How To Bring Your Love Life Back From The Dead Page 11

  “Anyway,” Ana continued, rebounding. “Charles goes to the local witch…that’s what they called her. He tells her that he wants the company for himself and for his son and complains on and on and on.”

  “Her great, great niece told you this?” Shane was trying to counteract her enthusiasm with a healthy dose of skepticism. Someone in this room tonight needed to be rational. Plus, she may have been reading all kinds of stories about headless chickens. They may have rattled her sense.

  Ana glared at him and pointed a finger. “I know what you’re trying to do, but you need to hear the whole thing.”

  Shane held both his hands in front of him. “Okay, but I actually knew Charles and somewhat knew Agnes, so if I don’t believe a story coming through several retellings and after a hundred years….”

  “Men are so stupid,” she muttered under her breath while rolling her eyes.

  “Pardon?” He raised his eyebrows. Oh, he’d heard her, but he was curious if she’d say it again…to him. He was behaving rationally.

  “Nothing. So, Agnes convinces him to make a trade. She’ll give him two hexes or spells or whatever in exchange for one thing.”

  “Money? She wanted money?” He didn’t remember the old witch—which was still what he’d call her—being interested in money.

  “No, she wasn’t interested in money. She wanted my great grandfather…so Charles’ child.” She poked the notebook with her pen. “It was sort of like Rapunzel, but no one had long hair.”

  It was like she was making less sense the more she spoke. Still, he said, “Okay.” As much as he wanted to spend more time with her, perhaps he should insist she get more sleep. The skin beneath her eyes had been brushed with purple from lack of sleep last night when he saw her. She looked better tonight. She was making less sense and her enthusiasm was nearly frightening, but she did look better.

  “Agnes tells him she’ll give him the company and a blessing of prosperity, if he’ll give her his child,” Ana continued. “Charles, already intending to kill Agnes, agrees to the trade. All that’s left between him and his dark ambitions is his partner.” Ana gestured at him with the pen. “Err…you.”

  “Dark ambitions?” She did realize this had more in common with a fairytale than reality, didn’t she?

  Apparently not because she nodded. “This was like a month before you disappeared. Agnes told Charles she needed an image of you to capture your soul with in order to work both of these hex things. So, Charles commissions this painting. Apparently, you got all annoyed because you’d been helping with this collection here, and you didn’t want to sit for a painting.”

  A chill ran through Shane at this. That was absolutely the honest truth. He’d thought it was odd that Charles had decided they both needed portraits. Odder still that he insisted Shane go first. Why would he want people coming to their modest albeit prospering office to stare at a painting of him—especially with him right there? It had seemed egotistical. Charles had insisted and sent the painter to follow him around in this collection room while Shane was trying to ensure the history books he’d wanted were there.

  “I was really interested in history back then—I’d have never guessed I was to become it,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Go on.” Was he actually starting to believe her? He couldn’t be. No, he wasn’t. It was an interesting story. That was all. Well, it was interesting as long it never involved headless chickens.

  *****

  She sensed when it became more than a far-fetched crazy story. Ana knew the painting would get to him.

  “Anyway, so the painter came here to paint it. When it was completed, Charles took the painting to Agnes. Agnes gave him one last chance to back out of the deal, but Charles was determined. So, they both came here to the collection one night. Agnes said the painting had to be in a place where it would be safe and hang forever—someplace that no one came to at night. According to Agnes, the deep of night was when the spirits walked, so she must have known something about what would happen to you. Charles said this collection room was the perfect spot. She cast some dark spell that dragged your soul into the painting. Charles was skeptical on the whole prospering thing despite Agnes’s assurances. She said as long as your soul was a sacrifice to the dark and held within the painting—our family would prosper. Two days later, they discovered gold in a small mining operation you’d invested in.”

  “The ore mine. I’d told Charles that was a foolish idea.” Shane frowned. “I didn’t like the mine’s blasting procedure.”

  He believed her or, at least, he wasn’t disbelieving her as completely as he had a few moments ago.

  “Shortly after that, Agnes said she’d be going to collect her new child in payment and that must have been when Charles shot her. He sealed the curse in place without having to give up his child.”

  Shane’s skeptical look dropped back into place. “Agnes just ran around telling people this story?”

  “No, she kept a journal of all her wrongs and rights, according to her great, great niece.”

  “Wrongs and rights?”

  “Agnes believed that there had to be balance in the world so, for every wrong she did, she cast a second spell to make a right. She wrote all this down. For the wrong she’d done you, she made a right—a way to break the curse. It was all in her journal. Her great, great niece, Dolores, said she could call her lawyer and give me access to the journals if I wanted to see them, but she said that while Agnes had cast the second spell, she hadn’t recorded it.”

  Shane got to his feet and walked so that he had an unobstructed view of the painting. With a furrowed brow, he pointed a finger at it while looking at her. “You mean to tell me that my soul is imprisoned in the painting.”

  Okay, it sounded crazy, but he was here and that had to lend credence to the story, right?

  “Yes,” Ana said. Okay that hadn’t sounded so sure. She stood up too and went to go look at the painting. “It’s not impossible.”

  “This from the woman who didn’t believe in ghosts not so long ago.” Shane leveled a bland look on her.

  She kicked at his leg, but her foot went right through. “You’re being an ass,” she said—now even more aggravated since her foot hadn’t connected with his shin.

  “I’m being rational and realistic,” he countered.

  Rolling her eyes, Ana said, “This…from a ghost.” When she’d given a watered-down version of this same story to Jenny, Jenny had fallen to the floor laughing and said they couldn’t possibly use that in their haunted tour because no one would believe it. Ana was a little sick of people being rational and realistic in the face of the supernatural. Clearly, something was going on and was a cursed painting all that much crazier than a ghost haunting a library? Speaking of which, she added, “Why else would you be haunting this room? It’s not as if you lived or died here. Besides, it would explain why you don’t remember dying. You didn’t.”

  His gaze shifted to the painting, and he looked like he was actually considering the possibility. “So, assuming any of this is true….” He gave her another look implying his opinion. It made her really want to punch him, but that would go over as well as the kicking had. “Assuming that, if we could break the curse, I’d finally get out of this collection room?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Your soul and your body should reunite.”

  “My dead body?”

  That would be creepy and sad, but, luckily, it also didn’t make sense. “No, they never found your body, so I’d assume…well, I don’t know, but I’d guess you wouldn’t be dead. You’re somehow trapped inside the painting. We just have to get you out.”

  “But you don’t know how we do that?”

  Okay, well, he didn’t need to rub it in. “No, but that’s a lot more than we knew yesterday,” she said defensively.

  “If we believe any of it.”

  Growling, Ana turned away from him. She’d spent all day gathering information. She’d looked th
rough all those books trying to figure out what the possibilities were for breaking the curse, and he was still hung up on the details. Grabbing her purse and shoving the occult book in it, she said, “Look, you can go through those books and think about it and, maybe, tomorrow night, I’ll have more answers, and you’ll be less of an ass.” Though it was doubtful. If he wasn’t also charming occasionally, she wouldn’t put up with this. If she wasn’t in love with him, she really wouldn’t.

  Stalking from the room, she waved over her shoulder which was, by far, different from how she’d left the previous night. Stupid ghost.

  Oh hell. At the very least, he didn’t want to end their relationship like this. She wouldn’t be back the following night even though she didn’t know that. Shane flicked the lights on and off rapidly and threw things around even. He threw that headless chicken book particularly far. More flickering. More throwing. She’d probably left, but he was going to keep throwing stuff until he burnt through all his energy.

  “You know, if I have to pay for some of these books, I’m going to be pretty annoyed,” Ana said from the doorway, where she was leaning against the frame.

  He grinned at her, feeling like a schoolboy caught pulling pigtails. “I wasn’t ready to be done talking.” He still wasn’t sure whether he should tell her about the librarian’s ultimatum on the phone.

  “Weren’t you?” his Ana asked. She was gorgeous when she was in a temper. “You’re lucky that the back latch on the library is faulty—otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to get back in.” She strolled over to his side, her eyes narrowed. He could nearly feel the flames coming off of her. It was most likely best to get back into safe waters.

  “What do you think breaks this curse?” The amount of effort he put into not sounding skeptical was impressive and would go unappreciated.

  Ana crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “I think you need to destroy the painting. It seems to me that if you break the cage, the soul should escape.”

  She made a motion with her hands that implied his soul was like a little bird anxious to flit to safety. Hmm. He wasn’t sure what he thought about that. At the very least, his soul was bigger and wouldn’t fly like that.

  Besides…. “I can’t touch the painting,” he told her.

  “What do you mean?” She took a few steps closer to him, and he desperately wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her senseless.

  “I mean, I hate that thing. I always have. Your story got that right. I loathe it. My only company, consistently, for a hundred years has been a full-size vision of myself. Plus, the artist painted the most inane expression on my face; I look as if I’ve swallowed a hive of bees. I’ve tried to destroy it dozens of times. I can’t. My hands can’t get within two feet of it, and I can’t seem to throw things at it. I keep hoping that it’ll go up in a fire but, thus far, I haven’t been so lucky. In fact, the stupid thing seems to be living a charmed life. It’s stuck fast to the walls during earthquakes while everything fell to the ground around it. It’s survived flooding that ruined everything on the bottom shelves. I hate that thing, but it’s outlived me.” He swallowed a dozen other grievances he had with the painting. His irritation was sapping his energy as much as passion did. “You’d do me a great favor if you’d go ahead and destroy that thing on my behalf.”

  He was only partly kidding. Actually, he wasn’t at all kidding. If she promised to burn that hellish representation of him, he would waste his remaining energy kissing her.

  Ana strolled past him with a speculative look on her face. He didn’t trust that look. It was probably a good idea to follow her and keep a close eye on her. He caught up with her beside the painting. There he stood—in all his snide glory. He never looked as haughty as that. Plus, really, his legs were much more muscular than portrayed.

  “It barely does me justice.”

  Shane narrowed his eyes when she smothered a smile.

  “A child could have done a better job,” he pointed out. She had to see that much.

  “I think it’s a very good likeness to you,” she said.

  “Oh…well…you would.” He wasn’t even sure what he meant there, but it looked nothing like him.

  “You really can’t touch it?”

  He put his hand out and, like every other time, his hand stopped as if an invisible wall stood between him and the painting.

  “That makes sense,” she murmured.

  “Does it?” He doubted anything in his life would ever make sense again thanks to the story she’d just told him.

  “Well, if it was a prison for your soul, it would make sense that you, of all people, couldn’t destroy it.”

  “So, you destroy it.” It seemed easy enough. He could prove that she was wrong and get rid of the ugly thing.

  Reaching a hand out, she touched the buttons just above his waist on the painting. He frowned. He wanted her hands on him, not the painting, but this stupid flagging energy of his. What with the lights and throwing the books…he only had minutes left.

  “What if destroying it, destroyed you? Your body and your soul could be trapped in there, and only your spirit would escape.” She bit her lower lip while crossing her arms to consider the possibility. Everything she did—was sensual—and his energy was far too low for even one more kiss. Damn. Their last night, and he was as impotent as a eunuch. After she was gone, he’d be here, forever, reliving the time they’d had together for eternity. Whereas, somewhere outside the walls, she’d grow older, possibly marry, and have children. She’d have a life, but still be haunting him.

  “You’d be freeing me, either way, mouse. If it destroys me, then it’s better than this.”

  “Well, I can do some more research and maybe I can find out what might happen. Someone has to have done something similar. Agnes didn’t exactly invent the occult. I can figure out if it’s possible to get you out of this curse without killing you.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “There’s got to be a book, the right book, that would explain how this works.”

  A book with more headless chickens. “No, you’re not going to muddy your head with more of this research and more…chickens. I….”

  “You forbid it! I know. Maybe women back then fainted when confronted with a few headless chickens, but….”

  “How many chickens have you beheaded, Ana?” He gave her a flat look. “Because the women in my time did it quite frequently. I’m not saying they enjoyed it, but they did it.”

  Her green eyes glared daggers at him. “Okay. Point taken. I’m just saying, I can do more research, and we can talk about it more tomorrow night.”

  No. He felt very weary of it all. He’d been here too long to wait more time and, besides, he knew something she didn’t. “No, Ana, we can’t. I overheard that librarian—the young one—with the constant scowl…”

  “Carly,” She wore her own scowl after saying the name. It shouldn’t surprise him the two women didn’t care for each other—they were night and day opposite—and, in his experience, that made them rivals.

  “She doesn’t want you here at night anymore. She’s going to do something to ensure this is your last night here.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. My daytime self is as dumb as pile of rocks. Clearly, being completely vapor doesn’t leave you with much in the way of brains.”

  “Wait, you knew this, and you weren’t going to tell me?”

  “I was.” It was a small lie. There was really only one correct answer to that question, though. “I just told you.” See. That almost made it not a lie. He had told her.

  She growled, but went back to studying the painting. “So, if I destroyed this thing…now…tonight, it might destroy you permanently, but it might be my only shot—unless I break in here?”

  “No, I forbid you to break into here.” He wouldn’t let her get into trouble on his behalf.

  “You’re awfully big on the ‘forbidding’ thing,” she muttered, digging through her purse. She pulled o
ut a small pocket knife and a lighter. When he looked at the objects, she explained, “I like to always be prepared. So, fire or knife?”

  It would seem as if the fire would be more likely to destroy it completely, and…. “There is a poem by Robert Frost about how the world will end.”

  “Fire and Ice,” she said. “I like that poem. I memorized it in college. ‘Some say the world will end in fire. / Some say in ice. / From what I’ve tasted of desire…’”

  “‘I hold with those who favor fire’,” he finished.

  “‘But if I had to perish twice, / I think I know enough of hate / To say that for destruction ice / Is also great / And would suffice.’”

  He swallowed. The moment felt heavy and thick. Could this be it? At some point, he’d started to believe her theory. Maybe that made him crazy. Maybe he was just tired of this. He had less than a minute left before his energy drained him completely, and he never saw Analise again. He couldn’t live like that. If Charles had truly consigned him to this hell, hopefully, his partner was enjoying his own version of the same.

  “So, we’re agreed? If this doesn’t work, you’ll throw the painting into the snow come winter?” he joked.

  Ana flicked a finger across the lighter.

  End it, Ana. Kill me for the last time for the first time.

  The phone rang, waking an exhausted Ana. She rubbed her hair from her face and answered, “Hullo?” Her voice was groggy and heavy with sleep but she propped herself up in bed on her elbows and tried to concentrate.

  “Analise?” Lara’s trembling voice said. “I have very unfortunate news.” Ana was pretty certain she knew what her unfortunate news was, but didn’t interrupt. “When you left last night, you didn’t latch the backdoor. It appears vandals…broke into the library.”

  Analise managed a gasp—though it sounded fake to her ears. “No!”

  “Yes. I don’t blame you, of course.” Well, Ana could tell she did…a little. She’d have to get the nice librarian something special for Christmas. A fruit basket or something. “They seemed to be particularly interested in the occult.” Hmm, the staging of all those books had been a nice touch. “But, worst of all, they burnt up the painting in the special collection room,” she said. “Thankfully, that seemed to be the extent of the damage, but….”