The kettle screamed. Emma hurried to the stove and turned off the gas burner. The whistle died to a whimper. She carried the kettle over to her gleaming butcher-block counter and poured the bubbling water into two large white ceramic mugs with tea bags waiting. The steam that rose around her face smelled of ginger and lemons. On any other afternoon, she would have breathed deeply and let the comforting warm aromas drain the tension from her tight shoulders and invite her to take a quiet moment. But now she glanced nervously at the ticking clock above the kitchen door, then through the door itself into the hallway.
This time had to be different.
This reading had to go well, the client had to leave happy, and—most importantly—they had to actually pay Emma for her psychic services. Down the hallway came the sounds of wooden floorboards creaking. Emma’s shoulders screwed tighter. The woman must have tired of sitting in the living room and had stood. What if she left before Emma even did her reading? She wouldn’t be the first.
Emma jerked open her silverware drawer and grabbed a spoon, then scooped the soggy tea bags from the mugs and flicked them into the trash. She opened her little blue sugar well and tossed a spoonful of sugar into each mug, spilling half of it on the counter. Then she grabbed the sloshing mugs and headed down the hall.
The living room smelled faintly of smoke from the fireplace. Emma’s client was looking through the large front window at Undertown Square’s fall foliage. The woman seemed to be in her sixties and not afraid to show it. Silver streaked her black hair. She wore a navy cashmere cardigan over a crisp white silk blouse and tailored charcoal-gray slacks. The outfit screamed money.
“Sorry that took so long,” Emma said, handing the mug of tea to the woman. Emma’s stomach did the twist. In the presence of this wealthy client, the mug, even the entire room, seemed cheap and unpolished. Emma tried not to think of the pile of unpaid bills back in the kitchen. “Would you like to sit with me and tell me why you’ve come?”
“Something strikes me about this photograph.” Her voice was low and throaty. She was staring at a small photograph hanging next to the window. “It’s clear that you’ve put a great deal of thought into picking the white sofa and pairing it with the walnut side tables and the chair. Your choice in art might be pedestrian, but at least it is consistent. But one of these things is not like the others. This photograph simply doesn’t fit.”
Emma glanced across the room at the framed snapshot. She knew its subject by heart: a grainy, blurry, yellowed picture of a man with sideburns holding up a can of beer in front of a cherry-red motorcycle. “It’s my dad.”
“I suppose one can’t choose one’s family.”
Emma felt a flush of heat creep up her neck. The last she’d seen of her dad had been at the Evening Palace. He had been trapped by the fae for over thirty years, hypnotized and forced to work as their servant. He’d run back into the collapsing palace to help save the others. Who was this woman to judge him? Emma bit back her annoyance. “You didn’t come to ask me questions about my decor, did you? And I’m sorry, but I never got your name.”
“That’s because I never gave it to you. I’m not like the people who typically engage with providers of your type of services. I don’t care to see what my future holds. I don’t want to know if I will find love or lose love or if I will win the lottery.”
“I couldn’t tell you that anyway.”
“Precisely! That is what the rabble can’t understand. You are a specialist, and there is no one I love more in this world than a specialist. I don’t want you to tell me about the future. I want you to tell me about the past. And you are, I understand, in a unique position to consult with entities who have knowledge of the past.”
“But you won’t give me your name?”
“I simply want to know who I’m working with before I give you any potentially compromising information. For you see, my family has a long history and an even longer reach. But we have our vulnerabilities, especially now. If our enemies learn we’ve resorted to—”
“Asking someone like me for help?”
“They would move to take advantage of our perceived weakness.” The woman’s painted lips spread into a smile. “I’m so glad we understand each other.”
Emma fought to keep her face from turning into a scowl. Who did this woman think she was, coming into her house and treating her like an embarrassing little secret? Still, the pile of bills on the kitchen table got bigger every day. Her new psychic business hadn’t exactly made her a millionaire. Even though she had the gift of contacting spirits, it never seemed to go as planned. Half the time she’d bring in the wrong spirit or an unhelpful spirit or a spirit with a score to settle. This reading had to be a success. She forced a smile. “Why don’t we sit, and you can tell me what you need from me.”
“Isn’t that obvious?” The woman flashed an amused grin and strolled to the sofa. She considered it for a moment, then sat in a leather armchair.
