A/N: Merry Christmas! Enjoy this latest chapter.


Gifts & Control

Four Days After the Café.

Lying atop his bed, James stared up at the ceiling as his Bessie Smith record continued to play, watching as shadows, brought forth from passing cars and city lights, emerged and danced upon the walls. Try as he might he couldn't calm his racing mind; every thought would break off into a tangent, bringing him back to one man and one man only, his father.

If it was one thing James took away from his father it was this, "Always keep somethin' set aside, James. Though the Lord will provide, His time is different than ours, son. So best save somethin' for a rainy day if ya can." The bastard had ended his bit of wisdom by giving James a nickel. All that manual labor in the fields and running about the city and James was given five cents for his efforts.

Reaching into the pocket of his brown waistcoat James removed his pocket watch. Upon opening it, he eyed the 1899 Liberty V Nickel that was molded into the inside cover with a look of condescension. Though years had passed the nickel was far from tarnished. If it had to be given a condition, it would be claimed as uncirculated and given its highest monetary value, which today would be well over four hundred dollars.

That's how poor James used to be; five cents was treated in the same way one would treat gold. The coin was stashed, buried deep along with a mountain of dreams and promises he hoped to fulfill. Who would have known that in his spark of clarity, his first all-consuming rage, he would dig deep into the earth to find that nickel and strike oil?

While the vast majority of James' wealth did go to Elizabeth after his death, he did have his own share stashed elsewhere. Not only that, but he lived in a time capsule. If he wanted, truly wanted, he could clean up overnight just by selling his records alone; all of them rare and in pristine condition. Not to mention he still had a Packard or two pulled around the back of the Hotel hidden from prying eyes.

While Elizabeth refused to love him, denied his advances and shunned him on occasion, his hidden wealth was one of the few things that made him smile. And though he willingly played the fool, James enjoyed watching as she spent every dime she had to her name, hustling, killing the rich just to make ends meet so she could continue to live in the lap of luxury.

Perhaps that's how his obsession with power, with status, began; with his desire to be someone different, to fit in with the times.

In such a jaded time as the '20s, money and background were everything. Becoming a millionaire overnight, James thought his life had changed for the better. He was wrong. Quickly he was spurned by the wealthy, more specifically, those with old money. In order to please them, he bettered himself. Quick like a whip he took a crash course in etiquette, hired private tutors, and became the perfect reflection of his peers. But it wasn't enough.

After murdering all those who still dared to taunt him, he packed up his bags and headed West for a new start.

Out in the west, in California, it didn't matter how you made your money, only that you had it. And James had plenty. Swiftly he waltzed in, painting the perfect picture, and made himself right at home amongst the newly rich, starlets, and passionate visionaries.

While James had worked hard for his money and polished persona, he was born with the gift of gab. All on his own, he could speak and make one feel as though they were talking to an old friend. With so few words James could draw people out of themselves, make them believe his lies, do his bidding and his alone.

As a result, he became highly controlling and manipulative.

Beyond the wealth and his ability to mold people, James was a killer and what had once been a release of pent up rage soon developed into an art form. After everything he had done, throughout his life and in death, there was no comparison to be made; murder was the ultimate high. And the more people he slaughtered, the more who worked for him and said, 'yes', chased after and waited on him hand and foot, the more James felt like a God among men.

Nearly a century of this mentality had been ingrained into James.

Now you can better understand his frustration, why he disappeared as he had. Not only had Rosaline hit him hard and broken him down, she shattered his frame of mind.

Granted there was a strength to be taken from admitting one's weaknesses, this was one James wanted dead and buried. After all, that's where the past should always be; behind him.

Snapping his pocket watch shut he unhooked the chain from his waistcoat and sat up. "Ugh," he groaned when his hand slipped into something thick and sticky.

Far from being disgusting by the blood, it was the lingering stench. Peering down beside him he eyed the deceased woman on the bed with a look of pure revulsion. James' growing disdain was nearly pushed over the limit when he took in her tanned skin, heart-shaped face, and black hair that was stringier than it was full and wavy.

This doxy was nothing more than a cheap imitation of the one he truly wanted to slay.

