Eternally Yours 1 Page 2

  The girl’s head shot up and swerved to the lights. “Shit! Cops!” she shrieked and struggled with the pink t-shirt currently wrapped around her neck.

  The boy leaped into full alert status, straightened in the driver’s seat, and quickly cranked the key in the ignition. The engine coughed, and then sputtered to life.

  If Luc weren’t already dead, the car’s ensuing peel-out would have knocked him flat and dragged him over the rocky incline into oblivion.

  “Admirable work, young man.” The lazy round vowels of post-Revolutionary Long Island thudded from behind him.

  With his essence already depleted, Luc amassed the last stores of his energy to transform vapor into human. If any real human had dared come close, they’d see nothing but mist. But to other entities of the Afterlife, he would appear as flesh and bone, wearing his favorite stonewashed jeans and black t-shirt. With a tired sigh, he turned toward this new visitor. “Captain,” he said with a solemn glare. “You know why I’m here.”

  “Aye.” Captain Edmund Fitzhume of the frigate, Mary Grace, nodded.

  He wore his traditional cobalt blue frock coat with dozens of brass buttons over a loose-fitting ivory shirt and tan breeches. In his hands, he crushed a cocked hat braided with gold.

  Luc recited the details the Board had provided upon assigning him this bounty. “Your first mate’s diary was discovered in an attic in Sag Harbor last year. In it, he wrote about the mutiny—a deathbed confession that has reinstated your once-sterling reputation. The details were made public, a book has reached the bestseller list and there’s talk about making your story into a movie. I’d say you’ve been fully exonerated of the shipwreck. And now it’s time for you to move on.”

  “Aye,” the captain repeated, twisting the hat’s brim between agitated fingers.

  Wow. If only all the souls he wrangled up were this easy to convince. Experience, however, had taught him to tread carefully. The dead weren’t always what they seemed.

  “Truth is,” the captain said, “I am tired of this place. Tired of the scientists who come with their light meters and strange viewing tools. They trample my resting place and chase after floating bits of ectoplasmic dust like a hunter stalks a ten-point stag. And the youths are even worse. They sit and drink their ale and rum beneath my favorite tree there.” He pointed to a graceful elm, its leafy branches extended, nature’s canopy shading his headstone. “And then they tell tales of how I walk around with my head tucked under my arm.”

  Luc bit back a smile. No doubt a man like Captain Fitzhume, who’d lived his entire life with honor and dignity, despised those drunken tales as much as he did the blame he’d been mistakenly assigned when the Mary Grace hit the rocks off Fire Island and sank, killing ninety-seven of the one hundred souls aboard. If not for the found diary, would the captain’s soul have ever surrendered the fight to prove his innocence? Three hundred years. Nearly three hundred years the old sea dog had loitered here in this dismal place, waiting for justice.

  Anger bounced over Luc’s synapses, charging his nerve endings into frenzied fireflies illuminating the dark night in sporadic flashes. How many years of penance would he have to perform? For Daphne’s sins? But he couldn’t lay all the blame at Daphne’s feet anymore. He had to share some responsibility for what had happened to him, for his untimely death. Because he’d been stupid enough to marry the greedy, selfish bitch. When everyone had warned him against taking the plunge, he’d dived in, heedless of the consequences.

  Shaking off the memories and inherent rage, he studied the captain through jaded eyes. “Does that mean you’ll come along peacefully?”

  “Aye.” The agreement came stronger now.

  “Terrific,” Luc said. “If you’ll follow me—”

  The captain’s gloved hand clamped his shoulder. “One thing, laddie, before we go.”

  A spider of suspicion skittered down his spine. He should’ve known. None of the souls ever went away easily. The temptations of Earth kept them bound to old lives, old habits, old passions. Such a shame. He sighed. “Yes?”

  The captain glanced at his hat, must have realized he’d pretty much destroyed it, and brushed a hand over the brim in a pitiful effort to repair the damage. “What happens now?”

  “You’ll move on.”

  “To where?”

  He shrugged, struggling to keep the bitterness from his tone. “I don’t know.”

