CHAPTER 1: Redemption Beyond the Grave
September 11, 2001 – 15:00 GMT
London, England

After living with a ghost's voice in my head for a decade, my coping strategies have gotten a little unorthodox. Right now, I'm living, breathing proof of the law of unintended consequences.

Here I sit, in a SoHo hotel, struggling to shake off the tail end of a chemically-induced stupor. My knees sting, scraped raw on the shag carpet. The ringing in my ears won't quit. But this is the price I paid willingly for a few hours of solace. Trust me, it's over now.

You promised you would help me, Delaney, she says. Why did you leave?

"Shut up, Audra," I whisper. She hasn't shut up since yesterday. I'm not expecting her to start now.

They are dead because of you. You saw what he did. How could you let it happen?

I close my eyes and push her voice out of my head through sheer force of will. They're dead because of me, she always says. Two little boys I promised to save. Mornings like this, I know all I'm doing is punishing myself, but if there's a good way to move on from that kind of failure, I haven't found it yet. Clearly, Audra agrees.

We met in another city, another hotel. My parents had died a year before, so it was a miserable screwed-up time when I felt weary of the world and wary of everyone in it. I'd gone traveling, hoping to find a way to make sense of it all. On that night, we were both stuck in a hotel not far from where she died. Guess I wasn't so much trapped as lost; when you're searching for love, searching for faith, searching for meaning, sometimes you get so wrapped up in it all that you forget how to move.

Now I'm a little older, a little wiser, a little crazier, but still seeking the same things. She's the only thing that hasn't changed. I'm no longer that naïve girl, the one who dared befriend a lonely ghost. I can show you what love is like, Delaney, she said. I can show you everything you seek. Will you help me? Damn foolish to think I could take her up on it without paying a price. Can't say she didn't warn me. Especially about the love bit.

All I wanted was to have my mind to myself for a few hours, but globe lights in the bathroom shine harsh reality on the end result. Mad-sex hair, smeared makeup, even a hickey, for chrissakes. I shut my eyes, opting to focus on the throbbing pain in my skull. Hardly a challenge. Right now, even my hair hurts.

"Hey Delaney," a male voice calls. Unfortunately, no chance this one's a figment of my imagination. "What the hell are you doing in there?"

Mostly, I'm trying to convince myself one night of smoking won't give me lung cancer. Time was, I wouldn't have touched a drop of alcohol, let alone any of the stuff I touched last night. I turn on the tap, gulping cool water straight from the source. The liquid tastes like it came straight from the bottom of the Thames, but it feels like I'll never get enough.

Footsteps approach from the bedroom. "Delaney? You fall in?"

I wipe my face on his shirt. Since I have no hips, tits, or ass to speak of, it's a tent, but it covers things I no longer want exposed. "Just wondering how to live the rest of my life knowing I'll never see you again." Enough sarcasm oozes out to make it clear the screwfest is over.

"So let's do this again next time we're in the same city," he hollers back. This does not bode well for a graceful exit.

First Officer Matthew Corcoran appears around the corner. Completely starkers. He was the co-pilot on my flight yesterday. I was about to deplane when he pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to help him redefine the word 'layover'. What can I say, I felt pity for someone whose pickup lines were that bad. We hit a club and Audra started nagging. The rest is a blur.

"Give me your cell number." He finds his phone and waits for my digits.

I shake my head weakly. "Still hoping to make it to thirty next year. One more night like this and I might not."

Four Stoli and Red Bulls, three Dunhill Lights and two hits of Ecstasy ago, his cocky grin seemed more endearing. "C'mon, Red, we had fun. You're insane in all the right ways and a few of the wrong ones too. All I want is your name."

Last thing I need right now is a transcontinental flyboy fuck buddy. "Fine. It's Spencer, Delaney Spencer."

"Liar." He reaches into the purse I left on the counter and starts rummaging.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He finds my passport and holds it up so I can't grab it. "Few hours ago my dick was seven inches up your ass. Now you're worried about my hand in your purse?"

