Ghost In The Machine: Shades Below, #3

Chapter one

It was a perfect day for a funeral.

A steady drizzle fell from the pale sky, and Jesper MacMillian pulled his weathered coat a little tighter. The parched California landscape soaked in the precious water almost before it could reach the ground. Fine sheets of rain painted the golden brown hills above Colma a dingy shade of gray.

Patches of vivid green hugged the base of the hillside; cemeteries dotted with over a hundred years' worth of headstones. MacMillian's eyes locked on one distant patch in particular. His thoughts drifted to another funeral, one he'd attended mere months ago. It felt like longer than that since he'd stood and watched the ground swallow his grandfather's casket. How many other San Francisco families had made the grim trek here, to the place everyone knew as the City of the Dead?

MacMillian returned his attention to the small, sad occasion at hand, and the open grave mere yards away. Beside it was a coffin—empty, he knew. Beside that, a framed photograph of Grace Alan sat on an easel. Glancing drops of rain looked like tears sliding down the glass.

MacMillian exhaled heavily. He'd only met Grace once, but her loss struck him anyway. The face in the photo was young. Too young. People weren't supposed to die at her age, on the threshold of the rest of their lives. Everything about it felt wrong.

MacMillian glanced at Grace's family, seated in the row of seats ahead of him. They were so still, so quiet. He thought again of his grandfather's funeral, and the crowds of mourners he'd barely met. Most of them had come just so they could brag about it later. Sure, I was at the Rom Baro’s funeral. I lit a candle for him. I offered condolences to his wife.

He hadn't minded. Amid the wailing and the prayers and the singing, his own lack of grief had gone unnoticed.

Grief wasn't lacking here. It rolled, visceral and thick, off the remaining Alan family. Directly in front of him sat the reason he’d come. Lena Alan looked like she was barely holding it together. Her shoulders were bunched tight, wracked every so often by a painful shudder. The sight made his chest ache. In the short time he’d known her, he’d watched her face down spirits and monsters of every stripe. She’d met death without flinching, handled the pain of others without missing a beat.

Never had he seen her like this.

She shuddered again. MacMillian winced, resisted the urge to reach for her. He knew better than most: some kinds of pain couldn't be taken away.

A man with silver-streaked hair and a proud bearing stood and made his way to the casket. A dark gray fedora hid his eyes and whatever emotions resided in them. He didn't introduce himself, merely unfolded a slip of paper from his pocket and began to read.

MacMillian tried to pay attention, but the man had scarcely started speaking when an unmistakable sensation settled over him.

He was being watched.

He leaned back in his chair, ignored the way the lip of his prosthetic leg dug into his groin, and cast a casual look around. His gaze settled on a figure half-hidden behind a distant headstone. If not for the familiar blond hair, MacMillian might have missed him entirely. He tensed. A spot on his neck that had long since healed began to throb.

If Seneca Lynch, Constable of San Francisco, realized he'd been spotted, he hid it well. Then again, he was engaged in a heated discussion with a second man who looked at least half his age. MacMillian knew better. He recognized the other man, too: Kalymov Dimtro, Lynch's patron. He remembered Dimtro's ageless eyes, eyes that betrayed what both he and Lynch really were.

Vampires.

Lynch started to turn, and MacMillian jerked his head forward again. His mind raced. What were two of San Francisco’s most powerful vampires doing at Grace Alan’s funeral? Before he had time to ponder it, the man up front folded away his paper. A couple of cemetery workers prepared to lower the empty coffin into the ground.

Everyone stood. MacMillian gritted his teeth and pushed to his feet. He rested both hands on the head of his cane, watched as the workers cranked the casket into the air above the open grave.

A sob stuttered from Lena’s throat. The sound tore into a place deep inside him. MacMillian stepped forward, and settled a hand on her shoulder. She turned. He briefly glimpsed her pale, tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, then she buried her face in his chest. One hand fisted in the lapel of his coat. Her shoulders shook.

MacMillian curled his hand at the base of her neck and held her until the casket disappeared into the earth.

People filed away as soon as the final shovelful of dirt was in place.

MacMillian stood off to the side while Lena approached the man who'd given the eulogy. A woman stood beside him, her face turned down. Her dark auburn hair was the same color as Lena's, shot through with silvery streaks. It didn't take too much to work out he was looking at her parents.

Lena said something he couldn't hear, and the woman's face scrunched up. She wrapped Lena in her arms, and they both cried.

