Darknight

1. Barriers-2

I didn’t have time for any more speculation — or snooping. Connor had said he’d be back in “a while,” which could’ve meant anything from fifteen minutes to an hour or more. I really didn’t want to find out what his reaction would be if he caught me poking around in his room.

Just to be safe, I took the hem of my shirt and wiped down the laptop’s lid in case I’d left any fingerprints behind. Then I hurried back to the guest room, and knelt down and rummaged through the duffle bag. Sure enough, there was the underwear I had picked out at Nordstrom Rack in Phoenix, and the bras, although the tags had been removed, and they felt as if they’d been washed. Someone was being conscientious, that’s for sure.

I took the underwear and a pair of jeans and a lace-trimmed silver-gray tank with me to the bathroom. The room was larger than I’d expected, and the shower far more up-to-date than the claw-footed monstrosities I’d used in both my aunt’s apartment and the house I inherited from Great-Aunt Ruby. Here was warm rustic tile and a huge square shower head in an equally huge glassed-in enclosure.

Big enough for two, part of my mind whispered at me, and I shut that notion down as soon as it popped up. Goddess, was I going to have to fight these thoughts even when Connor wasn’t in the immediate vicinity?

Scowling, I locked the door behind me, then wiggled the knob just to make sure the mechanism had caught. Not, of course, that a locked door was much good in keeping out a witch or warlock determined on getting in, but it gave me a spurious sense of security.

The hot water came on fast, strong and steady. I quickly climbed out of my night clothes and got into the shower enclosure, letting the water from that amazing shower head run all over me, rinsing away some of the dregs of last night’s terrors. Not all, but it’s hard to feel completely depressed in a hot shower.

Connor had some kind of natural-brand shampoo and conditioner for dark hair, and a big bar of a creamy soap that smelled of cloves and mint. Obviously he wasn’t getting his toiletries at Walmart. Wherever he’d bought it, it all felt wonderful, and I soaped myself up well, then let the water wash away the richly scented suds.

I didn’t lose myself so much that I allowed myself to linger, however, and it was probably only about ten minutes later that I shut off the water and reached out to the rack for a towel. The one closest to me felt damp, which meant that Connor must have used it earlier that morning. I lifted my hand quickly and grabbed the other towel, which was big and brown and fluffy. A fast dry-off, and then I wrapped it around my hair and got out, and just as hastily put on the underwear and the tank top and the jeans. At least now if Connor decided to burst in on me, I was covered up.

But there was no sign of him as I blotted my hair, and then refolded the towel and put it back on the rack. A quick glance of the toiletries under the sink showed nothing that I could really use. Then I remembered the small bag of odds and ends in the duffle, the one Connor had mentioned.

So I went back to the guest room and rummaged around, locating a nice little care packet with a toothbrush still in its package, some deodorant, a comb and brush, and a minimal amount of makeup: blush, mascara, rose-colored lip gloss. There was also some kind of leave-in spray for my hair that promised “beachy waves,” the sort of thing Sydney had always urged me to try, although I couldn’t really be bothered to spend money on something that I was pretty sure wouldn’t do much to tame my unruly locks.

Still, what the hell.

I took the care package with me back to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, applied deodorant, and then put on some makeup, mostly because I was annoyed that Connor had seen me this morning with bedhead and the smudged remains of the cosmetics I’d worn out the night before. Might as well put on a good front.

The spray I scrunched into my hair and then left it to air-dry. Normally I wouldn’t have gone around with wet hair, not in the depths of December, but Connor’s apartment seemed fairly snug and warm for a building so old. It definitely wasn’t as drafty as the big Victorian I’d left behind in Jerome.

Feeling a little more human — actually, I was surprised I wasn’t hung over, considering how much I’d had to drink the night before, but maybe all the shocks had knocked the alcohol right out of my system — I returned to the guest room and placed my supplies back in the duffle bag. There was a zippered pocket at one end, and I shoved yesterday’s underwear in there. No way was I going to allow that to mingle with Connor’s dirty clothes in the wicker laundry hamper I’d spied in the bathroom.

One of the sweaters I’d picked out at Nordstrom Rack was folded neatly in the bag, so I pulled it out and put it on, glad of the soft cashmere against my skin. After that it was just socks and boots, and the turquoise jewelry I’d worn the night before when I’d gone out with Adam.