I swear he wasn't this much of a prick last night. "Seven inches? They let you fly a plane with that kind of depth perception?"

The slight on his manhood doesn't faze him. "Yes, Ms. Delaney Ann Nichols of Gloucester, Massachusetts, they do." His brow knits. "Nichols? From Gloucester? Had a buddy in the Gulf named Eric Nichols from the same place...damn good pilot. Any relation?"

He pronounces it Glo-cess-ter. It's Gloss-ter. And I haven't lived there for a long time. If all this is Audra's idea of a joke, it's not funny. I manage to jump up and grab my passport. "No."

"Good. That guy would kick my ass if he found out I tagged his little sister."

More likely castrate him with a teaspoon. Eric got a little overprotective after Mom and Dad died. "Look, I'm going."

Matt steps behind me, pressing all five and a half inches of his erection against my back. "C'mon, stay. Just don't call me daddy again. Frickin' weird."

I freeze. If I said anything like that, it was 'Father', not 'daddy'. But if I brought him up whilst in the throes, I was even further gone than I thought last night. Fortunately, Matt would rather fondle me than hear an explanation. My cell phone chirps. "Saved by the bell."

Or, according to the caller ID, my new boss's secretary. My transfer to our Washington office doesn't take effect until next week, but now I vaguely remember a conference call I was supposed to be on in New York. Fuck. I never used to be this forgetful.

Matt is still poking me when I flip open the phone. "Therese, I'm sorry about the –"

"Delaney, thank God." The tremor in her voice isn't reassuring. She normally displays the emotional volatility of a sea cucumber. "Where are you?"

"London. I, uh, missed my connection. Is something wrong?"

"You haven't heard? Delaney, it's – it's devastating." Her words tumble out, but they don't make sense at first. "There's some sort of attack going on. I've been calling all our employees who are traveling, trying to make sure everyone is safe."

"Are they?" Prickling anxiety settles into my bones.

She doesn't answer for a moment. "No one is answering at the New York office."

My job involves managing charitable foundations for clients of a brokerage house, Lisbon and Son, LLC. We have a small office in the North Tower. Today was supposed to be my last day, so I figured there was no big deal playing hooky.

Therese tries to keep her voice even. "Delaney, I know you don't want to hear this, but I can't get Ben on his mobile either."

A coppery taste floods my mouth. Please God no. Ben is the 'son' in Lisbon and Son, and my former boss to boot. Among other things.

Matt is staring at me with growing concern. I point towards the TV. "Turn on the news. There's been some sort of accident in New York."

When Therese said a plane hit the Trade Center, I was thinking some off-his-meds moron in a Cessna. Sky News disabuses me of that notion in an instant. Breaking news alerts in bloody crimson scrawl all over the screen. On instinct, I start to cross myself, then think better of it. Me and God? Not on the best of terms.

Crashing nausea gets the better of me as the live videos continue to roll. Please, Ben, tell me today was the second day you were ever late for work. When I look up, Matt is standing over me with a towel. "Here. You okay?"

After wiping my mouth, I reply, "I have a - a friend who works there."

"Hope he got out." Matt's voice cracks. "Bastards hit the Pentagon too. Maybe a car bomb at the State Department. Nobody seems to know what's happening."

It's too much and tears start to fall. He hauls me into his arms until my sobs subside. Five minutes ago, I couldn't wait to get away from him. Now I'll take comfort anywhere I can get it.

He brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. "Listen, Delaney, I gotta do something." He swears under his breath, grabs his cell phone and dials a few keys. "Hey Tony? Yeah, I know, you're busy. Listen... I quit. Why the fuck you think? I'm going back in. Some towelhead pulls this kind of shit in my country? Last thing he's gonna do is deep throat one of my Tomahawks." He snaps the phone shut. "We're at war."