MacMillian looked away.

His eye landed on another familiar figure. Lena’s brother leaned against a tree, his back to the dispersing group. MacMillian adjusted his grip on his cane, and headed over. Cyrus Alan didn't look up. He held a small stainless steel flask in one hand, and took a drink as MacMillian approached.

MacMillian stopped beside him. Cyrus offered him the flask without a word.

MacMillian raised it to his lips and tipped its contents down his throat. Whiskey burned a comforting trail down to his stomach. He passed the flask back. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

MacMillian broke the silence first. Nice service.

Cyrus grunted. Yeah. Nice.

His voice sounded off. MacMillian glanced at him. How are you holding up?

Cyrus shrugged. Surviving. Always do. He took another drink.

MacMillian looked over his shoulder at where Lena was still talking to her parents. He turned back to Cyrus. You going to talk to them?

Cyrus shook his head. Nah. They don't want to talk to me right now. He took in the look on MacMillian's face, and his lips twisted. That sounds terrible. Trust me, you wouldn't understand.

A spear of pain shot through MacMillian's nonexistent leg. He thought back to that first morning in the hospital, opening his eyes to find his mother sitting beside his bed. As long as he lived, he'd never forget the look she gave him. She'd met his eyes, then stood and left without a word.

The doctor had been the one to tell him his brother was dead.

He kept his face neutral, even as his chest tightened. I might, he murmured.

Cyrus’ gaze drifted down to his cane. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened. Yeah, he said. You might.

He glanced over MacMillian's shoulder. MacMillian followed his line of sight. Lena was still with her parents, but the conversation appeared to be ending. She peeled away, searched until her eyes landed on them.

Cyrus blew out a breath. I should get back to The Wayfare. Our parents have probably invited half the cemetery to dinner. He gave MacMillian a humorless smile. Death is hungry work, detective.

Without waiting for MacMillian's response, he set off towards a fog-gray Chevy Caprice parked along the nearby curb. MacMillian watched, then something moved in the corner of his eye. He turned to see a dirty, disheveled man stagger past the lines of bereaved. The man lurched down the hill before stumbling headlong into Cyrus.

Cyrus steadied him with barely a glance, then continued to the car. He yanked open the door and dropped into driver's seat. The engine rumbled to life, and the Caprice rolled away.

Is Cyrus heading back to The Wayfare?

MacMillian turned to find Lena staring up at him. Her blue eyes were sharp and fine, like cut crystal. He cleared his throat. Yes.

Lena glanced around, then wrapped her arms around herself. Don't suppose you could give me a ride? I just... A guilty look crossed her face. I need to get away from all this.

MacMillian touched her elbow, and drew her gaze back to him. Some of the lines in her forehead smoothed. He nodded towards his deep green Plymouth Fury, parked behind where the Caprice had been. Let's get out of here.

The sun was low when they pulled up outside The Wayfare Hotel for Restless Spirits.

MacMillian gazed up at the immense old Victorian. He hadn't believed it possible, but it looked even gloomier and more imposing than usual. Its dark bays and turrets cut stark, jagged shadows into the dreary sky. The lead glass windows reflected the greenery of The Panhandle across the street, as though to deflect curious eyes from whatever went on inside.

Lena stared at The Wayfare through the passenger window, her hands worrying in her lap. MacMillian barely heard her when she said, It looks awfully empty, doesn't it?

He'd thought the same thing countless times, but he didn't tell her that. Instead, he pushed open his door, lifted his leg from the car and set it firmly on the ground. He checked to make sure no cars were coming, then pulled himself onto his feet. He ducked down and met her eyes. I'll come around.

She nodded, her lips pressed into a firm, thin line. MacMillian straightened again. He left his cane in the back seat and moved around the front of the car, one hand grazing the hood.

Lena had unbuckled by the time he reached her door. He opened it and helped her to her feet. She didn't let go of him right away. Thanks.

Of course. The skin on the back of her hand was fine and smooth, at odds with the faint callouses on her palm. MacMillian resisted the urge to run his thumb over her knuckles. How long are you staying here?

Lena sighed, raised one shoulder, dropped it again. Not long. I just want to make sure Cyrus is okay. He shouldn't have to be here alone tonight.

MacMillian thought about their conversation at the cemetery. Good call.

Lena's eyes sharpened. Did he say something to you?