Tearing his eyes away from the mutilated corpse, he clenched his jaw and rose from the bed. Setting his pocket watch on the bedside table James made his way to the bathroom. Like his room, it was an ode of the '20s, with one or two upgrades such as the glass shower in the corner and a larger than life white claw foot tub.

Washing the blood off his hands, he quickly undressed. Throwing his clothing out onto the floor, he called out for one woman and one woman only. "Miss Evers!"

Almost instantly he heard her shuffling footsteps and rapid breathing as though she had run a mile to get to him.

"Yes, sir?" She called from outside, knowing not to step in front of the bathroom as such an action would lack propriety.

"I require an empty bed and fresh linens. Also," he continued, ducking his head out of the bathroom to look at her, "please work your nimble fingers and use a bit of your magic to remove the strumpet's blood and bile from my coat. I'm afraid when I brandished my weapon she grew so frightened as to begin choking, vomiting, and ruining my suit! Completely lackluster," he muttered about the kill, lips curling into a snarl.

Giddy at the sight of his bare well-toned shoulders Miss Evers took her time in answering. "Certainly, sir," she said at last. "I'll have those stains out before the night is through!"

James gave her a warm smile, one that reached his eyes. "Truly, Miss Evers, you are a pillar. I don't know what I would do without a woman like you in my life," he confessed with a wink that made her blush like a schoolgirl.

"Mr. March, you're such a flatterer. Go now. Off with you!" She said taking control of her poor ghostly heartstrings. "Go and draw a bath. I will have this clean and tidy by the time you're finished." Not waiting for him to reply, as she knew he wouldn't, she began to wrap the dead woman in the soiled linens.

"What a glorious stain," she praised lovingly.

Standing in the doorway and unashamed of his nakedness, James wondered how it would have been had he married her and not Elizabeth. His father had told him to marry a comely woman, someone who could take care of house and husband, and that was Miss Evers. But he didn't choose her.

After his father was dead and gone, James no longer wanted to live by all of his rules. Though still, she would have made one hell of a partner if it wasn't for her hang-up. No, it was not a lack of beauty or grace, but her sorrowfulness. Miss Evers, his sweet, sweet Hazel, though lovely and strong, was still so damned miserable about the loss of her boy.

For a man who didn't want to look back, that would have made James do an about-face and plant his feet; never moving, never turning around to live again. And he couldn't have that. Not then. Not now.

Thank you, he returned silently, watching as she hummed to herself as she worked. As if hearing his thoughts Miss Evers paused and flashed him a coquettish smile.

"Miss Evers, you should know better!" James admonished playfully when her lips parted at the sight of him in all his splendid glory. "Really, it is you who flatter me," he said when she blushed to the roots of her red hair. Chuckling darkly, he gave her another sly wink and closed the door.

One great thing about being a ghost, you didn't have to feel the cold if you didn't want to. Crossing the black and white tiled floor, he made his way over to the tub and turned on the water, making sure to turn it all the way to the left so that it was scalding.

Steam rose enveloping him in a pleasant mist. While he stilled preferred a good soak in the tub, modern times did have its own appeal. That and he didn't want to sit in the water with that harlot's blood still splattered across his face.

Timing the flow of the running water, he quickly stepped into the shower.

Because it was such a rarity to have running water growing up, hot water especially, he always remembered with it felt like. A hot bath was damn near euphoric; it burned his skin in a delightful way, snaked along his back, and flooded his mind where it then made his vexations rise from his skull like bits of steam. It was utterly relaxing and one of the few memories, feelings, that came naturally to him as a ghost.

Reaching for the soap, he rubbed it all along his body, working it into a rich and foamy lather. As the water continued to rain over him, he moaned in pleasure. Repeating the process for the second time, he brushed his hair back from his forehead and breathed in deeply.

"Well, this is a disappointment."

On the package, it had said the soap smelled of pine and mint, but he couldn't smell it. Well, he could "smell it," that is he knew the scent, but it wasn't as though he were scenting it for the very first time.

Reaching for another bar of soap he repeated the process again and again until Miss Evers called out, "Is everything alright, sir?"

