A.N.: Just got into Lost Girl last week, and the idea of Rhett kind of developed from memories of reading The Summoning with a necromancer, and reading a lot of Immortals After Dark by Kresley Cole. I originally liked Bo, but the more I watch the episodes the more I find her a self-absorbed, selfish bitch. Kenzi, however, is a goddess! With characters like Bo, I think there has to be someone who will actually put her in her place, rather than do what everyone in the Lost Girl series seems to do and think she's unstoppable and flawless. She's frantic, and overemotional, but that's just my opinion!
So, I give you LaRhette. Storylines heavily influenced by Supernatural and Criminal Minds, and what with the combination of crime and supernatural baddies, they are two excellent references!
This chapter (and the next two) is set about a year before Kenzi meets Bo.
Grit
01
"I'll be goddamned." She turned the newspaper around and sighed, shaking her head even as a tiny smile lifted the corners of her beautiful lips. The newspaper article read, "Double Homicide Baffles Authorities: Throats Slit, Alarms Still Active". Reading over the article, Rhett pulled her tired brown-leather journal toward her, thumbing through the heavily-scribbled and almost frail pages, filled with newspaper clippings, strange symbols, frayed, torn paper, and a few glossy photographs, stapled business-cards and glued pages torn from ancient library texts. One page in particular featured only black Biro notes, specific dates and details on four families, a page Rhett had never paid much attention to before because she hadn't written it, and unlike the other pages handed down to her this one imparted no information on specific fey. It was a list of names, and the dates of their murders. The M.O. of their murders matched exactly to the description of the Greggs' murders in the newspaper.
She had come up north for a job, had completed it and rested last night, and was eating lunch in a very nice duck-egg blue and white-countered diner. A new photograph was added to the collection in a fat, very old and worn white envelope held in the front flap of the ring-journal, another face she would remember for saving them. The kidnapping trail had led her to a horde of bear Ghala, though they hadn't taken the girl themselves, merely holding her for an ill-tempered and very wealthy business associate of the girl's parents, using their distraction over their daughter to force through business deals they had withdrawn from.
It was fortune or fate that she hadn't left town last night, that she could connect the M.O. to at least four murders in the last century, all in the area, all unsolved and mysterious.
Rhett finished up her lunch, wiped her mouth on a napkin, paid and left a generous tip, exited the diner, and let herself dissolve.
The world wasn't one-dimensional as humans believed. Since she was a little girl, Rhett had possessed the ability to walk between the planes, between life and death. Smiling faces greeted her as she entered this plane; it looked no different to the human one, just had more people in it. A little boy ran across the pedestrian crosswalk, blood splattering everywhere as an invisible car hit him; a chubby man was knifed in the gut as a drug-deal went bad; in an alley, a pretty prostitute was shot to death after laughing at her john.
Some of the ghosts turned to look at her, eyes lighting up eagerly; she always attracted attention entering this realm, because she alone could enter it at will, walking amongst the dead, the souls of the living vibrant and colourful, like an internal fire that burned different hues as each emotion flared, thousands of threads winding, unseen by any but her. The auras were far stronger in this realm than in the other, though everything to her eyes was still as clear as crystal. She saw ghosts as clearly as she saw the living, even in the realm of the living, and as a child and young teenager, this had caused many of those on the street to avoid her, thinking her madder than they. Her friends had been ghosts, her guardians and her teachers, her beloveds, her suppliants. They came to her for help, and aided her in turn.
In the spirit realm, Rhett could travel hundreds of miles with no more than a thought, leaving no trace, no puff of smoke or crackle of sparkling light. She was silent and untraceable as a spectre was to any other but a Necromancer. It made her invaluable as a mercenary, too good at her job for either side to let the other claim her.
Rhett didn't care to choose either side. Light or Dark; in her experience nothing was ever so cut and dry. Nobody was ever entirely evil or purely good. A mercenary of her calibre saw the very best of the world, and the very worst, and escorted the souls of Dark fey that had led purer lives than those of Light elders. In the end, it didn't matter, Light and Dark. Those rules didn't apply to the dead. Restricted in life to territory, the ghosts of the fey were free in death to move where they wished, if they remained. Most didn't. If Rhett was called, she gave them the choice, a peek into what came beyond, if they so chose, or the choice to remain, unseen, watchful. Some she promised to watch over their descendents when she escorted them to the plain little arched door.