Not in so many words. He realized he was still holding her hand, and released her. But I remember when my brother died. I was a lot of things. 'Okay' wasn't one of them.

Of course. Lena's gaze softened. I forgot you know what this is like.

He did, but now didn't feel like the time to talk about it. Not with the dirt on her sister's grave still fresh. MacMillian stepped back. I'll keep my phone close. If you need anything, call.

There is one thing. Lena hesitated. I know this is a lot, and I probably shouldn't even ask, but... tomorrow. Could you—would you maybe...?

MacMillian released a breath he'd forgotten taking. I'll come back. First thing, if you want me to.

A knot of tension disappeared from her forehead. Thank you, she murmured. She looked away. Immediately, her eyes darted back to his face. I'm sorry. This is probably the last thing you—

MacMillian held up a hand. Don't apologize. Not to me. He met her eyes. You don't have to feel guilty about needing a friend.

A friend. A cloud passed over her eyes. We're friends.

He didn't understand the look on her face. Aren't we?

Lena looked down. After everything that's been happening lately... She blew out a breath. Jes, you could have gotten hurt. More than once. You wouldn't even know about this world if it wasn't for me, and I—

MacMillian stepped forward again. He notched a finger under her chin, and gently tilted her head until she looked at him. The look in her eyes made his chest feel like someone was sitting on it. Don't feel guilty, he repeated.

Lena kept her eyes on his. Her pulse jumped beneath his finger. Do you?

Had he thought her hand was soft? The spot under her chin was like silk. MacMillian swallowed hard. Not for the things I should.

A blush dusted her cheeks. Before MacMillian could say anything else, she stepped back. He let his hand fall to his side. Lena fumbled open the flap on her purse and reached inside. She pulled something out, passed it to him. Here. I've been meaning to give you this.

MacMillian stared down at the strange, intricate metal object. A key?

A skeleton key. Lena's cheeks flushed deeper. To The Wayfare. Cyrus and I both agreed you should have it. You know, what with... everything.

MacMillian furrowed his brow.

Lena backed towards the Victorian's front steps. Now when you come by in the morning, you don't have to knock. You can just let yourself in.

MacMillian looked from her to the key, back to her. All right.

Good. She bumped into the first step and stopped short. Okay. See you in the morning.

MacMillian nodded. Lena looked like she wanted to say something else. In the end, she simply turned and hurried up the stairs. She slipped inside without looking back.

Chapter two

It was past midnight by the time the last of her parents' guests finally left.

Lena lingered in the reception hallway for the requisite goodbyes, condolences, hugs, and kisses. At long last, her parents left too. She waited until the front door clicked shut behind them, then released the sigh she'd been holding in all evening.

Cyrus had long since run for cover. Reveling in her long-awaited solitude, Lena headed for the grandiose staircase at the far end of the hall. Her footsteps echoed off the marble floor. She took the stairs slowly, exhausted in more ways than one.

Little-by-little, the tension leaked from her shoulders. Circumstances aside, it felt good to be home. She'd raced up and down this staircase her whole life, knew every grain of wood in the bannister, every loose board. The fourth stair above the first landing squeaked under her weight, and Lena cracked a smile despite herself.

She reached the third floor, and glided down the hall on autopilot. The lights were off in her room, the outlines of toys and furniture illuminated by the soft pink glow of the fairy nightlight near the door. She'd had that nightlight for as long as she could remember. She could remember removing it as a teenager, shoving it in some forgotten drawer. Her mom must have put it back after she moved out.

Lena turned on the lamp on the nightstand. The light was gentle, the way she liked. She was still wearing the dress she'd worn at the graveside service, and a sudden urge to be free of it crashed over her. Lena attacked the clasp at the back and all but ripped it over her head. She dropped it to the floor in an unceremonious heap, and slid into the yoga pants and camisole she’d brought from her apartment. The last of her energy spent, she sank onto the bed.

The room was more-or-less as she'd left it: same twin-sized canopy bed, though the white curtains and pink-checkered sheets had long been packed away. Books and CDs lined shelves that once held dolls and trinkets. The one exception was a small tea set, scaled for a child. Tiny rosebuds dotted the white china. It sat on a dresser that matched the bed perfectly, despite the fact it had been bought later.

Lena's gaze drifted to the closet, and a knot formed in her stomach. The double doors were closed, just as they had been for the last twenty years. As she stared, an image of the last time they’d been open flashed to mind. She could still see the shadows inside reaching for her with fingerless hands, could see her older sister's horrified face in her doorway.

