The Skeleton Key (22 page)

His mother had died of breast cancer. It was very sad. I took his hand in mine. ‘Cancer is a terrible thing,' I said sincerely. ‘That must have been so hard.'

Jay cocked his head. ‘I didn't realise I'd told you about that.'

Oops.

He'd told me about his mother the first time we were at the Italian restaurant, not the second time. It had been B.E.
Darn it.
‘I understand what that's like,' I said, covering. ‘Being an orphan, myself, I know it's hard to lose a parent, or both.'

Jay nodded.

‘I just needed to let you know that I still care for this other . . . man.'

‘Of course.' He managed a smile. ‘I hope you will tell me about him one day.'

‘Maybe.' I looked at my watch. It was time to go. ‘Look, I'm sorry to always be running off like this, but I should get back to work.'

We walked back to the
Pandora
office and Jay stopped me at the door outside. ‘How about we do something on the weekend?' he said. ‘Saturday night? Or are you busy?'

The idea did have appeal. ‘Can I get back to you?'

Jay smiled and pulled me in close. I came up to his shoulder. ‘Sure,' he said, and he tilted his head down and pressed his warm lips to mine. They tasted like candy, and I lingered there for a moment, enjoying the feel of his beautiful human kiss.

‘I'll call you soon,' I said, pulling away and sprinting up the stairs with butterflies in my stomach.

I successfully dodged questions about Jay Rockwell's visit and tried to get as much done as possible in the afternoon. There were a lot of messages coming in for my boss about the upcoming fashion spread, and now that she'd chosen her models I put forward suggested looks for the first time, collating images from the Paris spring shows, which was a bit exciting. But at five thirty when Morticia and I left work together to walk to the subway, I knew there would be no escaping the questions. In my three months at the magazine I'd only twice admitted to going on any kind of date, so Jay's appearance at the office, twice now, was sure to come up.

‘Are you seeing Jay Rockwell?!' she exclaimed excitedly when we were no more than a foot outside the office. It was as if she'd been holding on to those five words all afternoon.

There seemed no point in denying it. ‘Yes, I am seeing Jay, but please don't tell anyone. It's not serious or anything. It was just a date.' Or two.

There was no point confiding that Jay was in fact ‘roses guy', the unnamed man I'd dated before, and who'd sent a large bouquet to the office. That was B.E.

‘What was it like?' she pressed, as we made our way down the stairs. ‘Did it go well?'

I realised she might be mixing up my mysterious date to the Empire State Building the previous Thursday with the one I'd had on Friday, which I hadn't mentioned, but I went on anyway. ‘It was nice, but I had to leave because of an emergency . . . with my great-aunt,' I specified, when I saw her eyes widen. ‘It's all fine now, but I guess he was worried and wanted to see if I was okay.'

‘Are you?'

‘Totally.'

We reached street level and she pushed open the door. The sounds of SoHo traffic hit us and we stepped onto the footpath. ‘Will you see him again?' she asked, and shut the door behind us.

‘I think so. He is really nice. But it's complicated.' I shrugged and gave a neutral smile, unsure how to explain. I sure didn't like lying or being evasive. But I was doing it an awful lot. ‘Hey, would you like to see a movie on Friday?' I asked.

‘Sure. The new Burton? It sounds cool.'

‘It's a deal.'

We walked into the crowd, headed for the subway. ‘I like your necklace, by the way,' Morticia said. ‘I haven't seen it before.'

‘Thanks.' I pulled the chain up, so that the key showed above the neckline of my blouse. It felt strange to possess such a thing.
The key to the entrance of the Underworld.
‘It's from my great-aunt,' I said, and then I froze, stopping abruptly in my tracks. ‘Um, I'll have to leave you here,' I told my friend.

Morticia went on, still talking, then realised she'd lost me. She spun around and came back to where I was standing. My gaze was fixed on a figure in the crowd – a figure I doubted she could see. ‘What is it?' she asked, studying my expression.

‘Nothing. Just . . . I forgot I'm meeting someone,' I said clumsily.

I could not believe what I was seeing. I almost could not speak.

‘Are you sure you're okay?'

‘Totally.' I'd felt the blood drain from my face, and now my cheeks grew as hot as if I were in front of an open fire. My heartbeat was behaving with equally erratic abandon. ‘Go on,' I managed in a reasonably sane voice. ‘I'm fine. Friday night is a date, and I'll see you in the morning.'

Morticia left me reluctantly to wander off into the rush hour crowd of pedestrians. When she was out of view I walked up to the familiar figure who was leaning against the brick wall of one of the buildings not far from the office, clearly waiting for me.

‘Lieutenant Luke. How are you here?'