"Yes!" He shouted, turning off the water. "Pay me no never mind."

As he moved toward the tub water ran down his well-toned frame and dripped onto the floor, overhead lighting shining down to reveal his scars. Though faint, bitter ugly lines marred his back, proof of his violent upbringing.

Turning off the water just in time he stepped inside, lowering himself gently into the tub.

Leaning back, James stared down at the delicate swirl of cream and rouge in his hands. James didn't have to bring the bar of soap to his nose. There was no need. He could smell the scent of roses all around him.

Eyes wide open he saw her, Rosaline. Only now she wasn't walking with the sun in her hair, but moving wantonly beneath him. Licking his lips, he could still taste her on his tongue, feel the softness of her skin. That simple kiss on the cheek had created a longing in him. While he couldn't sleep, he had fantasy after fantasy about her. And in his mind, he had killed her a hundred times and made love to her for a thousand.

It was amusing if you thought about it, he was the phantom yet she was haunting him.

Letting the soap slip from his hands he watched the water splash, rippling before it settled once more. It had been a grave error on his part to disappear as he had that day. Not only would she wonder what had happened, reflect on what she had seen, but it was an extreme act of pusillanimity on his part.

So what she had called him out and made known his life of poverty, many people celebrated their rags to riches story!

James himself had celebrated until he was spurned by that damned East Egg crowd. Then he began to change, altering his background to better fit in. For so long James told his false tale about studying business like his father before him and being well-off, that when Rosaline mentioned the truth he panicked. Fled.

"Damn gypsy-eyed wench," he grumbled.

Sinking deeper into the water, he rested the side of his face against the tub.

There was no doubt in his mind that Rosaline was gifted in some way, a medium of sorts. That was the only plausible explanation. However, it still wasn't enough to explain his growing attraction or the connection he felt at the Mansion. Had that spark been felt by every forgotten soul she came across, she would have been well aware of her power. So not only was she unaware, but James himself didn't know what it was that drew him to her, or her to him.

At this point in the game, he wasn't going to entertain the notion that it was his old world charm that had done it. This was... This was something much more than that.

Even now tittering between rage and confusion James' hunkering was for far more than her corpse. He wanted her. All of her, right down to her violet lavender soul. If he could, he would trap her spirit in a glass jar, similar to how one would a firefly, and stare at it for hours on end. Yet at the same time, he wanted to kiss her, caress her smooth, velvety skin, and feel her hands on his body and in his hair. More still he wanted to hear the husky way in which she said his name, James.

No! This isn't me. This... This yearning for her wasn't his doing, at least not completely. And how he felt, these childish, romantic notions were feelings he had given up a long time ago. But damn it all if they didn't make him wonder about what could be.

... ... ...

Mind now calm, his lust for blood appeased, James stood before the mirror combing his hair. Though he was as dead as a doornail, he was still a very handsome man. Tall with a fair complexion, dark hair and intense brown eyes, not to mention a diamond jawline, which made for one hell of a first glance.

If only it wasn't for his cause of death.

As he stared at his neck in the mirror a ghastly jagged stripe stared back. Setting the comb down on the counter he ran his fingertips along the edge of the cut, resisting the urge to press further inside. Though it was serrated and foul, it wasn't that bad. After all, Miss Evers had a large entry wound at the back of her head! While his own wound could "disappear" it required too much concentration.

"Should have taken a damn cyanide tablet," he murmured, eyes still glued to his neck. "Then again, you would have lost your charming smile, old boy. And we can't have that, now can we?"

Shrugging his shoulders, he emerged from the bathroom with the corners of his mouth tilted up into a smile as he spied the freshly made bed and pristine linens. Walking past his infamous black closet, James strolled toward his dresser with nothing more than a towel hung low around his waist.

Men's undergarments during the 1920s were a dreadful affair. Mostly they consisted of either long or short leg sleeveless pieces, union suits, that James never cared for. Thankfully someone introduced silk boxer shorts; they became his favorite until the time changed. It wasn't out of some desperate attempt to feel alive, adapt with the time or even to entice the Countess, but all on his own that James began to wear boxer briefs. Not the lazy kind mind you, but the kind that molded to a man and fit perfectly in all the right places. Putting on his black boxer briefs, he reached for a loud pair of burnt orange and navy argyle socks next. Stepping into his brown trousers he made quick work of the rest of his clothing, putting on a white shirt and navy vest.