There were no ghosts in the Gregg home. Surprising, given the violent nature of the couple's deaths. More than that, there was nothing in the house. It was new, even by American standards, spacious and would have been warm if the place hadn't been stripped of every amenity. Sighing softly, Rhett appeared in the realm of the living, her brown-leather heeled ankle-boots touching softly onto the cream carpet. Someone had completely stripped the entire house. The only thing that remained was a few splotches of dried blood on the carpet in the master bedroom.
Rhett stilled. She had heard someone talking. Disappearing, she searched the property and honed in on two figures outside the back door leading into the garage. It was a girl, black-haired with very pale green eyes, her tongue sticking out as she picked the lock on the door. She was very slender, dressed in Goth garb, and Rhett had to admit she was both very talented with picking locks and with choosing her outfits. She was also grumbling to herself. Rhett recognised Russia, though she wasn't near fluent in it yet. The girl was griping to herself about being able to pick deadbolts, but her fingers were frozen. She wore an empty rucksack on her back, and, scanning her thoughts, Rhett smiled to herself sadly. This girl was as much a street urchin as she was, though Rhett was several years older and had earned her way off the streets of the French Quarter; this human had read about the murder in the paper and was dead set on raiding the house of valuables to pawn. Rhett was far from sympathising with much; she had led a primarily isolated lifestyle since she was thirteen, and before that had been regarded as a freak who saw things nobody else did and liked sticking her finger in live electrical sockets, always knew what people were thinking and was mesmerised by lightning.
Purely by accident, Rhett had pulled herself off the streets. If she hadn't stumbled across that shifter and accidentally killed him, protecting herself out of pure animalistic instinct, she would never have gained that bounty, guided by the ghost of the fey girl the shifter had killed to her parents, who had put a price on his head. If Rhett hadn't killed that shifter, she would never have had the opportunity to change her life. Over the last nineteen years she had honed herself into a skilled mercenary and assassin, her services for sale only to those who needed the most delicate treatment of their business, and would pay her very handsomely for it.
If she wasn't on a job, things like this, they filled up her otherwise empty datebook.
The girl broke into the garage, peering around the yard before sneaking into the garage, through to the house.
"What the…?" Rhett could sense her bafflement as easily as she could read the girl's thoughts; she had come not more than three hours ago and taken a bagful of trinkets to fence. In three hours, the entire place had been stripped clean, besides the blood.
Rhett wasn't nearly as curious about the murders now as she was about this girl's spirit. Rhett saw each being's spirit as a soft glow, more distinguished in the spirit realm, but even by the standards she was used to, viewing live spirits from the spirit realm, this girl's burned like the sun. Rhett was an expert in recognising a person's true character. To a Necromancer everything was laid out bare, every grace and flaw; this girl was incorruptible and fearless, though she was no angel.
Inside the house, Kenzi's jaw dropped in disbelief, thoughts of the Agent Provocateur corset she had seen on sale flying out the window now that she had nothing to pawn to pay for it. Her thoughts went to theft, and Rhett's boots once again touched the carpet.
"Cleared it out completely, didn't they," she said softly, and Kenzi gasped and whirled around, almost tripping over her own feet as she tried to judo-chop the air with her fingerless-gloved hands. Rhett could hear her blood pounding through her veins, a messy jumble of terror-stricken thoughts displaced by a calm resolve, knuckle-dusters flashing on her right hand, adopting a fighter's stance even in buckled platform-boots.
Rhett didn't often find herself relating to living beings, particularly humans, but this fiery little underfed urchin of a human girl had a spirit that felt…kindred. They had both been taught not to fear bedtime monsters, though Rhett didn't know how she had known that as a little girl. And they had both let the streets raise them.
"Who are you?" she demanded breathlessly. Rhett listened, focusing, as Kenzi mentally sized her up. It was always interesting to hear her opponents' first impressions of her. A v-neck dove-grey long-sleeved t-shirt, two gold pendants, a beige trench-coat with cream cashmere lining and cuffs, beautifully-fitted 7 For All Mankind jeans and handmade heeled brown-leather ankle-boots peeking out from the hems, Kenzi believed Rhett was a rich neighbour to the murdered couple she had read about in the papers.