Hannah.

She'd replayed what happened next in countless dreams and memories over the years. Her sister leaping across the room and shoving her out of the way. Shadowy tendrils snaking around her ankles. A quick yank, the shadows dragging Hannah towards the open closet... Lena squeezed her eyes shut.

She could still hear Hannah screaming her name.

Lena shuddered, and opened her eyes again. The memory faded. The closet was still closed; sealed, just as it had been since Hannah was taken. A chill slithered up her spine. She took a deep breath, then collected herself.

Despite the constant nightmares over the years, she'd never felt guilty for what happened that night. A part of her had always known it wasn't her fault. What could she have done? She'd been a child. Even if she'd understood what was happening, she couldn't have stopped it. No, what happened to Hannah was a tragedy, but she couldn't have helped her.

Not like she could have helped Grace.

The air rushed from her lungs. Lena sagged forward and planted her hands on her knees. She couldn't have saved Hannah, but Grace? Grace was different. She’d had all the tools she needed to help her little sister. She simply... hadn't.

Why?

She wracked her brain, but couldn't come up with an answer.

Her room felt like it was shrinking. Lena pushed herself off the bed, and after one final looks around, padded back into the hallway. This time, she headed away from the main staircase, towards a smaller, narrower set of steps. Technically, they were the servants' stairs, but she'd never known them by that name. The grand staircase was good for impressing company, but these?

These were the family stairs.

Evenly-spaced sconces cast a golden glow over the aging wallpaper. The rich red carpet on the steps was worn thin, the banister burnished with use. Lena slid her fingers down the smooth wood, tried to ignore how her hand shook. She could remember a giggling Grace chasing her up these stairs, brown pigtails bouncing around her shoulders. If she imagined hard enough, she could picture Hannah watching them from the landing, arms crossed, a stern expression broken by the occasional irrepressible smile.

That part had never happened, of course. Hannah was already long-gone by the time Grace was born. But Lena liked the image nonetheless. She tucked it away into a small, distant corner of her mind as she reached the bottom of the steps.

The hallway was dark, lit only by the glow from the stairs and another, dimmer light coming from the direction of the kitchen. Lena bussed the banister one last time, then headed towards it.

At first glance, the room appeared empty. A lone gas lamp glowed from the ceiling. Glasses, plates, and crudité trays sat piled on the counters. Then Lena heard movement. Cyrus emerged from the butler's pantry, a glass in one hand. He stopped when he saw her. I didn't wake you, did I?

Lena rubbed her arms. I’d have to have been asleep first.

Cyrus winced. Right. He strode across the scuffed parquet floor to the massive island in the center of the room, turned on the sink, and filled the glass. I couldn't sleep, either.

The lump that had been in her throat all day tightened. Lena took a painful breath. I don't know how to do this, Cyrus, she whispered. She crossed over to the breakfast table and sank into the closest chair. I mean, we hardly ever saw each other. The last time I did see her, we fought. But... She looked down at her hands. A tear dripped into them. I don't know how to be in a world without Gracie in it.

Cyrus didn't answer right away. Lena waited a few seconds, then looked up. The expression on his face made her heart hurt. Do you remember after Hannah was taken, how you used to get those nightmares?

Yeah. Lena dashed her hand across her cheeks. Our rooms were right next to each other. You used to come and check on me when I screamed. I must have woken you up so many times.

Cyrus' lips twitched. Remember how I'd scoop you up, and the two of us would sneak down here for ice cream?

Lena let out a watery laugh. Rocky Road. I thought you were the coolest brother ever.

Cyrus snorted. "I was the coolest brother ever. His face grew serious again. Grab some spoons."

Lena did. At the same time, Cyrus turned to the freezer. Soon, they were both seated at the breakfast table, a carton of ice cream between them. Lena glanced at the label. Rocky Road. Some things never change.

Cyrus clinked her spoon with his. Here's to that, he said softly.

Lena felt her lower lip tremble. She tightened her jaw, and dug the spoon into the carton.

Time disappeared as they sat, eating in silence. Finally, Lena slumped back in her chair, her belly groaning. Cyrus smirked. Quitter.

She scowled. Unlike you, I don't have a bottomless pit for a stomach.

Cyrus shrugged, licked his spoon clean and set it on the table. He leaned back with a grunt, then laced his fingers behind his head. Sounds like quitter talk to me.

