Chapter 23
ONCE BELOW DECK, WE DID THE SAME THINGS WE'D done almost every night for the past year—sat and talked. One would think that we'd have run out of topics months ago, but there always seemed to be something new to discuss, some subject, some opinion, some turn of mind left unexplored.
That night, a comment about the werewolf guard launched the discussion, which quickly led to an exchange of "werewolves I have known" war stories. Soon Kristof was telling me the long, convoluted tale of his encounter with a werewolf pack in Russia.
As I listened, my legs tucked under me and my head resting on my arm, the gentle rock of the boat and the familiar cadence of his voice conspired to tug me off to dreamland. Yet I resisted. Yes, my brain was in dire need of a sleep recharge. Yes, I could hear this story another time. And yes, it wasn't even all that interesting, but I could have listened for hours, curled up, comfortable, and sleepy, watching Kristof, his hands and eyes moving animatedly, voice rising and falling as the story slowed and restarted.
There'd been a time when I'd have given anything to be right here, listening to one of Kristof's stories.
How many nights had I lain awake, just thinking of how good it would be to hear his voice? How many times had I considered picking up the phone and telling him about Savannah? Come morning, I was always horrified by the impulse, that I'd use my daughter as an excuse to get something I wanted. Now I could indulge myself without guilt or shame. So I stayed awake until the last bit of the tale was done, then let myself drift off to sleep.
When I awoke just past dawn, Kris was already on deck, navigating the boat to shore. We dropped anchor in a quiet cove and disembarked. We probably wouldn't need to use the boat again—our travel incantations would get us off the island—but it never hurt to have a backup plan. My guess was that all the pirates were back in La Ceiba. I never did figure out why they were guarding Roatan at all. A pretty enough island, but no different from a thousand other pretty islands in the ghost world. Maybe there was a hidden cache of treasure here somewhere… although I couldn't imagine what treasure ghosts would need to hoard. Or maybe it was simply a hideaway to protect, because that's what pirates did.
Following my directions, we found a vine-choked path heading into the jungle. From the hills, we could see a gorgeous white-sand beach hugging an aquamarine Caribbean sea, pink coral reefs visible beneath the crystal clear water… but of course, our path didn't take us anywhere near there. After about a quarter-mile of fighting through thick jungle, we came to an open stretch. I stopped and shaded my eyes to look south. There, on the other side of the clearing, was the next landmark, a huge slab boulder. An easier path wound past the boulder and through a semicleared gully.
A half-mile later, a simple white clapboard house came into view. Kristof waved for me to move in for a better look while he lurked in a coconut grove.
I circled the house and peered at the rear windows, invoking my built-in zoom. Once I was certain no one was watching from a window, I cast a blur spell and hurried onto the rear wraparound porch. With a combination of blur and cover spells, I was able to sneak a look in each window. It wasn't until I hit the last one that I found Luther Ross.
I had no physical description to work with, but I didn't need it. There were five people in the living room.
Four of them were twentyish, female, and varying shades of blond. The fifth was a tall, dark-haired man in his early forties, with a Vandyke beard, mischievous gray eyes, and a hand planted on the ass of one of the blondes as he leaned over her shoulder and pointed at a vase. The girl's face screwed up in concentration as she tried to displace the vase. When it didn't so much as wiggle, he patted her rear and waved her to a chair.
Unbelievable. Give a guy the power to move objects across cosmic dimensions and what does he use it for? Screwing cute coeds. No wonder Ross hid out on Roatan—it wasn't so much about evading the Searchers as limiting his classes to a select type of clientele, those he could handpick and give the transportation code. He probably took on the occasional legitimate student, to maintain his reputation, but if this was an example of his average class, then I understood why he hadn't been more successful in passing along his skills. From the looks of these girls, they'd be lucky if they could pronounce telekinesis.
Nymphs probably. If you'd asked me in life what a nymph's powers were, I couldn't have told you. And now that I'd met some in the ghost world, I still wasn't sure.
Whatever special abilities nymphs once possessed had vanished generations ago, and they'd fully assimilated into the human race, where they could be found filling the ranks of cheerleader squads everywhere. Almost no one in the living supernatural world even knew they existed. Hell, they didn't know they existed until they popped up here after they died and went, "Wow, we're, like, magical."
The supernatural dimensions of the ghost world were filled with extinct races like elves and dryads, beings who'd lost their powers centuries ago but came to our realms after death. I suppose it wasn't easy, arriving here and finding yourself surrounded by people who could cast spells, change into wolves, manipulate the elements, and more. Not surprising, then, that these extinct races kept the ghost-world black market in business as they desperately tried to find some power, any power, to call their own.
I went back to Kristof and told him what I'd seen.
"Looks like a job for you," he said. "I'll stand guard out here."
I changed into the short black dress I'd worn with the haunters, and left my hair straight. Maybe not Ross's style, but at least he wouldn't mistake me for one of his nymphs.
I walked to the front door, opened it, and strode inside.
As I entered the living room, every nymph jumped. Ross looked over at me. Then he looked at me some more.
"Well, well," he said. "A new student, I presume?"
I made a show of looking at each nymph, then cocked a "not likely" brow-arch at Ross.
"You can't just walk in here—" the girl in the chair began.
Ross lifted a finger and she stopped in mid-squeak.
"It's a business call," I said. "I would have phoned but…"
He smiled. "Not that easy in this world, is it? So you're looking for lessons? Maybe… private lessons?"
