a toss of her head. “Give it a rest, Brookie.”
There was no question, the nickname was not a term of endearment.
Stormy looked from one woman to the other. They were opposites and maybe equals. There was tension there. But that wasn’t her problem. She steadied herself and touched the book with great care, opening its leather cover and staring down at the brittle, yellowed pages within.
Words flowed across the pages in some foreign script, where words were even visible. Many had faded to mere shadows. She wanted to turn the page, but didn’t dare, for fear it might disintegrate at her touch.
“It’s not in English.” After she said it, she realized she had stated the obvious.
“No,” Melina said. “Many pages are missing or only partly there. Many more cannot be read, but we’ve translated those that can. It’s written in a long-forgotten language, so some of the translations are piecemeal or educated guesses. But the journal does speak of ‘The Ring of the Impaler.’”
Stormy nodded. She didn’t bother trying to feign surprise. She’d never been a good actress. “Meaning Vlad the Impaler, aka Dracula.”
“That’s the conclusion we’ve reached, yes. The timing would have been right, and since it was found in Turkey, and the Turks were at war with the Romanians during Vlad’s reign, it makes sense.”
Stormy felt herself shiver. This was the ring Vlad had referred to sixteen years ago in the words that had so recently echoed in her head. If there had been any doubt, it was gone now. It was the ring he’d been seeking for more than five centuries. She forced herself to retrieve her coffee, to sip it slowly and not tremble visibly.
“And this journal…it says something about the ring?” she asked.
Melina moved past her to the aged book and opened it to a section marked with a blood red ribbon. “This is the reference,” she said. “If you prefer, you can copy it out and take it to your own translator. But I can assure you, you won’t find a more accurate interpretation than ours. We use only the best linguists for this sort of thing.”
“I believe you,” Stormy said. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to copy it. Or better yet…” She dipped into her backpack, which she’d slung over the back of her chair, and pulled out a state of the art digital camera, tiny and light and packing 8.5 megapixels. “May I?”
Melina nodded, but her face was pinched. Stormy snapped several shots of the book, including close ups of the page to show the text as clearly as possible. Then she put the camera away and turned to Melina. “So are you going to tell me what it says?”
“Of course.” The other woman moved behind the large table that held the book, and confirmed Stormy’s suspicion that it was actually a desk when she lifted the purple cloth and opened a drawer. She removed a notebook and an eyeglass case. Then she slid the glasses on—gold framed bifocals in their stereotypical rectangular shape. She opened the notebook and began to read.
“‘At the prince’s bidding, we imbued the ring with his bride’s essence and created a powerful rite, which we transcribed upon a scroll. These were given to him, along with our instructions. When he finds the woman, he must place the ring upon her finger and perform the rite we created. At once the essence of the one he lost will return. Her mind, her memories, her soul, will be restored. Certain physical traits—mysteries to us but known to the prince, or so said our divinations—will return, as well. This was perhaps the greatest work of magic I have ever performed. The power of all of us together, the most accomplished mages of our time, was an awe-inspiring experience. And yet my heart remains heavy, for the work we did has a shadow side. The soul of the lost, while a part of the whole, is not the whole. For it to return, it must also displace. It is unnatural, and I fear the repercussions upon the whole, upon the innocent, and upon my own soul for my part in creating what I fear is a dire wrong. We did, however, set a way for the gods to subvert our work. A time limit, in the tried and true method of occultists from time immemorial. When the Red Star of Destiny eclipses Venus, the time of this spell will expire. And all parts of the sleeping soul—both the woman she was and her spiritual descendant—will be set free to begin anew.’”
Melina closed the book and lifted her head. She removed her glasses and folded them with care.
Stormy looked at the other faces in the room and realized this was the first time either of the other women had heard these words aloud. Brooke looked excited and intrigued, while Lupe seemed puzzled and troubled.
“So the ring has the power to bring someone back from the dead?” Lupe asked.
“Not the body,” Melina told her. “Only the soul.”
“Creating what? A ghost?” Lupe asked.
Stormy set her cup down. “It’s a soul-transferal. The dead spirit comes into the body of a living person. It…takes over.” She got a chill when she said it. “Correct?”
Melina nodded. “That’s my best interpretation, yes.”
“And by spiritual descendant…some sort of reincarnation?” Stormy asked, though she thought she already knew the answer.
“But wouldn’t a reincarnation already be the dead woman’s soul?” Lupe asked.
Stormy shook her head. “Not necessarily. Some theorize that when we die, our soul returns to meld with a greater one. A higher self. All the experiences are shared, and the higher self spins a new soul from its parts. That’s the reincarnation. It’s part of the whole, but not the same whole that lived before. A new individual.”
Lupe nodded, as if that made sense to her. Stormy wondered how, when it had taken her sixteen years to wrap her mind around the notion. It had been explained to her by the hypnotist she’d seen in Salem, and she hadn’t believed it at first. Hadn’t wanted to believe that the enemy lurking within her was her spiritual ancestor. A part of her.
Now she had a whole new nightmare to wrap her mind around. Elisabeta was Vlad’s bride. His wife. His dead wife, and she was already hiding in Stormy’s body, waiting for the chance to take over. And the ring he had in all likelihood stolen last night could bring her back to raging life in Stormy’s own body. It could give her full control.
“So the question is,” she asked slowly, “what happens to the living person? The rightful owner of that body? Does she just get…booted out when Elisabeta takes over?”
Melina licked her lips. “How did you know her name was Elisabeta?”
Stormy’s eyes flicked to hers quickly, then just as quickly away. “Come on. You said you’ve been observing my company for years. You must know vampires are an area of expertise for me.”
Melina nodded but kept looking at Stormy for a beat too long. Then she sighed. “I don’t know what would happen to the rightful owner of the body. But the rite spoken of in this journal could very well be a recipe for metaphysical murder.”
“Not necessarily, though,” Brooke said. “Some people, myself included, believe that two souls could conceivably co-exist within the same body, providing both agreed to it.”
“It would be like having a split personality,” Stormy said softly. “Constant conflict, fighting for control.” She was speaking, of course, from personal experience. “It could never be over until one of them died.”
“I disagree,” Brooke said. “They could share. Perhaps even…meld, given time. Melina, does the rite say the person the soul resides in has to be a spiritual descendant?”
“No.”
“It’s obscene,” Lupe said softly. “A slap in the face of the supernatural order, no matter how it works.”
“Exactly,” Melina said. “A lifetime ends when its time is over. That’s the way things are supposed to be. You cannot interfere with that and think there won’t be serious repercussions. And now…” She closed her eyes. “Someone