The singular clarity of his assertion hits with the force of a bludgeon. "With who?"

His face fills with unfocused wrath. "I don't know. Saddam, probably. Wish to Christ they let us carpet bomb the shit out of Baghdad the first time."

"Oh God." The dull ache in my head grows. The fact my life is a mess now is my own damn fault, but what brought Audra and I together was in my family, as in hers, the effects of war tend to linger long after the shooting stops. "Do you have Eric's number?" I ask weakly.

"Wait – you said he was no relation!"

"I lied." I run into the bedroom to collect my things.

"Christ, you're that whackjob kid sister of his, aren't you?"

"Way to put two and two together, genius." I pull on my skirt and find my flats beneath a pile of condom wrappers. "Do you have his number or not?"

"Sorry." Matt pushes the door shut just as I pull it open. "Don't go. You won't be able to get home anyhow. Stay with me."

I've seen that look before; the certain warrior resigning himself to an uncertain fate, seeking comfort at a dark hour wherever he can find it. This time, it won't be from me.

I duck under his arm and into the hallway, heading straight for the elevator. Rather than push the lobby button, I sink into a heap and wait for the doors to close.

The elevator's downward lurch nearly leaves my unsettled stomach behind. I run my fingers through tangled hair, drop my dizzy head between my knees to blot out the muzak, and begin to weep. Weep for Eric, who's probably fine. Weep for Ben, who's probably not.

Faces of all those I've lost through the years begin to flash across my eyes, starting with my parents, ending with those two little boys. "God, please, no more."

You were once much stronger than this, chides Audra, sensing opportunity.

I bang my head on the elevator wall. "Go away, Audra, please go away."

You and Jonas made a mess of things, but it is not too late. You think God is punishing you? Finish what you started. Is that not what your parents would say?

If she keeps this up, the flashbacks are going to kick in. They always do. I press my thumbs against my eyeballs, willing them away. "Not a chance."

There are very good reasons I haven't been back to Russia in eleven years, chief among them that she and dear Father Jonas MacNeil nearly got me killed the last time. And a few other people weren't so lucky. If God is punishing me, it's because I damn well deserve it.

I grow tired of this existence, she sighs. Don't you? Come back, Delaney. Hear me out. No matter what you decide to do, I swear, you'll never hear my voice again.
*
My attempt to obtain a last-minute visa was thwarted by a nosy bureaucrat at the Russian embassy, who demanded to know how I'd managed to leave the country the last time without passing through exit controls. Since the story involved both the phrases 'how should I know, I was unconscious' and 'a ghost stole my passport', I just left. Between tearful, unanswered calls to Ben's mobile, Audra's singsong mocking is driving me insane.

Wait one day, then it'll be a week. A month. A year. I can keep this up for eternity. Can you?

I've tried asking her what all this is meant to accomplish. The kids are still dead, she's still bound to the mortal coil, and I'm still searching for a way to move on. All she does is tell me I don't know everything, and we'll talk about it when I get there. Then it's right back to the taunts. Fortunately, I've got a good friend in town who's always there for me when I need something to shut Audra up.

The modern furnishings in the lobby of Nyx's Cambridge Circus flat might've leapt out of the latest Architectural Digest. I've never thought of her as a drug dealer, probably because on the rare occasions I use her as one, she doesn't charge me. She certainly doesn't need the money. Her father is an earl or viscount or something; she's always been his favorite.

Of course, Nyx isn't her real name. By day, you could mistake her for the head of the local PTA, except she'd rather eat her own head than have children. At night, it's a different story. Nyx, Goddess of the SoHo night, is a believer in the untapped connection between mind, body, and the world that lies beyond.

A brass-buttoned doorman waves me into the elevator. Nyx opens the penthouse door in response to my knock, wearing a soft grey Chloé hip-length cardigan which probably cost more than my last-minute plane ticket. Don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly destitute, but she makes me look like a charity case.

