Chapter 11
ELEVEN
T he elevator doors slide open on the ground floor and Thea's voice rings out from the lobby.
"Luce!" she calls my name as she dashes toward me. "I got us a table at the restaurant. They're just serving breakfast. Let's go," she says as she grabs my hand, steering me toward the entrance of the restaurant.
A waiter shows us to a table for two and takes our orders. I opt for hash browns, eggs, and avocado toast while Thea chooses eggs and bacon.
"What about your brother?"
"He'll come eventually." She waves her hand, her nose wrinkling in displeasure. "He won't be able to stay away for long," she grumbles under her breath.
"Right," I murmur. "You have a peculiar relationship."
"You could say so." She strains a smile. She doesn't offer more and I don't ask.
The food arrives relatively quickly, and we both start eating.
"This is marvelous," Thea sighs, her mouth full.
"I gather you don't have bacon in your world?"
"We have some equivalent. But I was never allowed to eat it."
"What? Why?"
"Let's just say it wasn't part of my diet," she answers evasively.
I nod. Silence descends as she munches with gusto while I can't help but dwell on what had happened last night. Was it possible? Could it be that the shadow I saw was Nikki? That he kept his promise after all?
There had been a deep sense of familiarity in that brief interaction—as if my soul had known what my other senses had been unable to decipher.
But I'm also aware that it could just be my wishful thinking. Now that I've found out there's an unseen world out there, I might be tempted to equate every unusual encounter with the supernatural when the answer would be much simpler. It could be an otherworldly spirit, or it could simply be my wretched longing.
Yet no matter how much I replay the events of last night in my mind, I get increasingly more convinced that I hadn't imagined it.
The shadow had been real.
"Thea," I start, biting my lip in apprehension.
"Huh?" She gives me her full attention, slowing down her chewing.
"Tell me more about these spirits that stay behind."
She swallows her food, reaches for her glass of water, and takes a big sip.
"It doesn't happen very often. If it did, this world would be teeming with ghosts." She chuckles. When she sees I'm not amused, she clears her throat. "It usually happens when a soul is particularly strong. When an individual is about to die, a messenger of death appears at the scene and calls the soul out of the body." She pauses as she pops another piece of bacon in her mouth. "That messenger is a neutral being whose sole purpose is to lead souls across P'asala for their judgment."
"Judgment? Is that like St. Peter and the gates of Heaven?"
"I don't know any Peter dude," she frowns. "Anyway, long story short, after the souls are judged, they can go on to pay for their deeds during that lifetime and hope to qualify for reincarnation. After they drink from the well of oblivion and all their past memories are erased, of course."
"And?" I probe, but her attention is momentarily distracted as she calls for the waiter to bring her another portion of bacon.
"And what?"
"We were talking about the spirits that stay behind," I repeat.
"Oh, right. Sorry, this bacon is truly divine."
"No one's taking it from you. You don't have to eat so fast," I mention when she digs into her plate the moment the waiter places it on the table.
"Have to," she says, her mouth full, her eyes moving suspiciously from one corner of the restaurant to the other. "Have to finish this before my brother comes."
"Oh," I murmur. It's on the tip of my tongue to ask her about her conflict with her brother, but I don't want to distract her from the subject at hand.
"Back to those spirits," she continues. "When the soul exits the body, most are confused and easily malleable. It's very easy for the messenger to get them to follow him into P'asala. But there are a few more... strong-willed spirits whose emotions are so powerful at the time of death that they refuse to leave this plane of existence under any circumstance."
"Can't the messenger force them?"
"Nope." She pops the P just as she bites down on a crunchy piece of bacon. "They're neutral, remember? Their job is simply to lead the souls to P'asala. They can't otherwise intervene. They wouldn't want to either. Messengers have no feelings. They are like your machines—entities that fulfill a role."
My mouth opens in awe. That's fascinating—and so, so smart. If the messengers have no feelings, they cannot be swayed. I nod to myself, intrigued by the world Thea's describing. But there's something that doesn't quite make sense.
"So those souls are simply left to their devices?"
"Of course not. There's a special team in charge of collecting rogue souls—the Collectors. But it's not the most desirable job, so there are usually a lot of vacancies. My guess is that they decided on this trial because they wanted others to do the job for them."
I blink, slowly digesting all the new information. Not only are there ghosts and deities and other creatures, but also different types of grim reapers—who seem to be oddly unionized. Growing up, my experiences with the supernatural had been solely through the prism of El Senor. It had been chaotic, illogical, and at times inane. Although I had been forced to believe without questioning, it had been questionable even to my young, untutored mind.
Back then, even with all that alleged proof, I could see the man behind the godly mask, and I knew it to be a farce. Now, though... I'm the living proof of this truth.
Some people pretend to be gods. Others... are gods.
The world is suddenly a lot more complex and complicated than I ever realized—or gave it credit for.
"Being a collector is a job?"
"They're the equivalent of bounty hunters in your world," she explains further. "They get a list with all the rebellious souls, and they choose their assignments. Some souls can be a pain from what I've heard, so they just never get picked. I imagine that must be the case with the theatre."
