I think of her. Winnie. Frank’s American mistress. His host. “No, I don’t want to be responsible for that. I just want him to stop siphoning life energy from me.”
“It’s more common than you think.” Wing shrugs. “Ghosts are becoming rarer, even in Crescent City. That’s where your ghost is, right, and his host?” I nod. “Energy tithes there are costly. All that infrastructure.”
I blink at him.
He frowns, takes the money from me. “One thirty, tomorrow.”
I’m abruptly light-headed.
We make our goodbyes and I take the boys back eastward on another bus, then yum-cha at the corner dim sum shop, as promised. I’m inside before I remember.
Ming Dynasty.
Too late now. The staff greet us with smiles, showing us to a table near the fish tank. Distracted by worry, I let the boys order their favorites. Soon, our table’s filled with enough steamers and plates for six full-grown adults. I’m so busy cleaning faces and wiping hands that I don’t notice company until he pulls out a chair.
“Hungry little monsters.”
I gasp, swiftly cover my terror with a fastidious manner. “Boys, this is Pau-pau Stella’s great-nephew. Say hello.”
Ewan remains silent, staring and suspicious. Austen obeys in a whisper, cringing away, moving closer to his brother.
“We’re just finishing up and I’m afraid this table’s a mess,” I say. “You’ll be better off at a different table.” My heart’s hammering so hard, I think I’m going to vomit.
He’s taken the remaining chair, between me and Austen. He ruffles my grandson’s hair. Austen scrunches away. Ewan begins to cry.
“That’s enough.” That damned quavery note again. “You’ve frightened them. Please leave.” I move to Ewan, pull him up, slide onto his chair, and hold him tight in my lap. I draw Austen into my side.
Stella’s great-nephew shrugs. “Making sure you understand your priorities.” He rises, saunters to a different table, sits with his back to the wall. A waiter places a Coke and a plate of rice and chah-siew in front of him, then backs away with a nervous nod.
None of the staff will meet my gaze.
I pay the bill hurriedly and take the twins home, searching the bushes we pass for lurkers, looking over my shoulder, wondering if the reedy one’s set up to ambush us. I fumble the key in the door, lock it firmly behind us. I can’t stop trembling.
When I’m ready, I put on an old DVD of that strange blue dog the twins like so much and pull out my phone. In the kitchen, I take a long, deep breath, then tap my son’s contact.
“Hi, Ma. What’s up?”
“Listen, a-jaiy, can you take tomorrow off? I have an appointment. I want you to stay with the boys.”
“What kind of appointment? What time? Lauren’s home by two thirty.”
“It’s nothing serious, don’t worry. I want to see a medium, but she’s way out in Coquitlam. It’s a long way, but Mrs. Chiu, you know her? She says she’s worth it.”
“Ma.” I picture his boyish face, that half-grin, half-frown when he’s exasperated.
I firm my voice: “Christopher, I want it to be you. For the boys. Would it kill you to take a day off for them? You’re always checking your phone anyway, even when you are here.” I huff. “Call it working from home. I don’t care.”
He laughs. “Okay, okay, don’t guilt-trip me.”
“Mother’s prerogative.”
“Fine. I gotta go. Bye, Ma.”
I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “Goodbye, a-jaiy.”
I hang up, go sit between the twins again, pulling them into the circle of my arms. I don’t want to let them go.
My heart sinks soon as I knock on Brother Wing’s door — when I abruptly register the scent of cigarettes and Coke. Copper and earth.
The door opens before I even have a chance to turn tail. Not that it would matter.
Wing doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. He pulls me inside. The thugs are in two armchairs by the window in the front room. They stand when I enter. I doubt it’s from manners. Wing ushers me toward the sofa, pushes me to sit. I hiss at the jolt of pain in my knees.
The reedy one kicks the wooden coffee table out at an angle, then sits on top of it.
Wing leans against the archway, half in the hallway, watching.
Stella’s great-nephew drags a straight-backed chair from the room across the hall, plants it two feet from my knees.
“How do you know Brother Wing?” I say.
His hand flicks out, quick as a snake. My head snaps back at the impact. I rub the stinging patch on my cheek.
“Cut the shit, lady,” says the reedy one. “You tried to fuck us over.” That smooth bass voice, so at odds with his words. “You have any idea how much we can sell your ghost for?”
I shake my head. “What’s his cut?” I point at Wing.
Stella’s great-nephew kicks my foot. “We ain’t here to negotiate, old woman.”
I grimace at the zing shooting through my knee.
The reedy one sits back, smug.
I clench my fists against the urge to slap him. “Haven’t you ever wondered why ghosts were banned in Canada?” I say.
“I know my history,” replies Wing, bland as you please.
I speak directly to Stella’s kin: “Too many people tethered to dead World War Two soldiers, driven mad by grief and shell shock. When you try to break a tether between ghost and host, the host could die or become separated from their soul. They may as well be a vegetable, then. Not to mention, the ghost usually disappears for good. It’s called a dispersal, you know. Tethers are serious business.
“My dead husband told me all about it. Crescent City’s really the only place left with a strong culture of ghosts. They got the real deal — healers, spell casters, ghost catchers, monks and nuns for reincarnation, all that stuff.” I meet his flat stare. “The rest of us out here? We’re just making shit up. We don’t have any formal training. There’s no guarantee this is gonna work.”
“Brother Wing explained it.” He shrugs. “High reward, high risk.”
“Yeah?” I say. “And you trust him, do you? Guy’s got zero training in this and you trust him to capture a ghost from thousands of miles away in the ether and keep it for your highest bidder?”
The big man smiles. “He’s family.”
I gape at him.
“I have training, actually,” says Wing. “I completed a full conjurer’s degree at the temple in Crescent City, as a matter of fact. Lied to cross the border. There’re only a few collectors up here, but they all need a decent spell caster to help use up their ill-gotten ghosts. It pays the bills quite nicely.”
Damn it. If I weren’t so bloody terrified, I’d be laughing my poor head off.
“What’s so funny, old lady?” says the reedy one.
“Are you family too, then?” I shake my head, feeling well and truly had. “Stella’s really got the last laugh, doesn’t she?”
Her great-nephew shrugs again, turns to Wing. “Let’s do it.”
“Wait, just wait. Can you at least tell me what my death is going to bring you?”
He growls. “Jesus, old woman, cut the melodrama already.”
“Six figures, at the low end,” Wing says. “Some have fetched a million. Like you said, they’re illegal here. Some people want special spells, big ones, and ghosts are the key to those.” His face is placid. “Which reminds me.” He comes forward, pulls my purse above my head. “Three thousand, you said.” The large envelope crinkles as he pulls out the money. The reedy one stands, expression eager.