  The captain’s bushy brows became one straight sooty caterpillar over his beady eyes. “You’ve never been?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I died before I was supposed to.” Even after all this time, the words tasted like acid on his tongue. “Now I’m stuck wrangling up guys like you until my reservation is confirmed.”

  “Well, then, I’d best not keep you from your duties. Lead on, sir.” With a sweep of his hat, the captain bowed.

  Chapter 2

  Once again, the sounds and images of this place stunned Jodie into mute submission. When Sherman, the odd little spirit guide, led her into a vast auditorium, she paused at the entrance to gain her bearings. Behind her, the quiet yet frenetic activity of the Welcome Area served as a constant reminder that she was, in fact, dead.

  But everything seemed so real, so life-like. If not for Sherman and the weird purple bath towel she wore—a getup she’d never wear on Earth—she might have thought she was dreaming of a vacation in a glorious five-star hotel. Even this new room, where she stood on the edge of the doorway looking over a space that could easily seat a thousand people, resembled a Broadway theater without an audience. Strangely, the room held only a lone golden leather club chair. The chair faced the stage—or what Jodie considered a stage—a raised platform in the front of the massive room.

  The Council of Elders, a line of twelve men and women garbed in gauzy white togas, with gold hoops in their lobes, stood. Their faces, though lineless, held the wisdom of the ages. The Elders faced the empty audience area, silent but waiting, as if, one by one, each would step up to deliver a speech.

  Sherman tugged Jodie’s arm. “Come along, my dear. It isn’t good to keep the Elders waiting.”

  On leaden feet, she took a tentative step, then another. But Sherman, apparently impatient with her hesitancy, gripped her elbow and tugged, dragging her at a much rapid pace to the front of the room. As she neared, the council members floated forward.

  Okay, a little freaky to have people moving without the use of legs and feet—even though they have legs and feet! Jodie struggled to come to grips with this place, but her head spun, and her legs trembled.

  “Come to us, Jodie Rosalind Devlin,” they spoke in unison, a jury of the peerless. “Learn from us.”

  She stopped. Good God, what would they do to her? Would she be punished for ruining so many futures in one blinding stroke of self-pity? Terror drove her to her knees, but Sherman grasped her elbow even tighter and pulled her upright. Despite his grip, she stumbled, the skirt of the toga she wore twisted around her unsteady feet.

  “Have no fear, my dear,” he whispered urgently. “The Council is not here to judge you in any way. They are the wisest souls in the Afterlife. Their presence is meant to soothe you, not alarm you. Place your trust in the one who pulls strongest for you.”

  Jodie’s gaze scanned the six male and six female spirits. How was she supposed to place her trust in these people who frightened her? She’d never liked strangers, had always avoided them in an effort to minimize the staring and the questions about her scars. A long-ingrained reflex, she tucked her hands into the folds of her garment, hiding them from sight.

  On the next breath, her gaze locked on a woman whose deep sapphire eyes mirrored sympathy, kindness, and maternal compassion. Her hands dropped to her sides again as she simply stared at the woman’s ethereal beauty.

  As if reading her unspoken request, the spirit nodded. “I am honored you have chosen me, Jodie,” she said in a voice warm and soft as a spring breeze.

  Jodie
blinked. Was that what she’d done? Chosen this lovely woman, simply by taking a moment to appreciate her beauty?

  The woman’s eyes locked on Jodie’s. In their wondrous depths, stars glittered, a galaxy of love. For a moment or two, Jodie lost herself: senses numbed, her mind slowed to a halt, and nothing mattered but the velvet blue of the woman’s eyes. When she finally tore her gaze away and refocused on the auditorium, she and the feminine spirit stood alone in the room. All the others, including Sherman, had disappeared. Oh, God. I am definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Shudders racked her, making her flesh twitch.

  A rustle filled her ears, and invisible arms encircled her in a blanketing embrace. “Do not be afraid, dear one,” the spirit said. “Sit.”

  Sit? How could she? What if this woman meant to punish her for destroying all those beautiful lives? Her children and grandchildren who would now never be? Thanks to her stupidity and weakness. What would happen if she ran right now? Just took off screaming through the doors? Did she dare?