My optimism plummets as I consider her words. If even a special team tasked to recover rebellious souls avoided the theatre, what will that mean for us? Have we been set up to fail from the beginning?
"I see." I nod slowly, taking a sip of water. "You mentioned powerful emotions at the time of death. What would that entail?"
"A violent death?" Thea shrugs. "A deep regret? A desire for revenge? Every case is different."
"And how do these ghosts look?" I ask tentatively, holding my breath for her answer.
"I haven't seen one myself, but from what I've heard, the more time a spirit spends in-between realms, the more powerful they become and the more they resemble their former selves. It's also why the Collectors avoid them, because their sense of self is so solidified—pun intended"—she chuckles to herself—"that it's sometimes impossible to get them to drink from the well of oblivion."
I'd love to question her more about this well of oblivion, but I need to take advantage of the discussion at hand and find out more things about these ghosts—or, in my case, a particular ghost. Who knows when is the next time she'll be this forthcoming with information? Certainly not when her brother joins us and their never-ending cycle of bickering resumes.
"What about newly deceased souls? How do those look?"
Thea puts a hand up, ordering yet another portion of bacon. People all around the restaurant stare at her. Even the waiter is giving her an odd look, probably wondering if he should call the ambulance after she's done. It's likely not every day that they see a girl eat her weight in fat, greasy bacon.
"Newly deceased souls are rather shapeless particles of energy. From what I've heard, they're harmless and barely have any powers."
Shapeless particles of energy? That sounds very similar to the dark shadow I saw last night. Hope blossoms in my chest and I swallow hard to curb down the excitement that flows freely through my veins.
"Can they communicate?" I probe further.
"I doubt it." She taps her finger against her chin. "But then again, I'm not an expert in ghosts."
"But you do know a lot." I raise a brow.
"I hear things here and there," she murmurs, a guilty smile playing on her lips.
Right. I'm starting to notice a pattern with her. She knows some things and is completely clueless about others—like phones and GPS. That, coupled with the way her brother keeps her under close surveillance, tells me she's been sheltered most of her life.
The waiter brings the third plate of bacon.
Her eyes sparkle in anticipation. She licks her lips as she reaches out to grab a strip of bacon, but before she can touch it, the plate is snatched away from her.
Her eyes widen, and we both gaze up at her scowling brother.
"You know you're not allowed to eat this." He grits his teeth. Barking an order at the waiter, he hands him the plate, throwing a couple of hundred-dollar bills toward him.
"We're done here." He levels his sister with his icy stare. Yet just as I think Thea is going to protest—as she usually does—she hangs her head in resignation as she gets up from the table.
"What's going on?" I ask as I follow after them.
Cer doesn't stop until we're out of the hotel. He suddenly comes to a halt, pivoting to face us.
"Here." He hands us each a ticket to a musical being performed at the New Amsterdam Theatre. "The show starts in a couple of hours."
"Thank you," I murmur, glancing down at my ticket.
The title of the musical is in bold letters on top of a colorful background—Penelope's Odyssey.
In small script, the description of the musical implies it's been adapted from Homer's Odyssey but it's focusing instead on Odysseus's wife, Penelope.
"There's only one show today and none until Friday," Cer continues. "If we remain in the theater after closing hours, we'll have at least a couple of days until the staff comes back to work."
"How do you know that?" Thea fires back.
"I asked around." He shrugs. "There's a national holiday the day after tomorrow too, so it's unlikely anyone will be present. That gives us plenty of time to deal with that rogue spirit."
I nod, impressed.
"Since we're going to be there for a few days, we should get some supplies," I suggest.
"Like what?" Thea frowns.
"Food, some spare clothes, flashlights, and maybe a few sleeping bags."
Cer stares at me intently before his gaze moves to his sister. He purses his lips, pensive for a moment. Thea sports a contrite expression as she meets his eyes, almost as if they're having a silent conversation.
Or maybe they are? I'm not sure what their abilities are—besides Thea's extreme charm—but I can't discount the fact that they could be capable of some crazy stuff. Just like I can't discount the fact that for all intents and purposes, they are strangers. We may be on the same team now, but I'm still unsure about their intentions or their plans. For that reason, I need to keep my guard up.
"Fine. We can do that," Cer says.
We go to the nearest convenience store and stock up on essentials—water, some non-perishable food, and a few snacks. Next, we stop by one of those touristy shops and get some hoodies and mini flashlights with NYC on them. Cer pays for everything in one-hundred-dollar bills, just like he did at the restaurant. I don't know where he got that money from, but I'm not about to ask. Given their cluelessness about how things work in this world, I wouldn't be surprised if he robbed a bank. And since I'd rather not become an accessory to yet another crime, I'll gladly embrace my ignorance.
With a little under one hour to spare until the show starts, we go to a coffee shop across the theatre and wait. As we order some refreshments, I notice that Cer is monitoring Thea's choice closely, grunting in approval when she asks for a lemonade. I get the same, while Cer orders plain water.
After we get our beverages, Cer slides a few pieces of paper on the table, nodding at us to have a look.
"A short history of New Amsterdam Theatre," I read aloud the title of what seems to be a newspaper clipping.