"I'm looking into the murder of the couple who lived here," Rhett said quietly. Kenzi's eyes widened.
"You're a cop?"
"No," Rhett said slowly, smiling. Rhett had hauled herself out of life on the streets, and this kindred street-hustler had tried many times to improve her status, but had little luck. She survived, though, and was fearless and emotionally very strong. She was good, if not an angel. Rhett made a snap decision, something she never did. "I need to examine the belongings taken from this house. If you help me find what I need, I'll let you have your pick of the rest."
"You're not gonna narc on me, are you?" Kenzi asked, narrowing her eyes. Rhett gave her an amused look.
"I generally avoid authority figures as a rule," she admitted quietly, "especially human ones." Kenzi gave her a strange look.
"Are you for real? I help you out, I get what I wanted from this place? How do you know where all their shit is?"
"I don't," Rhett said. "But I will. And you look like you could use the money you'll get pawning their belongings."
"What makes you say that?" Kenzi asked.
"You're starving," Rhett said, and Kenzi's eyes widened a little again, but a second later it wasn't at Rhett she was staring. A noise echoed from downstairs, the front-door opening and letting in the voices of two men.
"…need to come back here? Probably cut-and-dry murder-suicide."
"There was no murder-weapon, Hale. This is the second time this M.O. has cropped up."
"Shit!" Kenzi hissed softly. Rhett placed a finger to her lips and reached out, lightly touching her arm, leading her upstairs through the back staircase, and, though Kenzi didn't know it, through the spirit realm. It was easy for her, a Necromancer, to manipulate spirits through the planes, had travelled with others through the spirit realm before, and it was easier walking through it from place to place than tracing.
"Are they with you?" Kenzi breathed, as they trod lightly upstairs. Rhett shook her head, her eyes scanning, not the walls in front, but through the ceiling. She could see spirits through anything, and these two burned familiarly. Fey. One was older, more resilient and hard than the other, though his heart was huge, and strong; the other was a little more joyful, though nearly as ancient.
"They're coming upstairs," she murmured, keeping up the pretence to Kenzi that they were still in the same plane of existence as the two fey males. Curious, she pointed to the closet, and no sooner had she drawn the slatted closet doors shut using her special brand of telekinesis than the door to the master bedroom was opened again.
"…the hell gave them permission to empty our crime-scene?" The voice belonged to the younger of the two males, a voice mellifluous and entrancing, but annoyed; he was a very attractive male who looked to be in his early thirties, chocolate-skinned with high-cheekbones and perfect teeth, wearing a leather fedora and a police badge draped around his neck under a heavy coat. His companion was taller, fairer, with curly Demerara-blonde hair, lovely bone-structure and warm, calm eyes that belied a volatile temper. He wore a gun in a shoulder-holster, his badge clipped to his belt, his thick wool coat beautifully tailored.
Fey masquerading as law-enforcement. What little she knew of the area, Rhett knew this territory was claimed by the Light fey. She disliked scanning minds of everyone she met.
"Why don't you ask the neighbours what they saw?" the fairer one said. Rhett licked her lips and swallowed, her stomach doing something funny that she hadn't experienced in nearly a decade. His voice was deep and warm, gentle but again, concealed a simmering temper. If his head wasn't bare to his curling blonde hair, Rhett might have said rage-demon, though they usually wore hats to conceal their lovely shell-coloured horns from human notice.
"You got something?" the darker fey asked, and Kenzi shivered as the fairer man inhaled deeply, frowning as he moved slowly toward the closet.
"I'm not sure. Something I picked up downstairs… There are two newer scents, on top of the removal team. These two are female, but I don't know whether they're both human or one's fey."
"What do you mean, you're not sure?" the dark fey asked. "When is a wolf's nose ever wrong?"
"The second scent is so faint, so…strange," the blonde fey said, frowning. "I barely caught it."
"You think maybe they're a team, revisiting the site of the murder?" the dark fey asked.
"A fey and a human working together?" Rhett squeezed Kenzi's arm reassuringly, and as the blonde fey threw open the closet doors, Kenzi jumped and gasped, gazing wide-eyed and guilty at the fey.
"They really did wipe the place out," the dark-skinned fey said. "You got anything?" The blonde fey closed his eyes, inhaling deeply again, and Rhett's certainty of his species strengthened.