  “There is no reason to run,” the spirit replied. “You will come to no harm with me. Can you feel me holding you?”

  Those unseen arms clasped her shaking shoulders, soothing her nerves and easing her fears. A sense of peace enveloped her, as if she were an infant cradled against her mother’s breast. Relaxing, she sank into the leather of the club chair on a long hiss of air.

  “We shall review three of your past lives,” the spirit said, “ending with your most recent journey on Earth. Some of what you see may upset you, but remember. These are shades of people you once knew and memories of what has occurred. All these events and connections shaped who you are. We examine them now so you may learn from them. An ingrained knowledge of your past, buried deep within your heart, will mold who you will be in your next incarnation. I will stay with you throughout the process to shield you and protect you, as well as to answer all your questions. Before we begin, is there anything you wish to ask me?”

  “Yes. What should I call you?”

  “Serenity will do,” the spirit replied. “Are you ready to continue?”

  “I…” Jodie swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “I guess.”

  “Do not fear.” Serenity ran a loving hand over Jodie’s hair. “Remember I am with you. Close your eyes.”

  When she complied, colors streaked like fireworks across her mind. Within the blink of an eye, the vivid hues sharpened, forming the shape of a dark-haired woman with snapping blue eyes.

  Goodwife Greta Hamburg lived with her husband, Erick, in New Amsterdam in the New World. Jodie knew everything about Greta. Because centuries ago, Jodie was Greta. And now, as she watched Greta’s life unfold, the memories flooded through her. How Greta had always considered her married life happy and peaceful. Until the Salem hysteria crept into their peaceful village, clawing for more victims.

  Eventually, Greta would go to the stake, declaring her innocence. And while the flames ate painfully through her flesh, the last sight her dying eyes would behold was her beloved husband. Erick, silent and accusatory, stood beside the black-frocked minister, Proctor Verhoeven, who’d convinced the villagers of her guilt in practicing the Black Arts.

  As Greta, every inch of Jodie’s singed flesh sizzled in an endless suffering tattoo until her heart could no longer stand the pain and she gave herself over to the numbness of death. Once Greta perished, the screen grew fuzzy.

  When the blur once again cleared to crisp edges, she saw a red-faced babe, squalling in a woman’s arms, and knew the child was Christine Anne Grainger. The squalid, overheated room in an eighteenth-century cabin came to life.

  Jodie Devlin no longer sat in the chair, a spectator. Jodie Devlin no longer existed. She was Christine Anne Grainger. Born June 3, 1761.

  In 1778, barely two months after Christine had received word of her intended’s death at the hands of the British, a house fire erupted suddenly in the middle of the night. The flames devoured her parents and physically scarred the lovely young Christine. Watching Christine die alone and penniless ten years later hollowed Jodie, as if carving her heart from her chest.

  And then came her most recent life. Once again, she was the young Jodie, naïve and sheltered, bouncing from strange country to strange country with her UNESCO parents. Every incident, still emblazoned on her mind from current memory, roared to the surface of her consciousness. She relived that horrible day in the little village of Castelan, outside San Salvador. The oppressive jungle heat drew sweat from her pores. A helicopter’s blades thwopp-thwopped overhead. And then…chaos.

  Her mother’s voice echoed from her memory. Hurry, Jack, hurry!

  She saw her father struggle to start the sputtering Jeep and felt relief when the engine coughed and turned over. A lurch later, her bottom jostled over rutted roads as they hurried to escape the violence breaking out around them. Soldiers streamed from the jungle, their eyes black and their expressions soulless.

  Screams echoed in her head, and the young Jodie covered her eyes with her hands. Sparks blazed from the dense foliage, glowing between the spaces in her fingers. At the same time, rickety-rickety sounds erupted. Gunfire! Before she could scream a warning, her parents’ bullet-riddled bodies jerked and danced on the impact of the semi-automatic artillery. The Jeep’s engine, punctured in a dozen places, hissed like a time bomb before exploding. Shrapnel rained on her with the sting of ten thousand bees.

  Teenaged Jodie Devlin woke in a third world hospital, alone and in excruciating pain. Survival came from a dozen agonizing skin grafts the doctors inflicted to repair the second and third-degree burns marring her arms and legs.

  Her heart bled when the consulate representative informed her of her parents’ deaths. Breath left her lungs when she relived her harried flight to New York, a place she’d never known except from photographs. She spent time with all the foster families again: from the kind old doctor friend of Daddy’s and his much younger, possessive wife, to the grieving couple who had hoped to replace their dead daughter with a live, scarred one. She saw again the children who’d taunted her, heard their insults, endured their slaps and pinches.

  A newspaper she’d seen long ago blared the headline, Scandal Rocks Amity-For-All, and in smaller print, Charity May Be Linked to Bloody Coup in San Salvador. She’d never read the details of the article, though she’d wanted to. Her then-foster parents refused to allow her to “dwell on the past.” After all, hadn’t she experienced that bloody coup first-hand? Wasn’t that enough? Now, however, the newspaper article became a blip on her brain, there for a heartbeat, then gone.

  Incidents whizzed through her memory. Every move, every disappointment, every disastrous attempt to find love and happiness, stole another piece of Jodie’s heart, like splinters of the True Cross. Once again, life became a chore, each day harder to survive—until she met Gabe. Dear, sweet, shy Gabe with his sweet, shy courtship. All their precious moments flew by too fast. Until they reached the humiliating moment he told her he needed to find the perfect woman. And then time slowed.

  Knowing now what she hadn’t suspected then, she saw the evening through different eyes. Now, she noticed the grin he couldn’t erase, counted how many times—fourteen—he fumbled in his breast pocket where he no doubt hid an engagement ring. She watched the shocked expression pop onto his face when she stormed out of the restaurant because he said he wanted a perfect woman in his life. No. Not a perfect woman, as she’d heard that night. The perfect woman.

  Before she could analyze the difference, she once again sat behind the wheel of her battered old Corolla, floored the gas pedal, careened into the liquor store’s parking lot, purchased the liter of Grey Goose, and roared home, tears blurring her vision through all ten miles.

  An icy chill encased her soul while her bathtub filled. She shuddered.

  “Do not be afraid, Jodie,” Serenity whispered. “I am with you. We’re almost done.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t think I can bear to see this.”

&
nbsp; “You must. You cannot move forward until we’ve examined your past. Each tragedy we endure, each mistake we make, teaches a lesson that we carry with us into our next lifetime. Be strong, Jodie. Review these moments, and discover the truth your fear kept from you.”

  Bands of steel wrapped her spine, strengthening her, borrowed from Serenity she supposed, but she’d take the courage anywhere she could get it.

  “Pain and fear often make us act foolishly,” Serenity advised. “Do not judge yourself harshly for your mistakes. Together, we will discuss every incident, every person you’ve met, every reaction you’ve ever had. I will help you learn from the weaknesses that have held you back. But you and I must now view your last moments on Earth.”

  On a painful swallow, Jodie fixed her attention to the visions in her head.

  A panicked Gabe pounded on her apartment door. “Jodie! It’s me. Gabe. Let me in, please. I don’t understand what happened, but I’m sorry.”

  When she didn’t answer his shouts, he used physical strength, slamming his shoulder against the door. Bam! Bam! Bam! Crack! Bam! Bam! Bam! Crack!

  At last, the continuous impact reduced her door to splintered wood, and he stumbled inside, screaming her name. He raced through her living room, down her hallway, and even into her bedroom before he pushed open the bathroom door. Where he found her in the tub, still and breathless. “Oh, Jodie, no!”

  He pulled her from the cooling water, placed two fingers against her throat to feel for a pulse. Finding none, he whipped out his cell phone and dialed 911. “I need an ambulance! Hurry! I think my fiancée tried to kill herself.”

  Fiancée.

  “Oh, God,” Jodie wailed as she watched Gabe’s torment, the frantic life-saving attempts he’d made. Useless. All for nothing. “What have I done?”