Lena studied him. To anyone else, he would have looked like his usual self. She knew better. How come you didn't talk to Mom and Dad at the service?

Cyrus huffed. And say what? 'Hey Mom, hey Dad, sorry I lost another one'?

Lena’s chest ached. They don't blame you. You must know that.

Cyrus wouldn't look at her. Maybe they should.

What happened to Grace wasn't your fault. Lena couldn't quite draw a full breath. It's mine.

Cyrus' gaze snapped to her face. What are you talking about?

We had a fight that night. I caught her feeding from one of my employees. Her eyes started to burn. I all but called her a monster, Cyrus. It's the reason she ran out like she did, probably the reason she was in that alley at the same time as... She couldn't bring herself to finish. She wouldn't have been there if it wasn't for me.

Cyrus shook his head. Lena...

But now that she'd started, she couldn't stop. I tried to contact her, you know. Let her know that I loved her, I missed her. Lena felt hollow. I couldn't find her. Can you believe that? I've made contact with thousands of souls across the Veil. I've given them messages from their loved ones, helped them move on. But my own sister. Her voice broke. I couldn't find my own sister to tell her I'm sorry.

Cyrus' eyes were dark. She couldn't decipher his expression.

Lena rubbed her face with both hands. It's just the two of us now, she whispered. God, Cyrus, how did we let this happen?

Cyrus didn't answer.

Lena woke up to MacMillian's voice echoing through the reception hall.

Hello? Is anyone here?

Lena rolled over with a groan. Pale morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains over her bedroom window. She didn't remember falling asleep. Cyrus must have carried her back here last night.

She pushed herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Dull tension throbbed between her shoulder blades. Lena groaned again and stretched.

Lena? Cyrus? Hello?

I'll be right down! She started to reach for her slippers, at the last minute remembered she hadn't packed them. Instead, she grabbed the open, flowy cardigan flung over the footboard of the bed and shrugged it over her shoulders.

The wood floors were cold beneath her bare feet. Lena shivered, and hurried out of the room. The carpeting in the hallway provided welcome relief. Padding towards the main staircase, she drew her cardigan tighter.

The house was dim and dark. Only a sliver of morning sun streamed down from the oculus over the third floor landing. The light looked different today—brighter. Sharper. Lena shook herself. It was probably just the rain. Everything in the city looked brighter after it rained.

Nervous tension coiled in her stomach as she started down the stairs. MacMillian was here. He'd really come. A part of her had thought maybe he wouldn't. She should have known better by now.

God, what was she going to say? Their last goodbye had been so painfully awkward, she'd wanted to run and hide afterward. Hanging between them was everything neither of them had been able to put into words. At least before, she'd been able to pretend none of it existed. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to do that now.

Maybe they didn't have to say anything. Maybe she could just take him into the kitchen, make him breakfast. He liked coffee. And scrambled eggs.

Lena didn't realize she'd sped up until she skidded around the second floor landing. The reception hall came into view. Waiting in the center of it, just under the crystal chandelier, stood MacMillian. His near-black hair looked longer each time she saw him. She couldn't tell if he was growing it on purpose, or had forgotten to get it trimmed. One hand rested on the curved head of his black cane. He looked so strong, so at ease, it was hard to imagine he even needed it.

At the sound of her footsteps, he looked up. Their eyes met. Lena's stomach felt light. She groped for the banister without looking at it.

She missed. A metallic clang echoed down the stairs as her hand found the old fuse box on the wall instead. Pain radiated up her arm. She hissed, and looked down. An angry red gash glowed against the pale skin of her hand.

Lena? MacMillian sounded concerned. Are you all right?

Lena stared at her hand. A few drops of blood were already oozing to the surface. The sight unlocked something inside her. All the anger and grief that had been building since that last fight with Grace surged to the surface. Lena glowered at the fuse box. Stupid thing! She smacked it hard.

It felt good. She prepared to do it again.

A sudden change in pressure made her ears pop. Lena looked around, hand frozen in midair. She didn't see any of the telltale signs a spirit might be trying to contact her. The change in pressure intensified. She cracked her jaw. What the hell...?

She didn't know what made her look up at that very moment. The oculus looked like it was on fire. Ribbons of white lightning snapped between the webbed framework holding the glass in place. Electricity fizzed over her skin. Lena tried to move. Her