"The strange scent again, it's barely there," he said, turning away from Rhett and Kenzi. "It's elusive, I can't…" He inhaled again.
"What is it?" the other fey asked.
"It's like…the memory of a scent, not the scent itself."
"This case just keeps getting weirder," the dark fey sighed. "This is definitely a fey job."
"I didn't get this scent when we first looked around. It's…" The blonde shifter inhaled deeply again, and this time Rhett allowed herself to delve into his mind.
Dyson couldn't tell whether he was going mad or not. He had scented out the four sweaty, coffee-chugging removal-men with incredible ease; the scent lingered in this master bedroom, too, but it wasn't that which made his nose twitch. The human scent had been easy to trace to the garage-door, where the lock had been picked; she smelled like hair-product, grated parmesan and the street, a distinctive scent. But it disappeared in the room that had contained the grand-piano and bookcases, where he had caught a tiny crackle of that elusive scent that made his cock twitch every time he managed to find it again.
It was sweet and oddly murky, rich and moist, bringing up memories of sultry lightning storms and candles flickering under mosquito-nets, sipping rum, the heat pressing against his bare skin like the caress of a lover, the sound of crickets and something saccharine and tart, which made his mouth water as much as the scent made his knees weak and his cock throb achingly. But just like a memory, the scent was gone before it fully latched onto him, a flash of lightning in a sticky sky that left imprints of everything else in its wake, tantalising but ethereal.
And Hale's the siren, he thought, scanning the room once more. The blood had left the scents of the two human victims, and he had caught that other scent inside the closet, but it was completely bare. If the two females he had picked up on had been here once, they were gone now, and for all Hale's hypotheses, he couldn't pin this kind of kill on any kind of local fey. Nothing had been missing from the bodies at all, not even a kidney, and their blood hadn't been drained or collected in a sink, but left to pool around the bodies. This was the second murder like this in the last two weeks, both with the same M.O., but they couldn't find any connections between the victims other than that they both gave generously to charities and were avid art-lovers.
"Anything?" he asked, as Hale returned, retrieving a little notepad from his inside coat-pocket.
"Two hours ago, removal vans arrived, taking all the Greggs' possessions to Carlyle Auction House," Hale said. "Called the auction house, they're holding an estate sale today." Dyson shook his head, disbelieving.
"Humans," he said. "Vultures."
"Think someone's covering their tracks?" Hale asked. Dyson shrugged.
"If this is fey, we'll have to ask around."
"If it's Dark fey?"
"They're trespassing on Light territory. They'll have to deal with the Morrigan and the Ash. This is sloppy. The autopsy reports say nothing was missing. The alarms were set, nothing obvious was missing from their possessions, neither of the victims were into anything that would precipitate this kind of attack."
"Could be human. Someone who knew them."
"Andrew Gregg was an entertainment lawyer. His wife Andrea was an amateur party-planner. They didn't have enemies."
"Why clean the house out so quickly?" Hale asked.
"There was a lot of expensive furniture and artwork," Dyson said. "Auction houses take a commission from every item they sell, don't they?"
"Wanna go antiquing?"
"We're older than this country's history."
"And still look so gorgeous." Dyson laughed, rolling his eyes, and he and Hale made their way back out of the house.
Rhett heard the door click shut behind the siren Hale and let go of Kenzi's arm.
"Okay, what the hell just happened?" Kenzi blurted, eyes wide. "How come that yummy cop dude didn't see us? He blind or something?"
"He couldn't see us," Rhett said, creeping over to the window overlooking the front yard. A neat silver car was parked out front, unmarked but bearing a black box tucked at the top of the rear-window. The fair-haired shifter leaned nearer to his window as he gazed at the house, and for a second his eyes lit on Rhett. In a heartbeat, she was invisible to him—but also to Kenzi, whom she had briefly forgotten was still in the master bedroom.
"What the hell—!" Kenzi blurted, her knuckle-dusters back in place, this time her other fist curled around a switchblade. "Okay, woman, what the hell are you?"
"It's hard to explain," Rhett said honestly.
"Yeah? Try me. What the hell were those guys talking about, fey and Light and Dark?" Kenzi demanded. "I'm not stupid."
"No, you're not," Rhett said quietly, gaze sweeping over this skinny little human with the ferocity and emotional strength of a bear.