It wasn't until he began tying his ascot that the caught sight of himself in the mirror.

The ascot was white with blue-gold trimming. Just like her dress. Clenching his jaw, he tucked it more firmly into his shirt.

Not only had he yet to retrieve his coat and cigarette case from the café, but he had made no move to call Rosaline. He simply couldn't. At least not until his thoughts were in order and he knew more about her ability.

"Alright, you little minx," he spoke aloud, draping his coat over his arm, "our respite is over and your killer is coming for you. But first, one must come prepared." Reaching for his cane, he took one step forward and vanished into thin air.


"Hello, Billie. It's a pleasure to see you again."

Rooted in place, Billie Dean Howard stood in the middle of her foyer with her brown eyes rooted to the floor. It had been months since she last heard that voice. And for all of her strength as a psychic, a medium, she hadn't sensed him. That meant only one thing; he had gotten stronger, developing the ability to hide his malevolent spirit, his dark energy.

"Don't be so surprised," James called out. "After all," he said bringing a glass of brandy to his lips, "this isn't our first meeting."

Years ago Billie Dean had landed her own television show on Lifetime, bringing an end to her work on Craigslist. A future that seemed bright with promise soon darkened when she was cast to air her season finale at the infamous Hotel Cortez. Of course, she had done her homework; extensively she had researched the hotel's sordid past and became familiar with its owner, James Patrick March. If anything, his was a spirit she knew she would encounter, but how she would encounter him, she didn't know.

The minute her Louboutin's touched the carpet she felt his heavy presence and peered about the lobby, her eyes darting over every twist and turn, every darkened corner.

James had appeared almost instantly then. It couldn't be helped his coming to her like he did; her aura had just called to him, beckoning him in a way only a medium could. Cornering her, he demanded to know what the light he saw in her meant.

The shock at seeing him dressed in his rubber apron, gloves, and mask made her hesitate; the full fear of trying to touch his spirit, that darkness, made her lose her voice. When she regained control she took one look into his vacant eyes and uttered two words: go away. In the blink of an eye, James found himself in his old office, not knowing how or why he was there.

It took him three days to break the force of her command. Once he had, he sought her out with a vengeance.

"All of this could have been avoided, Miss Howard," James told her as he cleaned the blood from his knife. Rising to his feet he stepped on, not over, her camera man. "Not only did you refuse to answer my simple inquiry, you tried to banish me. That, my dear, was a foolhardy mistake. A mistake that will cost you your life."

When James took a threatening step forward, her hands flew up to ward him off. "Wait!" She pleaded. "L-let me... I'll tell you what the color of my aura means."

"Sadly your input is no longer needed as I have literature to teach me what I desire."

"It's f-false," she told him, stammering slightly. "Whatever book you have, it's false. I'm a real medium, James. I can tell you what it truly means, what they all mean." Pausing she forced herself to meet and hold his gaze. "I'll even teach you how to see them. Just don't... Don't kill me. Please."

In exchange for sparing her life, she was forever at his beck and call. And yes, she had tried to banish him, numerous times in fact. It never worked again.

Squaring her shoulders Billie tore her eyes off the floor and turned to face him. While he was reclining comfortably before her white marble fireplace in a cream colored settee with a glass of brandy in hand, his once neat hair was now in slight disarray, tarnishing his picture-perfect facade.

As if knowing where her gaze had wandered, he raked his hair back into place with his fingers, silently daring her to speak of it.

"What is it that you need?" She asked firmly, eyeing the plethora of leather-bound books that littered her coffee table.

Taking another sip of his drink, James savored the slow burn down his throat as he ran his eyes over her. Just like Rosaline, Billie's aura was a shade of purple. But rather than violet or lavender, it was amethyst.

"I recall you telling me years ago," he began crossing one leg lazily over the other, "that with the exception of certain mystics, that a person only had one color to their soul."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she nodded her head. "That's correct."

