Chapter 31
The remnants of gentlemanly behavior surfaced for just long enough to make Ligat roll to the side before he collapsed, sparing Hazel his full weight.
He lay with the blanket crisp against his back, the floor hard beneath it, suspecting that he felt every atom of both and possibly some in the air.
It was entirely possible that his skeleton had vanished. He was fine with that.
Hazel’s ceiling stretched overhead, white plaster and dark wooden beams, and Ligat stared at it for a while, less out of interest and more because focusing his eyes seemed to require too much energy.
Sated, half-dizzy, he listened to the mingled sound of his breathing and Hazel’s, felt the faint brush of her shoulder against his side, and used all his remaining willpower to keep from falling asleep then and there.
“Well,” she said, after a few minutes had passed. “I’m glad I got this room cleaned out. The wallpaper would probably have killed the mood even if it had never changed.”
“Changed?”
Her shoulder hardly moved. “Mouths. They were small, probably harmless unless you stuck a finger in one, but definitely unpleasant. It was…right before I met you, actually.”
It seemed like a long time since he’d stood before her in a prison of thorns—a moment which, given their present circumstances, took on a new tone in his memory. Given more time, he might have asked Hazel about exploring that territory. “I hope I was better company.”
“More coherent.” To Ligat’s mild disappointment, she sat up, pulling one bare leg to her chest and clasping her arms around the knee.
“One does one’s best,” said Ligat. He pushed himself up too—the world did go on, and the last thing he wanted was to be unprepared if Perthrux summoned him—and cast the cleaning spell.
Hazel anticipated it enough not to gasp, but she closed her eyes and basked in the feeling. “Where did you learn that?”
“A dead magician, early on in my…service. There are surprisingly few baths in the ethereal. I created one in my lodgings, of course, but I can’t always get back there regularly.”
“I didn’t realize it would work on this plane.”
“There’s less need, generally speaking. The woman I dealt with hadn’t lived or learned her skills in an era with indoor plumbing.”
“It could still be useful. The hot water heater in this place is tiny, and I suspect the heating goes out regularly during the winter—” She stopped herself suddenly. “Not that it’ll probably matter.”
There was a moment of silence. Hazel went to retrieve her clothes.
Ligat watched the line of her back as she bent and picked up her shirt, saw the slight tremor in one hand, and realized abruptly that he would have sold his soul again, willingly this time, if it had let him deny what she said.
He might have done it even to truthfully say she had a good chance.
* * *
It was so damn easy to forget, that was the thing, and so damn hard at the same time. Hazel’s probable horrible doom hung over her most days like the cloud that followed Eeyore around, and then in stretches she could go without thinking about it until she stabbed herself in the gut by mistake.
She hadn’t talked much to ghosts who’d had terminal illnesses. They generally went over pretty peacefully. Living people—living at the time, anyhow—had written some books on the subject. Hazel just hadn’t thought to pick any of them up. Her situation had been different, after all.
I really know how to stretch out denial, I guess.
Ligat was still sitting on the blanket, naked and silent, looking more awkward than she ever would have thought possible when she’d first met him. It shouldn’t have mattered. They might have had sex, they might even have a sort of détente, but he was still on the other side.
“Anyhow,” she said, pulling on underwear and jeans, “I’d be up for learning it. If a living human can do that.”
“I believe so. Teaching it isn’t a short process, though, but if you don’t object to my company again…”
Hazel gestured to the disarranged blankets. “Obviously not. Besides, it’s better to have you around talking than out there lurking at all—oh, hold on a second.” Ligat, who’d been reaching for his robe, paused. “No, I mean…have you seen a man creeping around here when I’ve been gone?”
“Other than me? No. Why?”
“I found footprints when I got back from the city. Obviously you weren’t here then, but I thought maybe this wasn’t his first visit.”
“If not, he’s timed them very well. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.” He honestly seemed to be, at least as far as that incident went, which suggested that the demon hadn’t been involved.
“It’s okay.” Hazel tugged her shirt over her head and continued once she’d gotten her face free of the neck. “Seemed like a long shot anyhow. You’re just the only other person who might have been around—well, the only one who I’m likely to run into again, apparently.”
“Oh?”
At first, she thought of telling him oh, never mind, it’s no big deal and moving on. Hazel wasn’t sure Ligat would let that lie, though, and she was too old to dance around an otherwise harmless subject.
“A man came by a few times, ostensibly because I have a good bird-watching forest. We chatted a few times, but…” Hazel shrugged, thinking nonchalant at herself very hard.
For all Ligat’s flaws, he seemed too sensible to be jealous, and to hell with him if he was, but the sexual part of the story made her sound too pathetic.
“He got spooked once we started getting to know each other, and it seems he faked all the contact details he’d given me.
