Milo... Ghosts

            By Pattie Lawler

 

He tried to flood his mind with Fanny’s smiles, with Albany’s singing, with nights of passion, but the pain overwhelmed every attempt. The ghost was dragging his dead weight from the circle of silver, and Milo was powerless to stop him. Numbing pain from the hand clamped on his wrist scorched through his body, becoming the focus of his existence. Time seemed as frozen as his flesh and an eternity crawled by.

He had to make it stop!

The distant strains of singing offered him a lifeline, and he threw every ounce of remaining energy at them. An answering spark of warmth in his chest struggled to grow. His gloved hand fumbled for the knife, and might have grabbed it a thousand times for all the feeling in his flesh.

Suddenly, the words of Albany’s song reached him, growing closer, louder. She was singing one of Fanny’s favorites. The combined associations helped, and he forced his hand to close, desperately hoping that he would luck out.

Fingers, colder even than his own, smoothed down his wrist, blanketing his hand, and forced his senseless fingers to curl. Albany’s breath warmed his cheek and filled his nose with her scent. Through the leather of his glove, he felt the impressions of the carved stones of Osiris’ Thigh and willed his frigid muscles to contract.

Even as they did, Albany slid down his body, her weight collecting on his foot. A second of horror was replaced by relief as Somnia’s presence reassured him.

“She sleeps.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, grateful to them both, and for the distraction. It gave him the time he needed to regain his focus. His gaze dropped to the pommel clutched in his hand, but the room was too dark to distinguish individual stones. He would have to trust his senses.

Pyrite for fire, he could feel, and Albany’s ruby for protection. He flipped up a stone and was rewarded for his efforts with exactly the item he needed. Compelling cinnamon hidden beneath a fire opal fell like snow onto his palm. Milo forced his gloved hand to rise, breathing in the warm, woodsy scent of the powdered spice as he raised the knife to his mouth. With the pommel firmly clenched in his teeth, he ordered the spice to multiply.

“Obey me,” he commanded and drew himself up straight, hauling the ghost with him. “And burn!” He drove the handful of cinnamon into the specter’s hand. The ghost screamed, recoiling but not releasing.

Milo didn’t pause as he tore the knife from his mouth and invoked the pyrite. Fire engulfed the blade but neither harmed nor consumed the metal. “Brighter,” he barked, and the light increased, burning whiter, hotter.

He saw the ghost now, mere inches away, but couldn’t guess if it was poised to pounce or recovering its strength. It was, however, shying away from the increasingly blinding light.

Simon grunted as he slammed his back against Milo’s. A following wave of air was scented with the metal of Simon’s drawn gun. The bodyguard kicked books in every direction. The magical circle collapsed. Still gripping Milo’s wrist, the raging ghost struggled to retain its shape as its true inky nature fought to return to its parchment home.

Milo jerked the ghost forward. The white knife stabbed out. The ghost caught at the light, trying to use its magic, but couldn’t grip the unearthly metal.

Behind them, a door opened with an explosive boom. Someone was shouting in Latin. Milo took a second to check Albany before twisting to greet his friend.

“du Montefort!”

“You were taking too long,” the Frenchman explained away his presence. With an aspergillum in one hand and a situla in the other, he flung holy water at the cringing ghosts. “Do we need a full exorcism?”

“Yes!”

“Then get out,” du Montefort ordered.

Milo needed no encouragement. Blood surged with the freedom of movement. With a flip of his coat, his knife was sheathed even as he knelt to gather Albany into his arms. “Somnia! Meet us outside!” He rose, tapped a book with his boot and glanced at Simon. “Bring this one.”

They ran. The still open door, with Lawrence and Jason framed in the opening, beckoned with the promise of daylight. Milo was shouting as they streaked past.

“He’ll need help! Send in any exorcists available.”

Lawrence nodded and spun on his heel to pound up the stairs.

“Simon, we’re taking that book with us. Put it in the car, please. Jason, get some water, please.”

Milo carried Albany to the furthest wall and gently lowered them both until she was sleeping in his lap.