"No, my dear," he snapped, making her flinch. "That most certainly is not correct!"

Seeing her frightened expression he became repentant. "Forgive me," he apologized, eyes blazing as he struggled to hold his temper in check. "I'm a bit...tense." It was only a few hours ago that he had killed that vomiting harlot and already his thirst for blood had risen.

Due to her gift as a medium, she could feel his acrimony; it hung around him, blanketing him in a thick fog. More than just bitterness there was a twinge of melancholy intermingled with regret and it flowed toward her, threatening to cut off her air supply. Staring at him as she was she had to wonder what had happened to him as she had never seen him in such a state. To be honest, it was rather unnerving.

"As much as I delight in gazing upon your loveliness, this evening would go much more smoothly if you took a seat."

"I'd rather stand."

James gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Had I been asking that statement would mean something to me." Holding out his hand, he motioned to the couch. "While I do enjoy your bits of fire trust me when I say, I am in no mood to be trifled with this evening. Now please," he growled. "Have a seat."

In a false display of supremacy, she took sweet time in obeying him.

Watching her like a hawk, James saw her shrug out of her black blazer and toss it on the couch beside his own as she made her way toward the bar. Clenching his jaw, he allowed his heated gaze to wander over her loose blonde hair and lower to the graceful curve of her back. Briefly, he imagined how her body would jerk if he were to ram his blade into her spine, silently debating whether or not she would be the type to gasp her last breath or make a choking grunt right before she keeled over.

"Would you like another shot of brandy?" She asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"No."

Peering over her shoulder, she saw the wicked gleam in his eyes and knew his thoughts were murderous. Silently she cursed herself; she knew better than to tempt him as she was.

Brow furrowed she reached out to him telepathically. White noise. There was no opening to him, no way to get inside his mind. Every emotion she had ever glimpsed in him had been revealed through his eyes just seconds before they disappeared or in frazzled bits of feeling, dark matter that floated toward her. Instantly she was reminded of another ghost of, Tate Langdon. Just like Tate, there was a darkness in March. Only if she had to compare it Tate would be considered a Saint; such a thought was beyond disturbing.

Turning back around, she quickly set down the gin and poured herself a triple shot of whiskey. This was going to be one hell of a night.

"Is your weak display of control over?"

"Is yours?" She fired back, momentarily forgetting herself. When his eyes flashed dangerously she knew that was the wrong thing to say. "I'm sorry," she stated quickly. Taking a deep breath, she took her seat across from him and schooled her features. "What would you like to discuss, James?"

"As you no doubt have noticed, I took full advantage of your library while you were gone. While I did acquire a bit of new information, nowhere in my search did I stumble upon any text or documentation of a soul being able to change its color. Not to darken it," he hurriedly added, "but to change it completely. So now I ask the great, Billie Dean, how can one go from a color such as, oh, I don't know, brown to black?"

Meditating on his question, she recalled to memory all she had learned throughout the years. "Such a change would result from outside forces."

"What kind of outside forces?" He inquired. "Are we speaking of the paranormal or the mundane?"

"The mundane," she answered, using his choice of language. "While the color brown can be dark, it is not at all malicious. I'm sure you know, as well as I, that brown is probably one of the kindest of all as it represents the earth; it's strong and dependable, carrying a placidity as it can blend with the most vibrant shades of nature and all its beauty. Just like nature someone with a brown aura can withstand man's cruelty and move forward forgiving it."

It took everything in him to not let his eye twitch at her words.

Continuing on, she said, "The reason why I said a soul is one color is because it's true. A normal soul, one that lacks psychic ability, is one color as its harboring the full intentions, nature, of the owner. In order for such a change to take place, it would require the total surrender of the spirit and mind." Pausing she took a sip of her whiskey. "For someone to go from a gentle brown to hardened black, they would have constantly endured tragic circumstances."

James had experienced tragic circumstances, too many of them to count. As for a total surrender, he had done just that so very long ago.

"After this conversion would the previous color still be present? Would there exist a memory, a shadow of the color, or perhaps some sort of divine seal of what was once there?" He inquired further.

"In my opinion, I would have to say no."

