Despite my accomplishments of the past year, my physical state had not altered. I was still transparent and existing in that odd space between life and death.
No sensations. No touch. No smell. No change.
Though, I had recently formed some hope that my state wasn’t static.
Clenching my jaw, I focused on what Icouldchange. I concentrated on the tip of my index finger, mentally ‘pushing’ on it, for lack of a better description.
I had learned a lot about my corporeal state. I was tethered to a razor edge between this physical world and the shadow world. As my consciousness was in this world, if I focused all my mental energy, I could pull a tiny piece of my physical body more into one world or the other.
So as I pushed on my finger, it became more solid. Trickles of sensation drifted up my arm. The heat of the room. The fluttering breeze.
A searing pain flooded in behind, nearly blacking my vision with its intensity. Red hot flames licking up my arm. The pain snapped my concentration, forcing me to let go of my mental pushing. My finger instantly faded into near invisibility and then fluttered before settling back into its semi-transparent state.
That was always the problem—the agonizing pain that accompanied the shift. The pain made it impossible to hold the change for long. Not to mention the bounce into near invisibility afterward. If I forced a part of me to stay physical for too long, would it bounce into nothingness?
Though I hoped that perhaps one day, if I built up enough resistance to the pain, I might be able to pull my entire body into the realm of the living for short periods of time.
Possibly long enough to smell the crisp air after an autumn rainfall. To taste a sweet, summer strawberry.
To hold a soft, petite woman in my arms—
I hadn’t mentioned this newfound ability to anyone yet. The hope felt so tentative and fragile. If it came to naught, the disappointment would be easier to bear alone.
When Tennyson finished speaking, I mentioned my other news. “I spoke with the installation company today. They informed me they should have all the home automation stuff done within the next week or so.”
“That’s great,” he replied. “I gotta say it, Jack. It’s awesome that you bought your own place, but I’m glad you’re staying put here.”
I had recently purchased a sprawling villa a few miles west of the medieval hilltop town of San Gimignano. The villa stood on a rise midway between Volterra and Florence, allowing for easy access from either city.
Though I had no physicality, I could control voice-activation software. How that worked . . . I had no idea. It just did. Technology allowed me to interact with the world at large. Having a house wired with voice activation software meant I could turn lights on and off, control my computer and television, make phone calls and so on.
WhyI had purchased the house was harder to answer. I was a ghost; I didn’t need food or water or other physical necessities. I obviously didn’t need to own a house. Furthermore, I enjoyed living with Tennyson. We were good for each other . . . kindred lonely souls.
But . . . I had also been Lord Knight, peer of the realm and owner of multiple large estates in England. My father and father’s father and so on back into history had been hereditary land owners. Running large estates was a hallmark of the British peerage and was a fundamental part of my own personal identity. I hadn’t realizedhowfundamental until I lost everything. I needed to rebuild. To become again who and what I had been.
The villa was another step toward that. Owning and managing my own residence would help me feel settled, even if I still spent most of my time with Tennyson.
I smiled at him. “Not tired of me yet?”
“Of course I’m tired of seeing your ugly mug around here.” Tennyson’s tone was all brotherly affection. “But your company is . . . uncomplicated, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”
That was truth. Tennyson was lonely. It didn’t take a psychic to understand that. He lived alone with his hound dog, Elvis, and me, his ghost roommate, and had very limited contact with the outside world. In the past year, I hadn’t heard him even so much as mention a woman in his life, much less date one. He had dated Lucy Snow for a number of years—my great-whatever niece who had gone on to marry Branwell last autumn . . . long story there—so that relationship was old news.
It wasn’t as if Tennyson couldn’t attract a woman. Even I understood he was drop-dead sexy, as Chiara would say—incredibly blue eyes paired with dark, Italian coloring and handsome features. To those who knew him, he was charming and funny and utterly loyal.
But his supernatural gift of Second Sight was completely debilitating. Feeling the emotions of those around him, even occasionally seeing into the future . . . it was all too much. Tennyson was continually hanging on by a thread. Judith, their mother, had confided in me that Tennyson was doing better with me around. Having the companionship of someone he could talk to without feeling their emotions had been helpful.
But I knew the bleakness of Tennyson’s future contributed to his dark moods. How could you be sunny and cheerful when your only aspiration in life was to hold off madness as long as possible?
We were a hopeless pair, he and I.
Difficult as it was to admit, Chiara had been right about many things last year. Most importantly, that I needed a purpose—something to work toward. Raising the golden horde of artifacts had given me a much-needed focus.
I recognized that I had been melancholy, grieving and angry a year ago.
Now . . . the grief lingered. The loss of so many loved ones would never fully heal. But the melancholy had eased somewhat and my anger only flared occasionally.
I had come to realize one important fact:
