“Ishmael permitted the attack,” he says, his voice taking on a slightly different cadence and tone. “You were not destined to be a vampire in this life. You were destined to eventually come into your witchy self. Perhaps not fully in this life, but definitely in the next.”

  He’s referring to my magic having been depleted by the Red Rider five centuries ago. It took many cycles of birth and rebirth for my magic to develop again. Pretty sure I wasn’t destined to be a sorceress supreme in this life, as I hadn’t started young enough. Like Allison, I would have gotten a later start in this life, to be carried into the next. Alas, things didn’t work out as planned. Who planned it, exactly? Not sure. Lots of higher powers out there.

  “You know this, how?” I ask my sixteen-year-old son.

  He gives me a small, knowing smile, his usual response when I ask anything that’s angelic in nature. Angels, I am beginning to understand, are secretive as all get out. And that includes a son with his own mother.

  “Never mind,” I say. “Angel secrets, I know.”

  He reaches out and takes my hand. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Ma. More than you know.”

  “I know,” I say. “And that’s my line.”

  When he smiles again, I see a hint of the little boy I remember. “I know things now, Ma. A lot of things. The beings I work with share information with me as needed, as I do with them.” He pauses, cocks his head. “I am being told this answer should suffice.”

  “It does. Thank you, baby.” I have to take what he gives me... or what they allow him to give me. That my son has an angel network he can rely on should make me feel comforted. And it does, in a way. It is the mystery of it all that gets to me. What are they planning for him? And when? I know I have him for a few more decades before he will go into service.

  Which made me all the more determined to enjoy what time I had with him. Here’s hoping these years don’t fly by.

  “You’re almost done with your sophomore year,” I say. “Any regrets leaving Max’s school for gifted children?”

  He smiles at that, knowing I’m using the wrong term. Where I got it from, I hadn’t a clue. Some movie or TV show. Feels like something I’ve heard often enough.

  “It wasn’t for me.” He towels his still-sweating forehead. “Too much magic stuff. Or potions stuff. I’d rather use these.” He holds out his fists, now lethal weapons. “And the Fire Warrior.”

  “Both excellent choices,” I say.

  Of course, I don’t want my son to have to fight for a living, but that’s where his life seems to be going. How often angels fight, I haven’t a clue. But I’m happy to have him by my side for now. That said, if anyone has ever been built or born for this job, it’s my son.

  I check the time on my phone. Got to go. I have an appointment with a psychic-medium, after all.

  I kiss my son on his sweaty cheek and head out.

  Chapter Nine

  The drive from Fullerton to the stadium is a pleasant one.

  Since no one I know can talk to ghosts, I had to call in the big guns. Pauline Ocean is as big as they come, and it’s a miracle she’s available. No, I didn’t compel her to come out to see me. Not even sure I could compel her over the phone, nor did I want to. But she had already picked up on last night, and seemed to suggest she knew I would be calling.

  As I park in the dirt and grass of the still slightly surreal stadium, I remember back to the first time I’d met Pauline. She had helped me to help a little boy (sadly, a murdered boy) move on to the afterlife. It had been around Halloween time, which proved a fortuitous time to catch his killer, a man located just down my street. Right, I still get the heebies thinking about how close a real serial killer had once lived to me.

  The heat isn’t quite as overwhelming today as it had been yesterday. Pauline is waiting in the shade behind a pillar, not terribly far from the outdoor ticket booths. Beyond the booths are metal turnstiles. She’s thicker than I remember, a few years older, and still has a severe look in her eyes. The woman takes speaking to spirits very seriously. One reason why she is so in demand in Hollywood; that, and she’s the real deal.

  We embrace, and she mentions that I don’t appear to have aged at all. I seriously can’t remember if she knows my secret or not, and decide to roll with the fact that she may not, based on her comment. Not all psychics pick up on me. Roxy had figured me out a few weeks ago, back when I helped locate her brother, who had disappeared off the coast of Newport Beach.

  Boy, did he disappear!

  Since I can’t read Pauline’s mind, I really don’t know if she suspects anything more of me, other than great skin. So yeah, I decide not to go there if she doesn’t go there. I can, of course, always erase her mind of any suspicions. Just hate doing that to a woman I respect.

  As we move together down the already familiar tunnel that, from what I understand, completely encircles the now oval-shaped structure (it had been round in its initial incarnation), I ask why she asked to meet me here; as in, I thought mediums could contact the dead anywhere.

  “We can,” she says, wiping her brow. She takes short, shuffling steps, kicking up dust behind her. “But that’s for spirits who have crossed over. This is a ghost we’re talking about, right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  She nods. “As such, I need to be in their presence. When you called last night, I sensed it would be about a female ghost. But that’s the psychic part of ‘psychic-medium.’”

  “Ah, gotcha,” I say. “I’m still new to a lot of this stuff.”

  She smiles. “Sometimes I surprise myself, too.”

  “I’m guessing not very often?”

  “No, not very often. I’ve been talking to ghosts and spirits since I can remember. That said, there’s always a new wrinkle.”

  “Are you thinking that’s the case here?”

  “A ghost who traveled with a deconstructed stadium from Spain to Orange County over fifty years ago. No, this is totally normal.” She winks, and I laugh.

  Construction has picked up. Five more days until my daughter’s graduation. For some, this might cause a mom to wax emotional, but for me, it’s a happy thought. After all, my daughter isn’t going very far. Literally going from the classroom to the office. If anything, I’ll be seeing more of her. I must be doing something right if she’s not sick of me yet.

  This is my third time here, and I’m beginning to know this place like the back of my hand. Granted, I haven’t explored every nook and cranny. As we walk, Pauline grows super silent. Weirdly, she doesn’t look anywhere other than directly in front of her. I suspect her psychic feelers are so far out there that her eyes have one job only: to watch where she’s stepping. My own eyes see the gooseflesh cropping up on her forearms, despite it being about ninety-five degrees today.

  Ah, I see her lips moving minutely. If I listen hard enough I might even overhear what she’s saying to herself, but I decide not to go there, guessing she’ll tell me what she’s saying and to whom.

  I keep pace with her, watching her from the corner of my eye. She’s clearly being directed somewhere.

  “Down here,” she says, indicating a side hallway. The same side hallway that leads to the storage room we were in yesterday.

  Okay, she’s good.

  I’m not very surprised when she soon reaches for the door handle to the same room we were in yesterday. She opens and steps inside without hesitation. Despite slanting rays of sunlight coming in through the open ceiling, the place is nearly as dark as last night. And based on Pauline Ocean’s bright-blue aura, she’s not immortal. As such, I doubt she can see into the darkness.

  “Want me to turn on the lights?” I ask, hand on the switch near the door.

  She shakes her head and takes a few steps into the room. “The light will scare her off. She’s up there, in the rafters, watching us.”

  I look in the same corner I had looked into last night, and once again see nothing. I’m really beginning to think there is a ghost girl sitting up there. “Can you see her see her? Or is it, like, in your mind?”

  “In my mind only. She has not manifested. Funny.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “She got quite the fright from you and your friends yesterday.”

  I tell her about Allison and Millie the ghost.

  “Interesting. You are friends with a highly evolved, self-aware ghost that can, at will, fully manifest... and is also a practicing witch?”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “Okay, now I’ve heard everything.”

  I chuckle at that.

  “Your ghost friend was the first such spirit she had seen in decades, since moving here with the stadium decades ago.”

  “Ah. Does that mean she’s the only one of her kind haunting this place?” Pretty sure I know the answer, but I want to confirm with the client.

  “It would appear so,” says Pauline. “I don’t sense anything else, and based on her reaction, she hasn’t seen anything quite like your friend in some time.”

  “She knows we’re here?” I ask.

  “Of course. She’s watching us closely, curious and afraid. I’m telling her it’s okay. I’m also telling her we’re here to help in any way we can.”

  “The story is, she committed suicide.”

  “Probably why she’s stuck.” Pauline closes her eyes, and I see her aura literally expand toward the upper rafters, though not all the way. “She may not remember much, Sam. Ghosts tend to forget who they are over time. That said, I’m sensing she might be different.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “For one, she’s been able to retain her appearance. That’s a good sign.”

  “Should we try to get closer to her?” I ask. “We can use the flashlights on our cells.”

  “No, it’s okay. My eyes are adjusting. Just as long as I don’t walk into a band saw or something.”

  Of course, I could rather easily guide her through the maze of power tools, but don’t want to explain how I can. Turns out, she can see well enough, turning this way and that like a true creature of the night.

  As we get closer to the corner of the room, I feel a familiar energy charge in the air. Oh, yes. I know the feeling. Here be ghosts.

  “She’s nervous but not afraid,” reports Pauline. “She understands we’re here to help.”

  We reach the corner, which appears to be a catchall for random junk. Mostly, there are some shelves jam-packed with boxes, hand saws, power cords, and leaning planks of wood. Above are the rafters. All in all, a good place for a ghost, but sad, too. To think that, likely, she’s often been huddled back here for decades kinda breaks my heart.

  “Tell her I’m sorry about my friends last night. We didn’t mean to scare her.”

  “I already have. She knows you meant her no harm.”

  “Does she speak English?”

  “No, but much of communication with a spirit involves blocks of thoughts that translate automatically for me into English.”

  “Like magic,” I say.

  “In a way. However it works, it allows me to communicate with just about anyone at any time.”

  Looking up into what appears to be an empty corner in the ceiling, I see what I can only describe as a distortion of some type. A shimmering, perhaps. My night vision may not see into the same light spectrum as before, but my eyes can still sometimes pick up anomalies of varying degrees.

  “Samantha, she’s telling me that she’s held on to her story for all these years for a reason. It is, in fact, the only story she knows. She doesn’t remember her family, her history, any personal stories other than this one, which she has deemed important enough to remember for, from I gather, over two centuries. She has recited the story to herself over and over, daily, never allowing it to fade from memory.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why is so important?”

  “She does not remember why. Remember, she only remembers the one story, which she has repeated in the hopes that one day someone like you might help her.”

  I take in some air. “Wow. No pressure or anything.”

  “Tell me about it,” says Pauline. “I’m the first of the living to hear her story, she says. She’s worried she might forget something, but I’m telling her to do her best. I’ll repeat what she tells me. I’ll try to match her tone and expressions to paint you the best picture I can.”

  “Wow, you’re really earning your keep.”

  “I do what I do to help,” she says, shrugging. “It’s why I’m on this planet.”

  The shimmering in the corner turns opaque and I see the faintest hint of a woman sitting there on a beam, hands clasped before her, head down. The vision is gone almost as fast as it appears. Had I blinked, I would have missed it.

  “She’s ready to tell her tale, Sam. Are you ready to listen?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be...”

  Chapter Ten

  Annabelle’s Tale

  My name is Anna or Annabelle.

  My father was a kind man, though I do not recall his name and that makes me sad. My mother was strict, and I do not recall her name, either. That makes me less sad. I have one fleeting memory of my father showing me how to fish in a river that I assume ran near our house. If, in fact, I lived in a house. I’m sure I did. Certainly, it was not as big as this... I do not know the words for this place, but it has something to do with bullfighting, though it seems different than what I remember, which is not very much.

  Memories are blurred. Going to school. Working in a field. Walks, dances, and bullfights. Always bullfights. It is what my town is famous for, I am sure of it. I do not love it, that much I remember. But most do, especially my father. Maybe a brother, too, but I do not remember him at all. Wait, a smile perhaps. A friendly face. Is it my brother? I do not know, but probably. Yes, probably.

  The story I forced myself to remember all these years begins with a young man, maybe sixteen. We were the same age. Where we met and how, I do not remember, but he would be my great love—my only love. And love him, I did. I remember many, many moments together: walking hand-in-hand by the creeks and rivers, shopping in the market, sitting quietly and watching the sunrises and sunsets. My first kiss in a barn next to the goats.

  All of these are magical memories. So magical, I refused to let them die.

  Most prominent of all memories, though, are the many, many hours I watched young Ferdinand practice bullfighting. I secretly suspected he loved bullfighting as much as me, and, in the end, I do not think I was wrong. Whoever or whatever he loved most is not a concern of mine, though. I loved him more than anything, and, for me, that’s all that matters.

  He admired the great bullfighters, knew them all by name; indeed, he knew everything about them. Myself, I couldn’t care less. But I would listen to him recount stories of epic fights and daring escapes, and, of course, of glorious finishes as the bulls finally succumbed to their wounds. I hated that most of all. But I loved the young man whose eyes gleamed when he spoke of such things.

  Ah, that look in his eyes... it meant everything to me. It was my world. So was his touch, his lips, his promises after. We would have land, a farm, a big family, animals, horses. Oh, how I loved horses!

  But to give me all that, he would need money. And he could make a lot of it with bullfighting. But only the best matadors were rich. Only the best could draw crowds from all across the land. Who was he, but a bullfighter-in-training? He’d yet to fight an actual bull with an actual sword. Just calves with wooden sticks. And even then, he often tripped and once, his hand got stomped. I would watch it all and my heart broke for him, especially if his fellow trainees laughed at him.

  I never laughed and consoled him each night. Unfortunately for my brave boy, things only got worse when he seriously injured his sword hand. He couldn’t practice the proper striking and killing techniques, and so he fell behind his other trainees. Worse, he was relegated to mop-up duty.

  My brave boy receded into a state of melancholy, the likes of which I had never seen. Nothing would pull him from it, and so I did what I could. I listened to him rant and rave about the unfairness of it all. Mostly, he felt he had let me down. I assured him he had not, that all I wanted was him, not the other things. But he would shake his head and tell me I was worth the world, and promised he would give it to me. Myself, and our future children.

  But the spark of joy was gone—only to be replaced by the gleam of madness.

  Here, I need to insert some background information. The lads practiced the art of bullfighting in a stadium far more ancient than the one you are standing in now. I am talking about a decrepit Roman Colosseum. I have repeated those words often, never wanting to forget them, because they are important to the story.

  Roman Colosseum.

  Yes, hear them well.

  What happens next is blurry to me because I did not witness it; however, he fully confessed the nature of his ordeal to me, and only to me. I did not believe him until three things happened:

  The first, his injured hand healed miraculously. It had been infected, the skin refusing to seal, so covered in pus it was. Those who saw it thought he would lose his hand. I wept secretly for my wounded boy, knowing his dream would be shattered.

  But lo!

  One day, as I prepared to treat the wound with a poultice, I received the shock of my life: it was nothing more than a faint red line along the back of his hand. Late one evening, he and another bullfighter-in-training, tired of practicing with wooden poles, had absconded with some real swords, to practice in the shadows of the ancient stadium. Poor Ferdinand suffered a terrible wound, blood spilling over the dirt of that ancient place. Methinks the spilling of his blood attracted what would come later... but I am getting ahead of myself.

  Next would be his growing prowess in the bullring, his skill with cape and sword, his footwork, his speed, everything. Gone was the laughter of his comrades, to be replaced with awe and wonder and, undoubtedly, curiosity. How had this wee lad, once a novillero or apprentice, improved by such leaps and bounds that he was already a matador by age sixteen?