"No?" He drawled eyebrows rising to his hairline. A young, inexperienced mystic had called him out in no time at all. How could Billie not have seen or experienced something similar? "Don't tell me after all these years you're nothing more than a charlatan."

"If I were a charlatan I wouldn't have been able to banish you all those years ago," she retorted haughtily, all earlier fear leaving her.

As a tense silence drifted over them, Billie took it to mean that he was slowly plotting her demise. She couldn't have been further from the truth. If anything, James was trying to figure out how Rosaline had done it. How had she looked at him and seen more? How had she seen my past?

Taking another sip of his brandy, he allowed his mind to race. It was just once glance. One long, steady glance and she had somehow reached the deepest part of him. Just a few more words from her and no doubt she would have discovered what had pushed him over the edge, what had changed his frame of mind all those years ago.

Chuckling dryly, he raised the glass to his lips. If I didn't know any better, I would swear it was her gift.

James promptly choked on his liquor.

Sputtering he quickly removed his handkerchief and apologized. "Forgive me," he coughed into his handkerchief. "Terribly sorry for that."

Billie was rendered speechless. Never had she seen him choke on liquor. Being as he was from the prohibition era, she wondered if it was a form of sacrilege.

"When you gaze upon a person's aura all you see is the color, isn't it?" He asked after clearing his throat.

"That's right," she answered when he repeated his question once more.

"Hence never have you glimpsed into someone's past?"

Immediately her brow furrowed as she wondered where exactly this conversation was heading. "Of course not. That's not my gift."

Son of a gun his hunch had been right. That's why Rosaline had caught on so quickly; it was her gift.

"Humor me," he told her, swirling the liquid around in his glass. "How many transcendent powers are there in the world?"

"As many as there are souls," she answered simply. "Not only ghosts, humans, and spiritualists exist in this world, James. There are witches, voodoo priestesses, zombies. Even a man by the man of, Papa Legba, who takes and frees souls from hell at will. Take a simple human being and add in the paranormal or divine and the combinations are endless."

Throughout the years at the Hotel Cortez James had seen a number of things such as murders, suicides, ruthless philanderers, and cheating spouses. Never, not even when he gained the ability to move past the hotel walls had he seen a zombie, witch or a shaman. Though he had gazed upon a vampire variant and an addiction demon. Those two sightings alone were more than enough for him to know that other things did in fact exist.

"Precisely what supernatural ability would allow someone to see an individual's aura as well as their past?"

There was no hesitation. "A psychometric."

"Go on," he commanded with a wave of his hand.

"In the simplest of terms, a psychometric can read anyone or anything's past by using their senses." Lifting her glass, she shook the amber liquid inside. "This is my glass and over there," she said pointing to his drink, "is another one of my glasses. A psychometric would be able to touch the glass you had been using and would gain the knowledge of its makers and users. He or she would know that though mine, it was gifted to me by my grandmother, that you used it, and the name and face of whoever else touched it during a dinner or party event."

"Would they have extensive knowledge?" He queried, fully enthralled by such a power.

Billie shook her head from side to side as if to say, not exactly. "If the person's power is well developed it can be possible, but it would require tremendous amounts of skill. Generally, the information will come to them in the matter that best suits the user such as a series of flashbacks, vivid night dreams that mirror movies, or for the more advanced daydreams."

"Why would daydreams be for the advanced?" He asked slightly confused.

"They are highly receptive," she answered. "Think of it this way, experiencing a series of flashbacks all at once means they have no true control, they can't block it out. Same with night dreams; the information received throughout the day comes to them in the form of dreams, without much effort. But to come in daydreams the receiver, the psychometric, is continuously processing information to the point where it's almost considered a..."

"An overload in stimulus," he interrupted, following along perfectly.

"Exactly." Brushing a blonde lock of hair back from her face, she said, "I've heard that they primarily will use the sense of touch or sight rather than all senses at once. Also, in order to refrain from sensory overload, they have to will it upon themselves to use their power more fully. Once the will is there they will see a general life history of the person or object. Though sometimes they will see more, quite possibly everything if they want the information bad enough."

