Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(24)

She shuddered . . . then fell sideways off Florie and landed in a heap. Her frosty breath swirled away. Florie gulped air and pumped her legs, scurrying backward. People snapped into action.

One of the servants bent to help her up. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

Florie coughed, then pointed at Aida and choked out, “She’s crazy! Get her out of here!”

Winter slung an arm around Aida’s waist and hefted her to her feet. He brushed dust off her black dress and slid both hands around the back of her neck to hold her steady and get a look at her. He could feel her pulse hammering beneath his hands. “You okay?”

She sniffled. “Fine.” Her chest heaved with several labored breaths before she nodded her head. He released her. She looked over her shoulder at Florie and made a low noise of regret, her face contorting with a reluctant embarrassment.

“Come lay down, ma’am,” the servant was telling Florie. “I’ll bring you water and your pills.”

Halstead helped the servant lift Florie onto a settee. Winter watched him with mild interest, unsurprised that the man had been screwing Florie behind her husband’s back. Rather fascinating what Aida’s ability could dredge up.

“I want her out,” Florie yelled at no one in particular.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Aida rotated her shoulder to pull away from him, mumbling, “I just need to get my bag.”

As people were filing past, he spotted a flash of silver on the floor—what Aida had dropped—and picked it up as she got her bag, nearly cutting himself on a small, sharp blade. Before he could inspect it properly, he spotted the black lines of Aida’s stockings moving toward the door. He slipped the silver instrument inside his tuxedo pocket, hearing it ding against something inside as he ran after her and called for one of the servants to retrieve his coat.

“Hers, too,” he added, guiding Aida toward the entryway as guests scattered around other rooms—some whispering in corners, others looking for another drink. He helped Aida into her coat and instructed the maid to tell Florie that he was leaving and to call them a taxi.

Outside, he followed Aida down winding steps, then continued up the sidewalk. Packards and Cadillacs lined the curb, some with drivers asleep at the wheel, napping until their employers stumbled out after the party. The Magnusson family driver, Jonte, would normally be here as well, but he had the night off and Bo had dropped Winter off before heading to Chinatown.

“Where are you going?” he asked Aida.

She stopped in front of a nearby lot with a half-constructed house. Cement steps built into the hill were still framed in timber, flanked by two freshly bricked posts on either side.

“Let’s wait for the taxi here,” he suggested.

She didn’t turn around to look at him. Her silence was confusing. Maybe he was wrong, but the way she’d reacted to Florie’s obnoxious chattering was as if—well, that couldn’t be right. She wasn’t jealous, was she? Because that’s damn well what it seemed like in the heat of the moment, but maybe it was only what he wanted to believe.

Frustrated, he stared at the fog clinging to the trees and the roofs of houses across the street. “That was interesting.”

“I’m not sure what got into me. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“Florie’s smashed. She won’t even remember it in the morning. She never does.” He reached in his tuxedo pocket and held out the silver knife in his palm. “What is this?”

Her fingers brushed his as she took it. They looked at each other for a moment, then her gaze broke away. She rummaged around in her bag, retrieving a small silver cap. “It’s a military snake bite kit. I think it once belonged to a British pilot.” She screwed the cap over the blade. “Lancet is here and the other end holds medicated salve.”

“A lancet,” he repeated, still confused. “Why were you holding it when you called up Florie’s husband?”

“Because even though I can send ghosts away without help, I need to enter a trance state in order to call a spirit who’s left this plane.”

“Wait. If they leave this ‘plane’ after death, where do they go?”

“Across the veil to the beyond.” She made a vague sweeping gesture. “Look, don’t ask me to tell you the meaning of life or the one true religion or what happens to souls once they’ve crossed over, because I don’t know. They won’t tell you if you ask them, either. All I know is that I can call most of them back from wherever they are to communicate with their loved ones, as long as they haven’t been dead too long.”

“So you need to be in a trance to do that, but what’s the lancet got to do with it?”

“Lots of ways to enter a trance, but since I don’t usually have time to meditate, the fastest way for me is pain.” She twirled the lancet in her fingers, then palmed it, showing him. “I can hold it onstage without anyone noticing it.” Her big eyes blinked up at him. She pointed the capped lancet at her thigh. “I prick myself here.”

“Jesus! You injure yourself every time you call up a spirit?”

“It’s not bad, and I like helping people. Provides some resolution to the past.” She slipped the lancet into her coat pocket and retrieved her gloves. “Besides, it pays the rent, you know?”