Bitter Spirits

TWENTY-FOUR

THE LAUDANUM BECKONED HER TO SLEEP AGAIN, AND SHE GAVE in, waking up briefly during the car ride, the side of her head sweating against Winter’s shoulder as he held her in his lap.

When she woke again, it was inside the Magnusson elevator, and she was being carried again. “A girl could get used to this,” she said, her voice rough, “but I need to find a cheap hotel. And I might need to borrow a couple of dollars.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Winter replied. “If I have to lock you up in the turret attic, I will. Consider yourself my prisoner.”

She was too weak to argue. “Do prisoners get baths? Because I can’t stand the stink of smoke all over me. It’s burning my eyes.”

“Yes, prisoners get baths.”

“Will you bathe me?”

A throat cleared. Aida tilted her head to see cold-as-ice Greta operating the elevator in a housecoat, a scarf tied around her head. Wonderful. God only knew what she thought of all this.

The elevator groaned to a stop.

“Thank you, Greta. I’ll ring if I need you,” Winter said. “Get some sleep.”

Aida smelled orange oil. Wood paneled walls blurred by. Then she found herself being carried into a sumptuous, warm bedroom with rosewood flooring, window seats, and a lavish Nile green rug. “Where is this?”

“My room.”

“O-oh, it’s even nicer than the Fairmont. We should’ve been coming here.”

He set her on the biggest bed she’d ever seen, covers pulled back, sheets wrinkled. A dragonfly-patterned Tiffany lamp cast muted light from a bedside table. He struggled to get her out of her coat. “We’ll have this sent to the cleaners. Get the smoke out.”

“I need to find out if anything survived the fire,” she said.

“Don’t worry about that now,” Winter said. He knelt down and inspected her foot. “A little swollen. Could be sprained. Can you move it?”

She could. It was tight, but any pain she felt was far, far away in the distance.

A new voice startled her. “You want me to call a doctor?” It was Bo. He set some first aid supplies on a mahogany chest of drawers with modern, sleek lines. Her handbag hung from one of the drawer pulls.

Winter shook his head. “He’d just elevate it and give her more drugs, which she doesn’t need. We’ll call someone in the morning. Go ahead and alert the warehouses about the fire, in case someone tries that trick again.”

“Already called Frank. And there’s something you should know.”

Winter sighed heavily. “What is it?”

“The fortune-teller from the temple. Same time Aida’s apartment was being set on fire, Mr. Wu jumped from his apartment window and killed himself.”

The news sobered Aida for a moment. “Oh no.”

“Christ,” Winter said.

“Charlie was on shift watching him. Said he saw the man racing into his apartment like he was trying to outrun something. Charlie checked the stairwell, windows—nothing was there. Then he heard screams outside, and that’s when he went out and saw him on the sidewalk. Neighbors had already found him. Stuck around until the police came, just in case someone else showed up. Never saw anything else.”

“Ghosts,” Winter mumbled. “Or some other kind of black magic.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Bo said. “Charlie sounded unnerved. He also mentioned that he heard Wu repeating something when he was running into his apartment—‘beekeeper.’”

Winter’s jaw shifted to one side. “The Hive.”

“Maybe that’s what the leader calls himself?”

“Maybe.”

“Regardless, it rules Wu out for the fire,” Bo said. “Not that I really suspected him.”

“Poor bastard.”

A wave of sadness washed over Aida. She had rather liked the depressed old fortune-teller, even if he had poisoned Winter. Maybe he’d found his dead wife beyond the veil. She hoped so.

Winter talked with Bo in soft murmurs outside his room for several moments before he dismissed him and shut the door, turning his attention back to her. “Still with me?”

She nodded. He stripped off her laudanum-stained nightgown and left her naked on the bed, while he stepped into the adjoining room and started running a bath.

Several framed photographs crowded the back of his bedside table. The most prominent was a family photo in front of a fishing pier: a couple who could only be his parents, Astrid as a younger girl, a blond man about Bo’s age—his brother, the archaeologist—and Winter, looking several years younger, smiling, squinting into the sun with no scar.

Happier times.

Behind that photograph was a smaller one, a posed portrait of a strikingly beautiful blond woman, her long hair pinned up, porcelain skin, and a stoic look on her face.

Winter strolled back into the bedroom, barefoot and shirt stripped off, wearing nothing but pants and suspenders over a sleeveless white undershirt. The unyielding breadth of his mighty bare shoulders and well-muscled boxer’s arms made her heart skip a beat.

“Who is this?” Aida asked, reaching for the silver-framed blonde.

“No one.”

Hmph. It had to be Paulina. A dull feeling of jealousy taunted Aida from a distance. “Why would you have a photograph of no one next to your bed?”

“Why would you care? You’re leaving in a week.” He took the photograph from her hand and put it back on the table, then reached to lift her off the bed.

“I can walk,” she said irritably, pushing his hands away. As she struggled to her feet, she flipped the photograph facedown when his back was turned.

His bathroom was spacious with gleaming white tile and polished wood cabinets. A beveled glass window was cranked open to the opposite view seen from his study: instead of the Bay, it was the south side of Pacific Heights rising up steep hills, its prestigious homes wearing a crown of fog beneath the night sky.

An enormous, grand slipper claw-foot tub sat to her left. Winter twisted the silver handles to shut off steaming water. Before she could protest, he lifted her off the floor and set her down into the hot water. It stung her ankle for a moment, but the rest of her felt so good, it didn’t matter.

“Too warm?”

Her muscles turned to mush as her shoulders slid down the high-backed tub. “Perfect. You could fit a car inside here.” Or a giant-sized bootlegger. The heated water sent ripples of pleasure through her limbs.

He folded his big body up to perch on a wooden stool next to her. “Put that foot up here,” he said, patting the side of the tub.

She propped her leg where he instructed and sank farther into the water. A firm hand held her leg while he soaped up her foot, carefully cleaning her cuts with a soft washrag, sloughing all the grime away.

“Winter?”

“Yes.”

“I have three dollars to my name. All my savings was in my room. I have no clothes. No cosmetics, no jewelry—”

“I will replace everything. You wouldn’t have lost it if you weren’t affiliated with me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You normally have people trying to kill you?” he asked.

“Well, no.”

“And I do. This is the same passive bullshit that’s being used on me with the hauntings. My fault, therefore my responsibility. End of story.”

“I don’t want charity. I’ll repay you once I’ve earned the money back. Velma still owes me one more payday, and the salary I’ll earn in New Orleans—”

He slapped the washcloth onto the floor. His face was taut with outrage. “You’re still thinking about New Orleans? You almost died tonight. Do you know how terrified I was? How close you were to being burned alive? I could’ve received a call from Mrs. Lin instead of Bo, telling me to come arrange a casket for your charred body.”

She inhaled sharply on an unexpected sob. “What else can I do? It is the only work I know.” Sniffling, she wrestled with her emotions, and lost. Her fears jumped off her loosened tongue before she could censor them. “I will not stay here and play mistress to you until you grow tired of me and find someone blonder or prettier or more glamorous.”

“Why the hell is our imaginary breakup my fault?”

Because she couldn’t fathom herself finding anyone else she could want more than him. But she didn’t say that. “I’ve built a reputation—club owners are seeking me out, not the other way around. I don’t have to beg for work or try to prove myself. If I don’t take advantage of it, my time may pass. Can’t you understand that? This is all I have. I’m not fit for anything else but this life.”

He surged up from the stool, biting back a reply as flames danced behind mismatched eyes. The surface of the water shook under his angry footfalls as he left the bathroom.

Winter fought the urge to throw something against the wall. Goddamn New Orleans. If he never heard the city’s name on her tongue again, it would be fine with him.

Find someone blonder . . .

What the hell was wrong with her? Had the fire melted her brain? Why the devil would he want someone—

His gaze fell on the silver picture frame lying facedown. Paulina. He picked it up and looked at her photograph. Aida was jealous of a dead woman? Did she think he kept this here out of grief or love? Far from it. He kept it out of respect. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that he kept it to feed his guilt. Because if he didn’t see it every now and again, he found himself forgetting what she looked like.

Even worse, he found himself not thinking about her at all, which wasn’t much different than when she was alive. Sometimes he wouldn’t see her for days at a time when they were married, even living in the same house. And that had never bothered him.

He should’ve let her go when she wanted the divorce.

Was he now so quick to repeat the same mistake with Aida? Her association with him made her a target. His fault.

Again.

He thought of the numbing panic that unfurled inside him when he’d gotten the call from Bo: Someone tried to burn down Aida’s apartment with her inside it. Death by fire. Few things were worse.

But she didn’t die. She was safe, here with him. That was all that mattered for the moment.

Exhaling heavily, Winter picked up Paulina’s photograph and headed to his study. He sat in front of the windows, looking out over the city as dawn broke. After a few minutes, Astrid peeked inside the door, her arms filled with clothes.

“I heard all the commotion,” she said. Her slippers slapped against the floor as she walked, nightgown billowing behind her. “Bo told me what happened. I thought Aida might need some clothes.”

“Tack, mitt hjärta.”

“You’re welcome.” She laid the clothes on the windowsill. “Bo said it was faulty wiring that caused the fire, and that she lost everything.”

“Mmm.”

“But I have a feeling it had something to do with the bootlegging.” When he didn’t answer, she perched on his lap. “I can tell you’re upset. I’m sorry.”

He ran his fingers along one strand of her lemony blond hair. “Someone is trying to scare me into giving up the business. I don’t want you to be frightened. I’ll take care of things.”

“I know you will.”

“But until I put a stop to it, I’d like you to be mindful when you’re out. Not frightened, but mindful.”

“I always am.”

“Use good sense and have someone with you at all times, but if we allow ourselves to be intimidated, then—”

“They win. Got it. I’ll be sensible.”

“Good girl. How do you feel about another shopping trip?”

“For Aida?”

“I’ll call the department store and coax them into letting you in before they open to the public. Bo can ride with you. And Jonte.” And a couple of extra guards to man the doors, and take a circuitous route in one of the old cars. Better safe than sorry.

“Count on me. I can be ready in an hour.” She gave him a sleepy smile and clasped his hand. “Will Aida be moving in here permanently?”

“She leaves for New Orleans in a week.”

“For good?”

He shrugged.

The tips of her slim fingers folded over his. “Are you in love with her?”

His stomach tightened. Was he? He remembered how miserable he’d felt those few days when they’d been apart after the fight about Sook-Yin. And he knew how relieved he felt now, knowing she was only a few yards away, safe inside his home. He wanted her to sleep in his bed . . . wanted to see her when he woke up.

He wanted all of her, not just an affair.

And he definitely didn’t want her to leave. The thought of it filled him with a black despair that rivaled the pain of losing his family.

“I might be,” he finally answered honestly.

“I think she might be in love with you, just from the way she was looking at you that day when she tried to give the coat back. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look at you that way. Definitely not—”

“Don’t say her name.”

“Sorry.”

He lightly squeezed her hand. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t force Aida to stay.”

Maybe not exactly force her, but he could tip the scales. Talk to Velma behind her back and get her to extend her contract. Only, he’d already promised he wouldn’t.

He could take a train to the speakeasy in New Orleans and threaten this new club owner to drop her. Tempting, but he nixed the idea almost immediately. She would see through that deception in a heartbeat.

No, he couldn’t force her.

Why couldn’t Aida just see what was right in front of her face? They were so good together. Great in bed. More than great: exceptional. Marvelous. And they got along famously. Honestly, she was one of the few women he’d enjoyed as much out of a bed as in one. Christ, he even enjoyed arguing with her.

And she loved it out West—she said as much all the time. So why shouldn’t she put down roots and start her séance business here? Not only could he help her buy a place she could work out of, like she wanted, but he could help steer rich patrons her way. She could have what she’d dreamed about. And if anything ever did tear them apart, God forbid, she’d be set up to do what she wanted, instead of injuring herself every night for a roomful of drunken idiots.

And he’d be right here to take care of her if she needed anything.

It was a simple solution. Why was he the only one seeing it? Worse, if he tried to convince her, she’d probably just stubbornly argue her way around it.

“So you’re just going to let her go?” Astrid said. “That doesn’t seem like you at all.”

He let his head drop back against the chair. “What can I do? Lock her up? Threaten her?”

“Sure, that’s what every girl dreams of, Winter.”

He gave her a cross look, then glanced out the window, watching golden light piercing through a blanket of fog. “What do you suggest, then? Since you’re such an expert in these matters, what with your many years of experience.”

“At least I’ve got sense enough not to marry someone I didn’t love.”

He couldn’t disagree with that.

She stretched her legs out, releasing his hand, and stood to leave. “Pappa once told me that everything he did in life was something to please Mamma, and that he was only happy when she was happy.”

“Yes, so?”

“So if you want her to stay, maybe you should make her happy. What does she want?”

It sounded so simple, but what if the thing Aida wanted most was to leave?

“Figure that out,” Astrid said as she padded out of the room.

He shoved the photo of Paulina inside the bottom drawer of his desk. Maybe he’d eventually put it in storage or send it to her parents. If he forgot Paulina’s face . . . well, then he just did. He’d flagellated himself for too long. It was time to let it go.

He exhaled wearily and headed back to his bedroom. Aida was lying facedown on his bed, a towel draped around her, hair wet. The contents of her handbag were strewn across the bedspread—some crumpled bills and change, a metal lipstick tin, a cheap pocket mirror, her lancet, a few opened letters.

He strode to the bed and lifted her up. “What’s wrong, cheetah?”

“My locket,” she said, voice worn. “I thought I had it, but I took it off before bed.”

“I’m sorry.” He tried to pull her into his arms, to comfort her somehow, but he struggled with something to say. “It’s just an object, not your brother himself.”

Tear-stung eyes narrowed in anger. “Just an object?”

Wrong choice of words.

“Nothing is ‘just an object,’” she said. “Possessions aren’t meaningless—everything is connected. If it weren’t for these things, I couldn’t call spirits.”

“I spoke carelessly,” he said.

But she wasn’t listening. “And now all my possessions are gone. I had so little, and now I have nothing.” She shoved at the contents of her purse. “My only photograph of Sam—the last remaining piece of my family, and I lost him.”