Adam.

Connor had said he was all right. I had to believe that. I had no faith in Damon Wilcox’s inherent humanity, but I did believe that even he wouldn’t do something that might risk intervention by the “civilian” authorities. But just because Adam was alive didn’t mean he might not still have been hurt in some way. How long had he lain there in my bedroom — the bedroom we’d planned to share — before help had come?

I didn’t want to think about that. If I did, then I’d start thinking about Aunt Rachel and Tobias and everyone else realizing I was gone, realizing that the Wilcoxes had finally succeeded in stealing the McAllister prima.

My throat tightened, and I blinked. Crying wasn’t going to solve a damn thing. I was trapped here for now, and I’d have to figure out how to deal with that. Yes, I’d sent an email to Sydney to let Aunt Rachel know what was going on, and I’d said she’d know what to do, but would she? No one in our clan had ever faced a situation like this before.

As far as I knew, no one in any clan had ever faced a situation like this before.

I made the bed, and folded my pajamas and put them back in the duffle bag. Still there was no sign of Connor. I glanced at the clock, noted that it was now almost eleven, and shook my head. Then I wanted to shake it again, only this time at myself. What, was I disappointed that he’d left me alone for so long?

Well, he’d said there was food downstairs, so I figured I might as well go and check it out. Now that I was clean and reasonably put together, my stomach was telling me it really needed a little bit more put in it than just a cup of coffee.

Besides, it couldn’t hurt to do a bit more exploring while Connor was still out of the apartment.

As soon as I stepped out of the room and shut the door behind me, I froze. Standing in front of me was a woman maybe ten years or so older than I. A frightened little squeak formed in my throat, then disappeared as I took in her clothes and hair. Plain drop-waisted dress, Mary Jane–style shoes with chunky heels. Auburn hair carefully finger-waved around her head.

This was no girlfriend left behind, or a stray relative.

This was a ghost.

She looked me up and down, then remarked, “You’re new.”

I found my voice. “I am?”

“Yes. I haven’t seen you here before.”

My brain started to add things up. “Um…does Connor have a lot of girls here?”

Her head tilted to one side as she appeared to consider my question. “He did. That is, I suppose I haven’t seen anyone here lately. That’s why I was surprised to see you.”

All right, so maybe Connor wasn’t a total man-w***e. That knowledge shouldn’t be enough to justify the wave of relief that went over me. To cover my irritation at myself, I asked, “How long has it been since someone else…another girl, I mean…was here?”

“I’m not sure.” Her brow puckered. She was very pretty, in a sort of porcelain-doll way, with her thin penciled brows and Cupid’s bow of a mouth covered in dark red lipstick. “I don’t pay much attention to time, I’m afraid.”

I’d heard that sort of thing before, from Maisie. Just because ghosts hung around in our world didn’t mean they were tuned into the ebb and flow of days, weeks, months. Judging by her dress, the woman before me must have been haunting this building for at least eighty years, maybe more. Differences in a few months or even a few years might not have registered much with her.

“What’s your name?” I asked. Generally, I liked to be more personal with ghosts, if they allowed it.

“Mary Mullen,” she replied. “I lived here once…such a lovely apartment. My husband made it real nice for me, with furniture shipped all the way from Chicago. But then the girls caught diphtheria, and so did I. They went first, and when it was my turn, I thought I should stay here, to make sure my husband was all right.” She frowned again. “But then he went, too, and I was still here. Have you seen any of them?”

I shook my head. I wanted to tell her that they must have moved on, that there was no reason for her to remain here, but I wasn’t sure she was ready to hear that…even after eighty years. Maybe later, if I had a chance to speak with her again. Not that I really wanted to have the opportunity, since that would mean I’d be stuck here for a lot longer than I wanted to be.

She didn’t appear upset, only resigned. “I thought I should ask, since you’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to since…well, since. And you have a kind face.”

That was the first time anyone had ever said anything like that to me. “Um…thank you. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

“It’s all right. You take care…and take care of that boy, too. He’s lost, that one.” And she disappeared then, just as Maisie always did. Here one second, gone the next.

I waited for a moment, just in case she decided to come back, but she seemed to have left this plane for the time being.

A frown of my own etched my brow as I continued downstairs.

What did she mean, Connor was lost?