Her ultra-blonde highlights are swept into a sleek twist and she's got some sort of a weird potted plant in her left hand. Two-inch spikes spring from the waxy surface, the tips ooze iridescent sap. I'm worried I'll start to hallucinate just looking at it.

"Delaney! Christ, you look like hell. Get in here before someone sees you and calls a exorcist. Or at least an priest."

"Very funny."

She hustles me into her enormous white kitchen, sets the plant on the counter, and starts making me an espresso. Espresso is pretty much the only cooking she does. She catches me staring numbly at a TV news report and turns the set off. "Thank goodness you weren't part of this madness."

Tears well up. "I haven't heard from Ben yet. I've called three times. The circuits are busy."

She drums her fingers. "I thought you two were off at the moment."

Whether he's alive or dead, we're off for good this time. Last week, I lit into him in front of the entire office when he accidentally-on-purpose called me his fiancée. Trust me, it's not a moment I'm proud of, but hearing that word made me realize how badly he needed to move on. No secret that we've always wanted different things.

I wanted a way to atone for my failures, and the children's charities we managed were a start. But he wanted the innocent girl he met in Russia a decade ago, the one who barely noticed him because she was too busy chasing ghosts and a relationship that was doomed from the start. Honestly, I'm not sure things would've been any different if I'd fallen for him first. I knuckle away another tear. "I always told him he was wasting his time with me. Maybe he would've listened if he knew it would be this short."

Her expression softens. "Delaney, it's only been a few hours. I'm sure Ben is fine."

Bullshit. If she was sure he was fine, she'd call him Ben-dover, like she usually does. "And if he's not?"

Head tilting sideways, she fingers her mobile. "Then sooner or later, I hope you'll realize he wasn't the last person on the planet who loves you the way you are."

Since she's hitting a little close to home, I decide to change the subject. "It's not just him."

She turns away from the espresso. "Audra?"

Besides me, only two people know what happened with Audra. Nyx is … well… the other one. "I can't take living like this anymore. I booked a flight to St. Petersburg, then couldn't get a visa. I swear, I'll walk back if I have to."

A demitasse appears in front of me. "So was it you or your subconscious death wish wot decided to book a holiday in Spooksburg?"

I flop forward onto her counter, resting my pounding head on my forearms. "I don't have a death wish. I'm going insane here, and it all started there. Maybe it ends there too."

She picks up her mobile. "Something tells me I'll regret this, but I know a bloke who does passports. When's your flight supposed to leave?"

"Nyx, I could kiss you."

"We tried that once, love. Wasn't your thing." As my face flushes, she makes a call to her 'bloke', then covers the mouthpiece. "Five hundred quid. You're good for it, right?"

I know how much trouble comes with falsifying a visa; right now, I don't care. I nod and wait for her to hang up, biting my lip. "Have you got something I could take for tonight?"

Her eyebrows rise. "Two days in a row? Bit unusual for you."

My gaze drops. "You know I wouldn't normally. The only reason I'm not dead is because I was too busy screwing a stranger to show up for work. How am I supposed to–"

"Screw the Catholic guilt thing, D. I swear, you get off on that more than the sex. You're fucked up like the rest of us. Deal with it."

"I will. A few hours of peace first, Nyx. All I'm asking."

Clearly frustrated, she produces a brown glass vial from a drawer. I eye it nervously, hoping it has nothing to do with the demon plant on the counter. Tangling with an angry Aztec cactus god doesn't seem like much of an improvement over being repeatedly mind fucked by an eternally-persistent Soviet tsipochka.

"This is ketamine. Few drops, under the tongue. You'll be out of your head in no time." When I reach for the vial, she pulls it back. "Promise me whatever you're doing in Russia is the end of it. Swear to me this is the last time you're going to need my kind of help."