He was probably a reporter. Or writing a book—Murder and the Medium.
The Serial Killer’s Séance. That kind of thing.
” She laughed, going for amusement at life’s little foibles rather than bitterness, and thought she managed a decent act.
“That would be remarkably underhanded,” said Ligat. He got to his feet.
Standing there naked, he made for a pleasant distraction even when she’d need a bottle of water and a couple of hours’ rest before even thinking about more sex.
Hazel found it easier to sound casual this time.
“Underhanded, yes. Remarkable? Eh, that’s—well, I’d say it’s modern journalism, but I bet it goes back to at least Hearst.” Her conversation with Jess earlier that afternoon seemed about a year old, but remembering it made Hazel ask, “Did you ever see me with him? And if so, was he any kind of otherworldly being?”
Ligat was silent while he pulled on his robe. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you if he was,” he finally said, sounding thoughtful. “My mission didn’t take me here when you had company.”
“Oh well,” said Hazel. “Like I said, probably just a normal human with his own agenda. That’s generally the answer.”
“And the footprints?”
“They look human, or at least they look like a biped wearing shoes made them. You don’t leave prints, and Chapman wouldn’t either, would he?”
Ligat shook his head. “Not on the ground.”
“Right. That leaves me with nothing much, but whoever he was hasn’t come back yet. With any luck, it was a drunk teenager on a dare or somebody looking for directions.”
“And if not?” Ligat asked. He hadn’t put his hood back up, so Hazel could see that he was frowning.
She sighed. “Then…I have a knife, I have a shotgun, I have the guards you’ve seen, and I keep the doors and windows locked. I’m not sure there’s much else I can do. A different serial killer would at least be an unexpected way to go, I guess.”
“One that would hinder my master’s plans, which means I could make an argument for being here more often,” Ligat said quietly, almost making it sound like an offhand statement.
It could also have been an offer, especially since he stopped talking after that and just watched her. Waiting for an answer? Hazel decided to go with that theory. “The more help I get, the better, especially if a mortal axe murderer does show up. I didn’t exactly train for that.”
Ligat smiled ruefully. “Neither did I, but since the theoretical axeman won’t be able to do much to me, I could simply flail about until I landed a lucky punch. And I’ve picked up a few other skills over time.”
“Then I’ll tell Bramble you’re making yourself useful, so they won’t get alarmed when you come and go. Assuming you’re not going to constantly be here, of course.”
“As much as I would enjoy lurking in your garden all day, no. These aren’t my only duties—and I’m thankful my master didn’t summon me any time in the last hour.”
“Does it just yank you back?” Hazel asked, in fascinated horror at that mental image.
“Not the first time. That takes more effort than…it…likes, and I’m amusing when I have to rush.” He might have been quoting the demon. He was definitely sardonic. And he made two pieces click together in Hazel’s brain.
She remembered him in the middle of Bramble’s vines, watching her approach and asking what the next step in her plan was.
I do what I must, he’d said, and You have a long way to go before you match my master in torture.
Hazel had never been under the impression that he’d served the demon out of love or loyalty—she doubted any being did, human or not—but she’d always assumed he was getting something out of it.
If the demon could grab him from the mortal world, though, and if he couldn’t say its name—if he’d lurked outside rather than spying in her closet or going through her things because he was following the strictest interpretation of his orders, only that and nothing more—if he was calling himself Ligat, as in ligature, as in bound—
Hazel thought of princesses dancing underground, of frogs hitting walls, of horse’s heads and magic roses.
She stepped sideways and looked directly into his face, shadowed beneath the hood.
That darkness and the red lights inside it had been intimidating not long ago. Now she just saw Ligat in dim light.
“Are you under a magical compulsion?” she asked. “Is that what keeps you serving the demon?”
Ligat went completely still. Even his eyes barely moved, and Hazel had started to worry that the demon had installed some kind of paralysis fail-safe before he tilted his head to the side, putting on an indulgent smile. “What makes you think I’ll give you an honest answer?”
“Just a gamble,” she said, deciding that she’d pushed boundaries just as far as was wise. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make some instant soup and read about human sacrifice.”
“I’d never want to intrude on such a beautiful moment. Besides—” Ligat grimaced, ruining the smooth sarcasm. “Chapman may have other mischief in mind, which means I may need to persuade him of just how bad any such ideas would be, and that’s best done quickly. I’ll return. You may not see me.”
He raised a hand in farewell this time, rather than bowing, and vanished before Hazel could speak.
It was probably just as well, she told herself.
The next words out of her mouth would have been just knock on the door, no point in lurking when I know you’re out there—a much bigger gamble than asking about his bonds to the demon.
Ligat was still working for the thing, after all, even if she thought he’d told her the truth in the best way he could.