estate.
His next words go directly in my ear, and I feel his breath, warm against my neck. It's torture, hearing her voice in my head all the time; hearing his may drive me mad. "I'll even let you keep pretending you don't know me," he says. "Abuse me all you want. You know I can take it. But get over the idea you're going back without me. Not gonna happen. Got it?"
"I hate you," I murmur. "You realize that, right?"
With a wan nod, he stoops to pick up my bag. "Just like I said you would. Now shall we?"
Eventually, I decide to follow his lead. What can I say, the offer to let me torture him won me over. Besides, he'll be gone before too long… if history is any guide
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