I nod solemnly and grasp the vial. Knowing Audra, there's a good chance I'm not going to need anyone's help after this. "You have my word."
*
"Terribly sorry, Ms. Nichols, but we have no new information." The gate agent puts on a brave face, trying to pretend I'm not annoying her. We both know I am. Thanks to Nyx, I'm back at Heathrow with my falsified travel documents as a misty rain falls outside. The place is a nightmare of confused and saddened humanity, and I can't find anyone who has the slightest idea when my flight will depart. Safe to think it won't until sometime tomorrow. Unfortunately, the chaos has the airport hotels booked solid.

I head off to find a place to hide from the world for the rest of the night. A swim and shower at one of the West End pools got me into fresh clothes, but the exercise didn't clear my head the way it usually does. My mind keeps running through what Audra said. If you think you know everything that happened to them, think again.

Close my eyes, I see two dead children. Open them, all I see are explosions, replayed in a constant loop on the terminal monitors. If I have to spend all night like this, I'm going to lose it. Tomorrow, everything will change. Tomorrow, I get my life back. Tomorrow can't come soon enough.

I sink into the last remaining chair in a darkened corner and thumb the cap of Nyx's vial, contemplating whether to open it. I'm not going to sleep without it. On the other hand, if Ben calls, I won't hear the phone.

Audra tiptoes back into my head, the nagging voice of doubt. He will not call, Delaney. You know that by now.

Hearing her voice again is the kicker. Maybe she's telling the truth. Maybe she's screwing with me. Her little puppet on a string, that's me. The problem with pissing off ghosts is the amount of time they have to make you regret it. I pop the vial and bring it to my lips, grimacing as the taste of licorice mixed with mouthwash hits my tongue.

My body gradually melts into a mass of blue plastic in human form. Strangely comforting. A warm glow undulates around my mind, guarding me from something sinister I can feel but can't see. I seek a place deeper inside the glow, and my awareness dims with every step I take. That blissful separation is all I know until morning.
* Hours later, the warm glow retreats. I did my best, it whispers, then dissolves like so much nothingness. The whirr of an electric motor convinces me to open my eyes; a maintenance man with a floor buffer bobs in an out of view at the end of the hall. For a fleeting instant, it feels like there's someone behind me in the other row of chairs, but when I turn, the seat is empty. Not sure whether to blame the drugs. It's not an unusual occurrence for me.

Across the terminal, a newspaper box slams shut, having disgorged a copy of the morning edition. I stumble over to see the headline. "NOUS SOMMES TOUS AMÉRICAINS!" The other broadsheets express similar degrees of shock, sympathy, and solidarity. It's too horrible to comprehend. The man with his floor buffer is going about his business while travelers filter through the terminal in a shell-shocked daze. Still, life goes on, for the rest of us.

I turn my attention to the departure monitors. All the US-bound flights are cancelled, but many others are on time. Except...

BA0878 ST. PETERSBURG SCH: 09:30 ACT: DELAYED
Figures. I feel that same presence behind me again, a nervous energy. What I see when I turn makes me wonder if I'm still hallucinating. Or at least hope I am...

He's a slender six-foot-two to my five-seven, with uncooperative dark blonde hair that was probably almost white when he was a kid. The seen-it-all jadedness in his hazel eyes puts him in his late thirties, but the rest of his well-tanned, patrician face looks younger. He could have been any one of the idle rich prats who've tried to charm me out of my skirt all those evenings over the years…but he wasn't. Not by a long shot.

He was, however, the first.

"Hey." The barest trace of an old London accent tinges his voice, hesitant and unsure.

I stare at him pointedly. "Something I can help you with?" Go away, I say silently. Please, if you ever cared, go away.

"Are you okay?" He stubbornly refuses to cease existence.

"If I say yes, are you more or less likely to leave me alone?"

He frowns. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the broomstick this morning. Or shall I assume it's me?"

After everything that happened between us in Russia, he's actually got the nerve to stand there and act like it's my fault? "I'm very friendly under normal circumstances. The last guy who tried to chat me up around here got way more than he bargained for."