James' lips parted in shock. Well, I'll be damned. All throughout their time at the café while Rosaline tried to focus he had silently baited her, becoming the driving force that pushed her, thus unlocking her gift.

Far from celebrating at this newfound discovery, he was left reeling. Not only had he left and discarded his jacket, but his cigarette case as well. How long had he had that case? More importantly, how many years had it been in his family? One touch, one desire from Rosaline to know more about the man who had abandoned her and she would know absolutely everything about him.

Silently Billie regarded James with a look of the utmost surprise. Not only had his eyes lightened, but he appeared to be torn between wonder and misery. "You've met one, haven't you?"

Not bothering to answer her question he asked one of his own instead. "What about a slightly two-toned aura? Violet and lavender. What does that mean?"

"Lavender?" Billie repeated her eyes growing wide.

James gave her a curt nod.

"Describe it to me."

Setting his glass down he twirled his sapphire ring around his finger trying to find the words. Just as Billie made to repeat her question, he spoke. "Like ice," he admitted, voice lowering, softening as he went along. "Similar to how an iceberg will hold a light cerulean tinge, this shade of lavender was in much the same way. It stemmed from the violet at her core and flowed out, spilling forth into the sunlight. Yet when the sun shined down upon it the color grew lighter, blending into the gold, appearing almost..." James trailed off at her stunned expression. Truth be told he didn't even think she was aware that her drink was spilling, staining her couch.

For a moment she didn't know what was so shocking, the rich brown hue of eyes, the silky tone of voice, or the fact that he had seen something so rare.

"What are you withholding from me?" He asked suddenly, sitting straighter in his seat.

Not oblivious, but uncaring, she rose from her seat and took her now empty glass over to the bar to refill it. Pouring a double, she downed her glass in record time, gasping at the intense sting. "If this... It this person is a future kill, you'll be thwarted at every turn," she promised.

Peering over her shoulder, she looked at him her eyes boring into his own. "Just as there are demons there are pure spirits too. I've never seen a... White auras are not sought after because they are said to be for God, for Christ. As sure as demons have the darkest, blackest, diseased rotting spirits, angels are pure light; silver and... golden. While it is true that all mystics have a shade of purple, lavender... A light shade of lavender that blends with the light, that's a sign of a pure spirit."

"What are you implying?" James asked, rising from his seat. He most certainly was not going to entertain the idea that Rosaline was some damned angel, especially when he had never seen one himself. "Am I to believe that a simple woman is to possess a pure soul?" he questioned mockingly. "Let me guess, is she to be the next Immaculate Conception? Or a great winged seraph in disguise?!"

"Believe me, James," Billie spat, "had an angel seen you, your soul would be banished to the deepest levels of hell. Whoever this woman is she's not an angel, nor a pure spirit herself. Lavender means she's guarded."

In the blink of an eye, he moved to stand before her. Lowering himself so that they were eye level, he commanded, "Tell me everything. Now."

"Lavender spirits are guarded individuals. It will be mistaken by them, by everyone, that they are street smart, a person who follows their instincts. That's not the case." Pausing she took in a deep, shaky breath. Staring deep into his eyes she said, "They are not guarded by themselves, but protected by others of a higher power."

Clenching his jaw so tight a muscle flexed he tilted his head to the side, regarding her with dead eyes. "Are you trying to tell me that...?" He couldn't continue. Though possible the idea was absolutely preposterous to him.

For the first time in their history, Billie smiled at him; it was filled with so much wicked glee that it made her eyes shimmer like the dawn. "Just as Sally has her addiction demon who was brought forth by her pain, this woman will have a warrior of her own. Only he won't be evil, but a Godsend. Literally. Like I said, James, if you want her dead you'll be thwarted at every turn."

"How is such a thing possible?" He demanded, fury rising.

"I'm sure you've lived in that hotel long enough to know that the impossible becomes possible. This is beyond your control, James."

Rising to his full height he stared down his nose at her. "Nothing," he said voice slipping into a monotone, "is beyond my control."

"Divine Providence is beyond everyone's control.


Now we are getting to the heart of the story. Did you like my mentions from past seasons? Please leave a review!