“Somnia, if you don’t mind?”

Albany stirred, her eyes fluttering before she stiffened and sat up. “Milo!”

His arms tightened, restraining her. “I’m fine.” He moved his arm to where she could see his bright red wrist. “Hmm. Simon’s gonna yell.”

“I never yell.”

Simon squatted down, a water bottle in each hand. He waited while they took them, but left his open hand out. Milo said nothing, and after a few seconds of silence, held his arm out with a resigned sigh. Simon caught it, turning the arm to examine both sides.

“Frostnip. You’ll live.”

Milo chuckled, turning his attention back to Albany. “That’s why we pay him the big bucks.”

 <0>

The ensuing argument was brief. In the privacy of the limo, Milo insisted Albany be taken to their hotel, far from further duress, and Albany adamantly refused to be set aside.

“Why is it alright for you but not for me?”

“Because I’m a professional.”

She relaxed back, her arms across her chest. “So you keep telling me.”

For a second Milo bristled, then smiled. “My track record before you was much better.”

“So now I’m a distraction, too?”

His smile grew as he tugged her into his arms. “The best kind.” He touched the intercom. “Simon, we’re going to the Bibliothèque.”

“Right, boss.”

He hugged her. “Satisfied?”

She pressed her reply to his lips.

  <0>

The Bois was much larger than Albany imagined it would be.

“You were thinking book sized. This impression was most likely used on cloth, not paper. For a banner to be carried in procession, or an altar clothe,” Milo explained. He carried the book from Notre Dame and smiled in greeting as the library staff met them at the door. Introductions were made, and Milo hastily declared, “I’ll need complete privacy.”

The librarian nodded. “The Bois has been removed from display and is in the conservation room along with the new acquisition. If you will follow me?”

Now, standing before the ancient lab of wood, Albany was at a loss. “I’ll just wait over here,” she murmured, moving around electronic equipment to the nearest wall in the white and brushed-stainless lab.

Milo watched her go, and when she turned to face him, he placed himself so they had a clear view of each other. With a glance at Simon, he nodded.

Simon lifted the protective cover off the Bois, releasing a cloud of wood-scented air. Milo stepped closer to the ancient book on the table before him and with his pointer, traced the name Karya on the leather cover. Somnia’s voice filled his mind, and her chanting summoned the dryad.

Karya stood, looking around before facing Milo. “Is it safe?”

He reached for her. “A thousand pardons. That was most unexpected.”

But she barely touched him as her attention rounded on the Bois. “Ah!” She hurried the few steps to the recumbent wood block, her arms wide as if to embrace a friend.

Milo didn’t try to stop her as she scooped the wood up enough to hug. “There’s more.” He pointed to the still covered acquisition. Simon quickly lifted the cover off the smaller piece and Karya’s performance was repeated with no less delight.

“My concern,” Milo continued, “is that someone has been trying to steal the larger piece for years.”

Karya nodded. “He says they are a group of sheep ruled by a wolf.”

“They’re using magic—”

“They are borrowing magic, which is why they fail.”

Milo leaned back, his arms across his chest as understanding dawned. “He’s using his followers and so his magic is diluted.”

“Afraid to show himself,” Simon offered.

Milo nodded. “So we cast a collection spell on the Bois for the weaker wanna-bes and lay a trap for the wolf should he venture from his layer.”

“How long will that take?” Albany asked.

“For us, no time at all. We simply let the librarians know what’s needed as far as the collection spell is concerned. The trap, on the other hand, might take longer as the wolf is unknown to us. He may be as powerful as me or as weak as Simon.”

The bodyguard grunted.

“So, what do we do?”

Milo smiled as he moved to Albany’s side. “The first thing is to give Karya and the Bois some privacy.” She smiled, pushing off the wall and taking his hand. Together they turned for the door. “We’ll let the librarians know to return this volume to the cathedral at their earliest convenience. Karya will either return to her book or will remain with the Bois, as she likes.”

“So we’re done here?”

“I meant it when I told you we shouldn’t be long. Had we not encountered the haunted pastedown we would have already had lunch and done some preliminary shopping.”

“Lunch sounds divine. And then?”

“And then we let Lawrence know that we need a trap, and we let him do his thing. He’ll find us an all purpose trap and the right magician to set it.”

“You feel no sense of urgency?”

They’d reached the door and Milo released her long enough to open and hold it for her. “There’s no reason to think our unknown wolf is going to suddenly change his pattern. No announcement will be made by the library before we can insure the Bois’ safety, and no one, no matter how magical, can get past Brinks’ best and the combined talents of two Scarlets. So no. No urgency.”

  <0> 

Seated just within the massive glass doors of a crowded café, Milo reached for the cell phone Simon held out.

“It’s not for you,” Simon said, his tone bordering on smug. He smiled down at Albany. “David Rosenbaum, for you.”

Albany looked all her surprise as she accepted the phone. Beyond her greeting she said little, her expression progressing from surprise, to wonder, to horror and then to a professional mask. “Yes. That’s fine,” she said at last. “I understand. Thank you, David.”

Closing the phone, she handed it back to Simon with whispered thanks.

“Everything alright?” Milo asked

“That depends on you,” Albany said, lifting her water glass. “Seems the performance of Werther we were to see has an unexpected opening, and David was calling to say that if I wanted to accept the role, the Met would be happy to lend me to the theater for the night.”

Milo sat back. “Which role?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Albany’s lips. She took a drink and set the glass down. “Charlotte. The lead.”

“Oh my god! Seriously?” He sat forward, a broad smile on his face. “I think it’d be incredible! Can you do it?”

“Oh, I can do it. I’ve done it. It would be awkward, never having sung with them, but I know the role. It would mean, however, going to the theater now and not leaving anytime soon. So our shopping excursion—”

Milo waved a dismissive hand. “Knowing your love of the exercise, I’m willing to put that on hold if you’d rather perform.”

“Then you don’t mind?”

“No, I don’t. I think it’s awesome. I’m only sorry that Fanny’s so far away.”

Her smile grew, and she caught his hand, squeezing it. “Thank you.”

Milo looked at what food was left and knew the answer before he asked. “Shall we go then?”

Albany was upright before he reached the end of the question.

  <0>

Milo sat in the theater grinning like a Cheshire cat at his fiancée. Beside him sat a very nervous director whose nails were bearing the brunt of his over-the-top emotions. Milo was ignoring him and focusing on the dazzling presence on stage.

He had, at this point, seen enough of Albany at work to know that she was the consummate professional. He recalled Simon wondering, before they met Albany, if she were a diva, and now he knew she could never be. She was too in awe of her success, modest though it was, to risk losing one hard-earned inch.

“She’s doing remarkably well,” the director repeated.

Milo had stopped thanking him after two dozen declarations, had stopped making a noise of agreement several dozen more later and had stopped nodding well into the fifth hour of rehearsal.

“We’re very thankful Albany accepted.”

Snapped out of his reverie by this new declaration, Milo turned to his companion.

“When Desiree told us her mother was in an accident, I just happened to be on the phone with Mr. Rosenbaum. It was his suggestion, truth be told.” He bit down on an already raw finger but then withdrew the digit to wave at the stage. “She’s really doing remarkably well.”

“I know Albany is grateful for this opportunity. I’m sure the performance will be a success.”

“Hm? Oh. Yes. Yes, I’m sure it will.”

  <0>

And it was.

Milo’s face ached from smiling, but he was too full of delight to stop. It had been an amazing performance, and any fault in the production came in the form of staging, not in Albany’s singing.

She sang her role to perfection.

In the third act, she actually tripped in her borrowed costume while fleeing from her on-stage lover and used the faux pas to her advantage, making the scene all the more poignant as she crawled from his grasp.

Milo arranged for roses to be delivered to her on stage during her curtain call, and he was pleased to be among those in the audience who leapt to their feet at her appearance.

Simon leaned to Milo’s ear to be heard over the tumult. “She’s a hit.”

“And she’s all mine,” Milo said, not caring who heard.

 

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