“You want me to contact the spirits for you, but not for any pedestrian reason.” Emma placed special emphasis on pedestrian.
“Yes, it’s a matter of wills.”
“A battle of wills? The will to succeed? The will to victory?”
“The will to an enormous estate.” The woman’s features sharpened to a point. “My father’s, to be precise.”
Emma’s breath caught in her chest. She knew what it was like to lose someone you love. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. Father was a monster.” She chuckled. “A very rich monster. My three brothers probably danced a jig when they received word of his passing. I know I did. Finally it seemed like we would all be free, free from his twisted schemes and his stormy moods, from his pettiness and cruelty. And moreover, we were rich! The only matter to be taken care of was to read the will to the family and see how we would share the spoils—there was plenty for all of us to live out our days in splendor.”
“Must be nice.”
“It will be.”
“So the will reading didn’t go as planned?”
“How could it? There was no will to read.”
“In that case, doesn’t the probate court—”
“For reasons that will become apparent, my family is unable to patronize such institutions. Besides, we know a will exists. Father told us about it constantly. He told the whole family. I should have known that it was just the prelude to another one of his twisted games.”
Emma considered this information. The will was missing at the time of death, yet the father had told them all about it as a trick. She inhaled sharply. “He wants you to find the will.”
“I see that your reputation might not be entirely undeserved. Father loved nothing more than bending others to his will, so to speak. I should have expected he wouldn’t go gently into that good night. No, even though he’s dead and buried, he still reaches out to control us, to pit us against each other, to keep us jumping. Well, I am tired of jumping. I would like to see the old man jump.”
Emma saw where this was leading, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. Most of her clients came to her to find solace from the departed, not to control them. “You want me to summon your father’s spirit and force him to tell you where he hid his will.”
The woman’s eyes searched Emma’s before she spoke. “Force is such a strong word, isn’t it? Force requires a threat, yet how could I possibly threaten a dead man? When I said I’d like to see him jump, I meant I’d like to see the surprise in his eyes when he’s dragged from his postmortem bocce ball court back to the real world to answer my questions.”
It made sense even if it was a little weird. “You know you won’t be able to see him yourself. Only I can see the spirits I call.”
“Yes… of course.” Her mouth slacked subtly, and her brow lowered. It only lasted a moment before her crisp demeanor returned. “But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Before we can summon my father’s spirit, I have to know if I can trust you.”
“Do you… want references?”
“References would merely expand the problem. How can I know if your references are trustworthy and not, say, three of your closest friends doing a favor?” She raised an eyebrow as if to say she knew all about favors. “I have a better idea, a test.”
A cold sliver of doubt drilled into the base of Emma’s skull. A test? What was this woman’s game? Why couldn’t Emma ever get any normal clients? She tried to hide her doubt. “What kind of test?”
“Here.” The woman held out a slip of beige paper folded in half.
Emma hesitated. What was she getting into? Still, she couldn’t resist a mystery. She took the note, unfolded it, and frowned in confusion. The page contained a single name written in a spidery cursive, along with a lock of slick black hair fastened to the paper with clear tape. “Lenny Scaglione?” she read aloud.
“Summon him and have him answer my question, and I will know that you’re worth the risk of revealing my name.”
“What’s your relation to this man?”
“Private.”
Did this mystery woman expect her to contact a spirit with nothing more than a name and a piece of hair? And anyway, who just randomly carries around pieces of dead people’s hair? This wasn’t how readings normally worked at all. Normally, Emma contacted spirits intuitively from the bond they had with the client. It was a matter of reaching out and sensing the bond, then following where it led. But from the doubt, a question arose, flitted around, and poked the inside of her brain. Could she do it? Could she summon a spirit with so little to go on? If she managed it, maybe Lenny could give her some answers about the strange woman. Emma nodded to herself. “I’ll try. Give me a minute.”
Emma shifted and sat upright with her feet planted on the floor. She looked at the letter and the hair, and then she closed her eyes. Freed from the burden of mundane vision, she let her attention travel to the texture of the paper in her hand. It was thicker than ordinary note paper, and it had an expensive softness. Whoever this mystery woman was, she had money, but there are some things that money can’t buy. One of them is the gift of the fae.
Emma directed her attention toward the gift and touched it. Like turning on a light switch, the world around her lit up. Though her eyes were still closed, she saw her living room, saw the fireplace and the sofa, and her hand holding the note. All these things were bathed in light from the countless silken filaments which connected her to them, which connected them to each other.
Looking at the dead man’s hair, she saw a few dozen threads connecting it to her, and to the strange woman, and beyond. She reached out with her mind and ran her focus along the threads, plucking them like harp strings and feeling their vibrations. One strand caught her attention. It was nearly transparent, and it sounded like a sigh when she plucked it. She picked it up and tested it, checking its weight and strength.
The more she focused on the thread, the more she was convinced it would lead her to the former owner of the hair. She tugged it gently. It didn’t break. She applied a stiff but steady pressure, and by inches it gave way and released, and she had the impression of something moving toward her faster than the wind from unimaginably far away.
A man’s spirit materialized in front of her. He was handsome, with a nice tan and slicked-back hair. He wore a pink polo shirt with the collar popped and smartly creased chinos. He winced and put his palm on his forehead. Then he looked up and locked eyes with Emma. There was malice there. He lunged toward her. “Where am I? Who are you? And what’s the meaning of this? I was playing the ninth with Big Jerry and was about to score a hole in one! And now you think you can come along and pull me out of my afterlife like I’m a nobody?”
“Hello, Lenny,” the woman said in a cool monotone.
Lenny skidded to a stop. His eyes went wide, and he staggered back. If he hadn’t been a ghost, he would have tripped over a side table trying to get away. Instead, he passed right through it and stood pressed up against the fireplace. The light from the fire filtered through his transparent body and cast twisted, writhing shadows onto the white rug. He raised a trembling finger and pointed it at the woman. “You!” His voice quavered. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
“By our host’s tortured facial expression, I gather that you have arrived and that you are no doubt hurling invectives in my direction. I will remind you of the oaths you made to my father. Oaths sworn in blood on the graves of your parents. Oaths binding even in death.”
Fire raged in Lenny’s eyes, but he remained silent.
“You will be happy to know that I have asked you here to answer a single question. Once answered, you may leave and go back to… heaven?” She chuckled. “Doubtful.”
“Well, lay it on me.”
The woman glanced at Emma, who nodded for her to proceed. “I want you to tell me what was our song. The song we danced to that night on the riverboat after everyone else went back to their cabins and it was you and me on the deck.” Her voice caught. “You paid the band a G-note to keep playing that song over and over, and you said you’d never seen a moon so big or a girl so pretty. It was the last song we ever danced to before your accident.”
“Accident?” Lenny chuckled. “Is that what they’re calling it? What I don’t understand is why you’d drag me all the way to this dump to ask a question you know the answer to. You know as well as I do it was ‘Moon River.’ It was always ‘Moon River,’ Linda.”
So the woman’s name was Linda. Emma turned to her and said, "‘Moon River.’” She left out the other stuff.
The woman smirked. “Thanks for your help, Lenny. You can get back to playing the harp with Saint Peter or whatever you do to pass the time.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Lenny said as he faded back into nothingness. “Good luck. From what I hear, you’ll be needing it.”
Silence hung between them for years before the woman broke it. “Congratulations, Emma. You passed the test. You’re the real deal. I expect that whatever I tell you in this session of ours will remain confidential.”
“I never share my clients’ secrets.”
“What did I say? You’re a specialist, a professional. You know the value of keeping your people happy.” She reached into her purse and retrieved another small note. “This piece of paper contains the name of my father.”
Emma took the note and unfolded it and read the name Leo Cappotelli. She closed the note and handed it back to the woman, who rose and tossed it in the fireplace.
Leo Cappotelli. Where had she heard that name before? It must have been years ago, on the news. There had been something about a trial. Emma remembered visiting her mom from college and glancing over to the always-on TV where the cable news showed someone in a dark suit on a perp walk. Fear uncoiled in Emma’s stomach and rolled around like a black snake. She bit her bottom lip, then looked up at the woman, whose smile seemed suddenly predatory, feral. “Your father is Leo Cappotelli?”
“He was.”
“And this would be the same Leo Cappotelli who’s head of the Cappotelli crime family?”
The woman’s laughter filled the room. After it died down, she regarded Emma with a smile. “He was.”