"Why were you avoiding those guys? Did you—did you kill these people who lived here?" Kenzi gasped. "Oh my god, oh my god, are you gonna kill me?"
"No, I'm not going to kill you," Rhett said quietly. "And no, I did not kill the people who lived here."
"Then who did?" Kenzi demanded. Rhett swept her eyes over the girl again. Her stepfather had taught her to fear humans more than the bogeyman. The only thing this girl seemed genuinely afraid of was Baba Yaga.
"What."
"What?"
"It's not a who, it's a what," Rhett said carefully, and Kenzi's dark eyebrows rose bemusedly. "Something the Greggs possessed was cursed, haunted."
"You're insane!" Kenzi blurted, laughing. "There's no such thing as ghosts."
"Let me show you?" Rhett said, offering her hand.
"Show me what?"
"What I can do," Rhett smiled softly. "I won't hurt you, on my blood honour."
"Okay," Kenzi said, giving her a weird look, but she took Rhett's hand anyway, because she was genuinely curious, both about how those cops hadn't been able to see them, what they had been talking about, the Light and Dark fey, and how Rhett had been able to completely disappear one second and reappear the next. Rhett thought of the Carlyle Auction House, and Kenzi's knees almost buckled beneath her as the effects of tracing took on her.
"You could've warned me you were gonna…" Kenzi said, staring around, and she turned to stare at Rhett. "Oh my God! What did you do? How did you do that?" The mournful classical music playing from a little podium in which musicians played sombrely drew Kenzi's attention, realising she had been shouting out in the middle of an auction-house crowded with antiques, expensive furniture, and very wealthy potential bidders. Jumping about when she noticed people milling around, she tripped over her own feet and fell through an older man accompanying his wife.
"No such thing as ghosts?" Rhett smiled, hands tucked in the pockets of her jeans. She unhooked one and offered it to Kenzi, who looked like she was in some sort of shock as Rhett hauled her off the floor. Kenzi stared at Rhett, then turned to tentatively push her hand against the man's back. It went straight through; the human male shivered subconsciously, but otherwise made no reaction. Kenzi turned to gape at Rhett.
"What did you do to me?" she asked, a little horrified but mostly believing herself to be dreaming.
"You're not dreaming," Rhett said, smiling subtly. "This is the plane between life and the afterlife. It's the ghost plane, where necromancers can wander freely across the worlds."
"Am I a ghost?"
"No. You entered this plane with me," Rhett said. "I can take humans or fey in and out of the ghost plane, travelling great distances in a heartbeat."
"Okay," Kenzi said, sounding a little pained.
"I'll show you something," Rhett said softly, smiling, and she approached a surgically-enhanced cougar dripping with jewellery. "These are real diamonds. Tiffany's, by the look of them. I know my knockoffs too." Kenzi glanced at Rhett, eyes wide, wondering how Rhett knew Kenzi had recognised Rhett's watch as genuine. Rhett smiled, indicating Kenzi should watch the woman's necklace, focusing her telekinetic energy, and Kenzi gasped as the clasp of the necklace the woman wore undid itself, the movement of the sinuous chain barely registered by the human female until her jewellery rested, unseen, in Rhett's palm.
"Score," Kenzi grinned. "Hey, did you steal your watch that way?"
"My watch I bought," Rhett said, smiling subtly.
"But you know how to do that too well not to have done it a lot before," Kenzi said sagely, and Rhett smiled sadly.
"Let's just say I have experience stealing to survive," she said softly, and Kenzi nodded slowly.
"Okay, clearly I was wrong about you," she said, shrugging as she stuffed her hands in her pockets. "You're not from money at all, are you."
"I'm from the French Quarter in New Orleans," Rhett said, the first time she had ever told anybody that, though her accent tended to give people the impression she had lived in Louisiana at some point in the past, even if she misdirected people about where she lived now. Kenzi nodded, looking a little impressed.
"So, what is this, Pickpockets Unite?" she joked, and Rhett smiled.
"Something like that," she said softly. "Help me look around?"
"What are we looking for?"
"Cursed objects. Sometimes ghosts can be bound to their old possessions, especially if they had particular meaning to them while living," Rhett said.