"I didn't need to know that." The thinnest hint of annoyance slips into his voice.

He wipes his hand over his face, over at least a day's worth of growth, nervously smoothes tailored Italian trousers which undoubtedly looked better yesterday. A power-red tie hangs loose around his neck, his dress shirt is rumpled and he's got his suit coat slung over his left shoulder. Can't say I'm surprised to see him without a clerical collar.

Or that he's struggling with what to say next. I decide to put us both out of his misery and hold out my hand. "Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Delaney. And you are?"

For a long moment, he simply stares at me. Then he clasps his hand around mine, his grip strong and painfully comforting. "Fine, I'll play along. I'm Jonas, Delaney. It's a pleasure."

With my hand in his, I feel a memory of something I'd long since put behind me. Finally, my good sense returns and I pull my hand back. "Is it? Good for you, Jonas. Now get the hell away from me."

If he contemplates doing as I ask for even a second, he doesn't show it. "You don't really want me to go, do you? We could be here for a long time. Our flight is delayed."

There is no 'our' here, you bastard. There's me, there's you. About to part company, and the sooner the better. No goodbye, just like the last time. "I don't recall saying where I was going."

"You're going to Leningrad."

"St. Petersburg. They changed the name about a decade ago. In case you missed it."

"Call it Petrograd for all I care. Same bloody place. It's where you're headed, though I'll be damned if I understand why."

"Mind telling me how you know?" And like bloody hell he doesn't understand why.

"Well, you're standing about two inches from a screen that shows it as the only delayed flight. Beyond that, yeah, I mind."

Got a pretty good guess who told him where I'm going. I step back, cursing my addled brain. "You're easily the most maddening hallucination I've ever experienced." He obviously knows I'm faking, but I'm not sure what else to do to get rid of him.

"Christ, D, what the f-" Mid-curse, his eyes close. His lips continue to move, but the words are silent. A deep breath, and his eyes re-open. "What did you take, D?"

Don't you dare call me that. "Mm, think it was an orgasm pill. Made the sex so… fucking… amazing…" I close my eyes and loll back on the last three breathily-spoken words. Unfortunately, the ketamine nearly sends me to the floor as penance. I have to grab his arm to keep myself upright. Real smooth, Delaney.

His entire body goes rigid. "Any guy who screwed a woman in your condition should have his head examined."

I barely resist the urge to pluck a strand of red hair from a button on his lapel. "In my experience, most men don't care who they screw."

His voice softens. "You did, once." At my defiant stare, his hand balls into a fist and it looks like he's about to punch one of the monitors. "You're not fooling me. And I hope you realize you look like hell." When my gaze drops, the anger on his face fades into uncomfortable familiarity and he steps in close.

"Sod it. Everything that bastard did to you, Audra let it happen. Everything he did to us. Remember? Because I sure as hell do. If you've gone mad enough to go back for more, at least let me help." He backs me up towards the bank of monitors, whispering his words conspiratorially, perhaps afraid someone will overhear and realize he's as mad as I am. "You can't do this on your own, D."

"Stop calling me that," I whisper back. When we met before, I didn't know him as Jonas. At least not at first. But he always called me D.

"No. Let me buy you breakfast. You'll feel better. We can catch up, talk about old times." His continuing advance forces me to take yet another step back, in a direction where I'm running out of real estate.

His next words go directly in my ear, and I feel his breath, warm against my neck. It's torture, hearing her voice in my head all the time; hearing his may drive me mad. "I'll even let you keep pretending you don't know me," he says. "Abuse me all you want. You know I can take it. But get over the idea you're going back without me. Not gonna happen. Got it?"

"I hate you," I murmur. "You realize that, right?"

With a wan nod, he stoops to pick up my bag. "Just like I said you would. Now shall we?"

Eventually, I decide to follow his lead. What can I say, the offer to let me torture him won me over. Besides, he'll be gone before too long… if our history is any guide.


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