The wind was stronger rowing out than rowing in. By the time they were at the boat it was seriously whipping Ellen’s ponytail. Isis’s circlet was at least keeping some out of her face. “Will-o’-Wisp . . .” Isis read the name on the sailboat’s stern. “That is . . . a drowned soul?”
“Yes.” Ellen tied up, clambering up the ladder, then helped Isis ascend with her bag. “Let’s go below deck.” Ellen ushered Isis into the main cabin and shut the door securely behind them. Sound carried, and when dealing with mad monks, one never could be too paranoid.
Isis stood in the middle of the cabin, taking in the Philippine mahogany, the easel, the sketches, the assorted bits and bolts of cloth, and the vintage sewing machine with a half-finished dress strewn inside-out across the galley table. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.” Ellen shoved aside the unfinished dress, making a place for Isis. “I don’t cook, but do you take tea?”
“Yes, please,” said Isis. Ellen nodded. A kettle would have been nicer, but a micro wave was a small luxury for a single woman. She didn’t bother to ask what type Isis preferred—Taylor’s of Harrowgate was good enough for anyone—and in a minute and a half, it was done.
By the time she turned around, the Living Goddess had conjured a bowl of sugared dates, either from her bag or thin air. Ellen didn’t much care which. She set the mug in front of Isis, considering, then sat down opposite. “So,” Ellen said, “what did your, uh, brother, tell you?”
“That only Nepthys, of all gods, can raise the dead. We were bewailing the loss of our beloved Aliyah and . . .” Isis raised her mug, inhaling the steam like an oracle with her bowl, then put it plainly: “Can you help us?”
It had been a long while since Ellen had sat with a client. “Perhaps, but I have to tell you that it’s going to be less than what you want. I have to be up-front about that. The last time . . .” How was she supposed to put it? “My last client was expecting the Second Coming and just got a Broadway Revival. I’m a psychometric trance channeler. Most objects”—she hefted her mug as demonstration—“I can feel the psychic impressions on, like smudged fingerprints or whispers on the other side of a wall . . . but if an object is very important to someone, I can tell that, and if that person has died . . .”
Isis finished her thought: “You can channel the soul of the departed?”
Ellen took a sip of tea, letting it linger on her tongue as she thought of the best way to phrase it. “I think they’re souls, but the dead . . . well, when I call them back from the darkness, they don’t recall an afterlife. They only remember up to the last point they touched an object.”
Isis’s dark eyes were limned with kohl. “My daughter left the world as she came into it, naked and screaming. But at least . . .” Her voice caught. “. . . at least, your gift is kind.” She reached into her bag. “You will spare my darling Aliyah the torment of her end.”
Ellen moved the mugs and the untouched dates aside, making room for Isis to unroll a tightly furled bundle of denim. It was like unwinding a burial shroud, revealing at last a pair of low-rise jeans and a black baby-doll T-shirt with the American Hero logo, the legend EVERYONE WANTS TO BELONG TO THE CLUBS!, and the image of a pretty brown-haired girl wearing nothing more than a whirlwind of glitter, the name SIMOON stenciled below. Isis then added a pair of earrings, small bits of silver and Swarovski crystal in the shape of the Egyptian Eye of Horus, the same as you could get in any Cambridge or Greenwich Village Goth shop. “My daughter wore these her last day on American Hero.”
Ellen blinked. “Your daughter was an ace?”
“We called her Simoon, the child of the whirlwind. Though the name on her birth certificate is ‘Aliyah Malik,’ ‘Malik’ for ‘daughter of the King.’ ”
“Oh . . .” What Ellen did not usually tell her clients was that when the person she channeled was an ace, she channeled their power as well. The contestants from American Hero included some pretty potent aces. If occasionally wonky ones. Ellen pursed her lips. “Before we go any further, there’s one other thing we do have to discuss: payment.”
“I am not rich,” Isis said, “but you will have the eternal gratitude of the Living Gods, this I promise you. And you may join us at any of our temples as our Nepthys.”
“No offense, but I’ve got Catholic nutjobs after me. Rather not have Muslim ones, too.”
“Osiris foresaw this. As payment, he offers prophecy. The night hawk has killed the red bird, he told me. Does this omen bring ease to the heart of Nepthys?”
Ellen sat back. A red bird? A cardinal? Contarini was dead? That would be welcome news—mostly—but she’d like better assurances than a vision from a Las Vegas lounge act. She made a counteroffer: “Just let me keep your daughter’s things.”
“They are mere mementos. If you can make my Aliyah live again . . .”
Ellen composed herself, picking up the jeans. They were . . . unimportant. “You can keep these.” She touched the T-shirt, feeling a touch of excitement, a thrill of passion, and a great deal of disappointment, quickening as she touched one, then the other of the earrings.
“Aliyah very much wanted to have her ears pierced,” Isis explained, Ellen hearing her words as if from the end of a long tunnel. “I would not let her until she was sixteen.”
Ellen unwound her scarf and pulled off her pullover, shedding them along with her identity as she slipped on the T-shirt, adding the earrings, and then . . .
Aliyah yawned, coming awake muzzy-headed as if from a dream. In the back of her head, Ellen stayed silent, watching and observing as Aliyah shook her head and focused on Isis. “Mama?” She blinked. “When did you get here?”
“Aliyah,” Isis breathed. “Oh, you are back. You are back. Nepthys be praised.”
“Uh, when did I leave?” Aliyah looked around the messy cabin, taking in the oddments and fabric notions, then looking back to her mother. “Mama, where the hell are we?”
“We are in the bark of Nepthys. She has brought you back from the dead.”
“The dead?” said Aliyah, standing up, then looked at Ellen’s hands, her hands, in incredulity. Then she touched them to her small breasts. “Where the hell are my tits?”
“You are in the body of Nepthys. She has lent you her form.”
Aliyah grabbed her chest and squeezed, feeling herself up. “I haven’t worn an A cup since I was twelve.” She scanned the room. “You expect me to believe I’m suddenly some flat-chested old lady so I can freak for the cameras? What sort of fucked-up illusion is this?”
Actually, Ellen thought, it’s not an illusion. You’re in my body. And I’m not flat-chested. Or old. Hell, I’m not even forty.
“Aliyah,” Isis cried, tears forming in her eyes, “it is no illusion. You died in Egypt.”
“Egypt?” Aliyah echoed incredulously. “I’ve never even been to Egypt!”
“Yes, you have. You were killed by a villain named the Djinn. But your uncle Osiris foresaw a way for you to return, and so I quested until I found Nepthys . . .”
“Then why don’t I remember anything about it?”
Because, Ellen thought, when I channel someone, I can only channel them up to the point where they last touched or wore something. I’m channeling you from your shirt and earrings.
“Oh, this is utter crap,” said Aliyah, “and I’m not buying it. Watch.” She grabbed the front of her shirt and pulled, ripping it straight off over her head and tossing it into the corner.
The connection faded a fraction, becoming appreciably weaker, and Aliyah staggered.
Isis caught her. “Aliyah, my dear one. It is true. But Nepthys has brought you back.”