"So we're looking for a murderous carriage-clock?" Kenzi said dubiously. Rhett shrugged slightly, and she started wandering around, Kenzi pausing every other person to narrow her eyes and stick out her tongue, trying to do Rhett's telekinetic theft trick.
"Focus," Rhett said, watching her out of the corner of her eye as she scanned the auction-house. "Use your mind."
"Kind of a Jean Grey deal?" Kenzi grunted softly, and Rhett smiled to herself as she wandered around the room. She had told Kenzi the truth; it had been years since she had been forced to steal for her own survival, though retrieving stolen or desired items was in itself an inherent part of her mercenary work. Only, she didn't keep the items she retrieved. She was paid to give them away, and she was paid a lot to do so.
"I am so cleaning this place out," Kenzi murmured, catching a diamond-encrusted watch as it fell from a woman's slender wrist as she peeked into the woman's designer handbag.
"Want me to fence your stolen goods for you?" Rhett smiled. "I can find you just the right buyer for these things." She indicated the antiques and expensive trinkets cluttering the auction-house.
"This is a partnership made in heaven," Kenzi said, grinning at Rhett. She scoffed. "Estate auction! Yard-sale for the rich and douchey if you ask me." Rhett smiled at Kenzi's tone. "Hey, er… What's your name?" Rhett glanced at Kenzi, licking her lips as she looked away, fiddling telekinetically with a diamond-encrusted enamel snuffbox.
Rhett had woken one day in the French Quarter of New Orleans, with the physicality of an eight-year-old, filled with knowledge, but with no idea of how she knew what she did, where she was from, or even who she was. Her name had come from one of the novels she had read the first night she slept in a closed library. It had become embellished on the streets, a title more than a name.
"LaRhette," she said quietly.
"That's pretty," Kenzi said. "I'm Kenzi."
"You can call me Rhett," she replied, glancing at the young girl.
"Hey, uh…Rhett?"
"Mm?"
"If I was a ghost giving out Columbian neckties, you reckon I'd want to live in that creepy-ass painting?" Kenzi asked, and Rhett walked over to where Kenzi grimacing at a gilt-framed portrait. Dark, rather macabre, the costumes of the subjects were Edwardian, and Rhett shuddered and quickly glanced at another aspect of the painting when she noticed the little girl carrying a porcelain doll.
"Definitely," she said, taking in the open barber's razor on the side-table in the corner of the painting, putting the doll out of her mind before she shivered again. "I'll need to see the provenances."
"What's a providence?"
"A provenance," Rhett corrected gently. "They're records of ownership for particular pieces of artwork."
"There's an office upstairs," Kenzi said, peering up the iron spiral staircase to the gallery. Rhett offered her hand to Kenzi, who raised her eyebrows but placed her palm on Rhett's. "Jeez!" Kenzi panted, her knees knocking together. "You gonna warn me the next time you do that?"
"You'll get used to it," Rhett smiled softly.
"Hey, look!" Kenzi said, panting slightly, as she leaned over the banister; Rhett tugged the back of her jacket before she could tumble through, and Kenzi gasped again, Rhett dragging her back from midair.
"What did you see?" Rhett asked, but she didn't need Kenzi to point out the two newcomers to the hall. The blonde, Dyson, flashed his badge covertly to a man in an expensive suit, and Rhett caught Kenzi's eye, indicating the office. Focusing, she drew Kenzi through the solid wall as if it was a mere hologram.
"Okay, that's totally cool," Kenzi laughed. "Hey, whisky! What're we looking for? Providences."
"Provenances," Rhett smiled to herself as she pulled open polished wood filing-cabinets, scanning the tabs of manila folders until she found one labelled "Gregg". Kenzi made a noise like an angry cat and Rhett glanced over at her, watching Kenzi try to use telekinesis to pour herself a drink.
"Dude, I full-on Swayze'd that mother!" Kenzi laughed, clapping her hands, as the decanter settled itself back on the silver tray, a tumbler half-full with rich, aged whisky. Rhett smiled, shaking her head at the girl's exuberance, and focused on going through the stacks of paperwork associated with the Gregg estate while Kenzi went around the room packing everything that wasn't nailed down into her bag.
"Hm."
"What?" Kenzi asked, peering over Rhett's shoulder interestedly. "'Portrait of Zebediah Plumfeld's family, painted 1910.' That's the painting downstairs. So what?"
"First purchased in 1912, by Angelo Le Tissier," Rhett said quietly. She tugged her tattered brown-leather journal from inside her coat and opened it up to the appropriate page. Kenzi's eyebrow quirked at the page of strange symbols beside it, but Rhett scanned the neat little writing she knew well but wasn't her own. "Here, Angelo Le Tissier, murdered 1912." She checked the names on the provenance to the names in her journal. "The same thing in '46, '72 and '79. The painting was stored until it was donated to a charity auction last month, where the Greggs bought it."
"Bought it for a friggin' extortionate amount of money," Kenzi said, gaping at the copy of the Greggs' invoice. "I thought I was a con-artist. Are you trying to tell me the painting is a ghost?"
"Most likely the painting is haunted by a ghost. Anything can capture the spirit of a ghost," Rhett said. "Most ghosts wander free. But some are anchored to a specific place, somewhere with very strong emotional meaning to them when they were living; usually these ghosts led very violent lives or had extremely violent deaths. Some ghosts remain to continue their violent actions in life, but some remain to mete out vengeance, or to warn people, like omens. And some ghosts are connected to possessions that were once theirs. In years past, families of a recently deceased relative would put sheets over all of the mirrors so the spirit couldn't be trapped within them."
"How do you get rid of a ghost?" Kenzi asked curiously.
"Me personally? Or in general?" Rhett asked.
"Are there different ways?" Kenzi asked. "My aunt Ludmilla's a psychic, but it's all pretend. She performs séances, but she says they're just to tell people what they want to hear." Rhett nodded. Human "psychics" were always hoaxes.
"Well, I'm a Necromancer, so I can control spirits," Rhett said gently. "Ghosts sometimes try to avoid me, especially if they're one of the goal-oriented violent types, but it's very easy for me to catch them. For you, a human, the surest way to destroy a vengeful spirit is to salt and burn their remains."
"Remains?" Kenzi winced.
"Corpses. Or possessions. A painting, for example," Rhett said. "The ghost of Zebediah Plumfeld is probably bound to the painting."
"So…we burn the painting?"
"We burn the painting," Rhett nodded.
"Okay…how do we do—?" Rhett held up her hand, back straightening. The doorknob was moving. She used telekinesis to whip the provenances back into the filing-cabinet, but Kenzi dropped her tumbler; the amber liquid stained the carpet dark but the glass didn't shatter. In entered the two cops, following the auction-house owner. The fair one, Dyson, inhaled deeply as he entered the room, frowning, and Rhett's heartbeat quickened. Kenzi grimaced, wide-eyed, at Rhett, and she nodded, taking hold of Kenzi's hand.
"What do we do now?" Kenzi whispered.
"Keep a sharp eye," Rhett said, glancing around, and Kenzi watched out as she took hold of the painting. Taking hold of Kenzi's hand again, she traced them out into the concrete loading-dock behind the auction-house, which was deserted.
"Do you have a lighter on you?" Rhett asked.
"Uh, yeah," Kenzi said, raising her eyebrows as Rhett produced a cobalt vial of lighter-fluid and several sachets of salt from her coat pockets. She dug in her pockets while Rhett emptied the contents of the cobalt vial onto the painting, sprinkling it with salt, and Rhett took the fluorescent pink lighter Kenzi offered her, squatting down to light the fluid. The painting went up in flames instantly, and Kenzi let out a soft moan of delight as heat washed over them, warming the tips of Rhett's fingers and her nose. More than creating warmth, the fire destroyed the leftover remnants tied to the spirit that had been mutilating those humans. The spirit was destroyed, sent on, those two cops could rest easy that no more unexplainable murders would occur, and Kenzi would be able to pawn everything she had stolen. Rhett hoped she did something sensible with the money to get herself off the street.
"So what now?" Kenzi asked. It wasn't often Rhett spent more than an hour or so at a time with the same living being. Not since she was a little girl had she spent much time with anyone on a regular basis; her friends and allies were ghosts. Her clients were transient, though she had a few loyal clients who kept her on informal retainers, who most often gave her the most dangerous assignments for the highest payouts. She spent so much time alone that she had to remind herself of the unspoken rules of etiquette in conversation and relations with others.
"You're hungry," Rhett said finally. "How about some lunch?" Kenzi grinned.
A.N.: Please review!