"There wasn't a lot of information available, but this should give us a starting point," he mentions as he leans back.
Thea comes closer to me as we sift through what her brother found.
"Here's a mention of a ghost! A man claims to have seen a lady in a green beaded dress holding a blue bottle and walking through walls a few months ago," I read off the page. "He recognized her as former silent film actress, Olive Thomas." There's a brief biography of Olive Thomas, once a Broadway superstar. "It seems she died of an accidental poisoning in 1920."
"That's odd." Thea narrows her eyes, shooting a subtle look at her brother. "What type of poisoning?"
"Apparently, she ingested a mercury bichloride mixture that had been prescribed for her husband's syphilis," I add as I peruse some of the details.
"Syphilis? What's that?" Thea inquires innocently.
"It's a sexually transmitted disease. Now it's treatable with penicillin, but in 1920 that hadn't been discovered. Mercury was the de facto treatment back in the day, but it was also highly toxic. Poor girl, I can't imagine the torment she must have suffered after ingesting the mercury..." Just thinking about it makes the hairs on my body stand up. Such a cruel way to die—and she didn't die immediately, either. She languished for days on a hospital bed before her final demise.
"You humans have such diseases?" Thea blinks in surprise.
"Welcome to being human," I mumble under my breath.
"An accidental death doesn't seem like prime material for a haunting," Thea continues, picking another newsletter slip from the table. "Look here. She didn't even die at the theatre. She died in Paris. That makes it even more unlikely for a haunting."
Her brows furrow as she peruses article after article, seemingly searching for something.
"Why?" I ask.
"Spirits usually remain tied to the place where they died."
"You forget one thing, Thea," Cer interrupts. "Spirits can also cling to objects they prized during their life."
"What about people?" I suddenly ask.
Cer shrugs. "Could be. Spirits are fickle. When a soul exits the body, it's usually very confused and cannot remember too well what happened during its life. A messenger intervenes at that point and leads them quietly to P'asala. But there are times when the spirit becomes obsessed with something. It could be a place, an object, a person...a feeling. That obsession is what usually prompts a spirit to go rogue."
I nod slowly. His explanation makes more sense than Thea's. But it also opens the door for more questions. Is Nikki trapped in between realms because he can't let go of me? Is he still by my side because I'm the object of his obsession? And if so, what would I do? Would I try to help him cross over, or would I feign ignorance and keep him by my side? A cynical smile twists my lips. The former question is moot because no matter how much I'd like to think of myself as ethical and virtuous, my husband is where I draw the line.
"Maybe there's something at the theatre that keeps Olive there. She was part of the Ziegfeld Follies, and one of their shows, Midnight Frolic, was staged at the New Amsterdam Theatre. It says here she was also having an affair with Ziegfeld, the show's impresario."
Thea and Cer share a long look, and once more I get the feeling that they're communicating without words.
"I tried to find out more about Miss Thomas, but given that this happened more than a century ago, there aren't a lot of details," Cer adds. "That means we've got to do this the old-fashioned way."
"Old-fashioned way?" I frown, while Thea releases a loud squeak.
"That should be a lot of fun!" she exclaims excitedly—but at this point, what is she not excited about?
"Wait a moment. What are we talking about?"
"We need to catch Miss Thomas and interrogate her. With her age, she should have cognitive abilities. Once we know what's keeping her here, we can resolve the issue and help her move on," Cer explains matter-of-factly.
"And how does one go about catching a ghost?" I ask drily. "Do we need some crucifixes and holy water?"
"What? No!" Thea's eyes widen. "You humans and your silly tales." She waves her hand around, shaking her head.
My lips flatten in a thin line as I barely stop myself from commenting on her use of humans. I know she doesn't mean it, but it comes across as a little condescending.
"The first step is to get her to appear before us. After that, Cer will trap her and we can chat. She's an actress. I'm sure she'll love to talk about herself."
"Uhm..." I look back and forth between the two of them, wondering how the hell we're going to pull this off. "And if she's not cooperative?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there." Thea shrugs. As she leans in, she whispers, "Pun intended." She waits a second before she starts giggling. Wherever she heard that line, she's definitely taken it upon herself to include it in her daily vocabulary.
With a plan in mind—or the semblance of one—we pay the bill and head to the theatre for the start of the musical.
The theatre's hallway is filled with framed pictures of influential people from the history of the theatre. Walking around, I catalog all the images, half in awe at stepping inside such a historically rich venue, but mostly attentive for any potential clue.
"That's her." I point to one of the frames. The picture is in black and white, and Olive is wearing a French-style fur ensemble.
"I don't think anyone has a problem with her ghost," Thea adds as she catches up with us. I turn slightly. I hadn't even realized she'd remained behind.
"What do you mean?"
"All the people at the entrance were talking about the ghost and were excited about potentially seeing her. Even the person at the ticket booth was joking about it, saying she's been around for decades. He was instructing men—apparently, she's partial to men—to greet her and blow her a kiss."
"Hmm," Cer grunts, his eyes narrowing as he looks around.
"You're thinking about the same thing I am, aren't you?" Thea pulls on her brother's sleeve, their eyes meeting.