Luke was on the street, in SoHo, without the full moon, and without my help. He had that peculiar opaque quality about him, the appearance of being something real and yet not real, as if you might blink and find him gone, a mere trick of the light. In the soft light of the fading sun, he was even fainter than usual. The pedestrians around him clearly could not see that he was there, resplendent in his Civil War uniform, his cap held respectfully in his spectral hands. Only I could see him. I could see him perfectly.

‘Miss Pandora, I am free,' he declared.

‘Free?' I felt tears spring to my eyes.

‘You and Celia have freed me from Barrett's spell. I can leave the house and I don't need to be flesh to do it.'

Despite the public setting I threw my arms around Luke's ghostly form, feeling the cool comfort that was not quite human. ‘I'm so happy for you,' I whispered as he circled his arms around my waist. ‘You deserve to be free.' I looked up and met his bright blue eyes – the eyes I'd so missed, eyes that no longer frightened me, I realised. ‘Will you . . . leave now?' I dared to ask. My throat had closed up and the words came out strangled.

If Luke was free and never returned to Spektor and the mansion that had been his prison, I should be happy for him. He'd suffered more than enough, and he deserved to be at peace. Any other response was just selfish. But still . . .

Lieutenant Luke reached up and ran a ghostly hand over my hair, his blue eyes as intense and sincere as ever. ‘I am your spirit guide, Pandora English,' he said. ‘I am yours. I will never leave you, as long as you want me.'

I closed my eyes, awash with relief, and we held each other, the crowd passing us, indifferent. I must have looked like a crazy woman, weeping alone, but I may as well have been as invisible as Luke.

Goodness, my life is complicated
, I thought, and wiped a tear from my cheek.

I straightened and pulled the satchel over my shoulder. ‘Lieutenant Luke, you aren't going to go all green-eyed on me again, are you?'

He looked at me questioningly, and I wondered for a moment if he realised all he had done while he was under the spell of Barrett's necromancer. It seemed he did not.

‘Well, then. Shall we walk?' I suggested, and took his hand. ‘You're going to love this town . . .'

T
his novel is dedicated to my husband, Dr Berndt Sellheim, for good reason. Writing two novels back to back without a break (and with a funny, swaggering, giggling toddler) is no easy thing, and without his unwavering support I simply could not have done it. Thank you for the love and coffee, Berndt. I can't wait to hold your novel in my hands next year.

I'd also like to thank my own Great-Aunt Celia/fairy godmother, Selwa Anthony, my friend and literary agent. You and Brian are family. To Cate, Claire, Sam, Caitlin and the team at Pan Macmillan, thank you for letting me bring Spektor to life.

I am blessed to have wonderful friends, including the Gothmother Alison, Aunty Hels, Miss J, Mindi, Joshua, Adam and Susie, Tracey and Charlie, Pene and Karim, Jody and Simon, Jack and Venetia, Alicia and Carlos, Charlotte, Misty, Sarah, Caroline, Kelly and Mick, Jacinta, Lizzy, Marieke, Helen, Mieke, Emily, Lauren and Josh, Amelia and Desi. Thank you for your patience, inspiration and general wickedness.

Thank you also to the Wiccan goddess Fiona Horne for the circle of protection. And to the Blue Mountains for the magical mists of Spektor.

To my precious family, Dad and Lou, Nik and Dorothy, Maureen, Jacquelyn and Annelies, I love you. Sapphira, you are a gem. Thank you for making my life richer. Mum, I never forget you.

Tara Moss

The Blood Countess

Pandora English is no ordinary small town orphan. When she's invited to live with her mysterious Great-Aunt Celia in New York City, she seizes the opportunity to escape her stifling hometown, break from her tragic past and make it as a writer.

Things, however, are not what she is expecting. For starters, her great-aunt's gothic mansion is in a mist-wreathed Manhattan suburb that doesn't appear on maps. And then there's Celia herself – a former designer to the stars of Hollywood's Golden Age – who is elegant, unnaturally young and always wearing a veil.

Pandora lands a job at a fashion magazine and her first assignment is covering the A-list launch of the latest miracle cream, BloodofYouth. But something is not right about the product, nor Athanasia, the drop-dead beautiful face of the brand. It seems there may be a secret ingredient in BloodofYouth, a secret worth killing for . . .

In
The Blood Countess
– the first novel in the new Pandora English series – bestselling author Tara Moss brings her trademark macabre and lifelong love of the paranormal to the fashion world with a twist.

Tara Moss

The Spider Goddess

It's been two months since Pandora English left her small hometown to live with her mysterious great-aunt in a haunted mansion in Spektor – the fog-wreathed suburb of Manhattan that doesn't appear on any map.

With the help of Great-Aunt Celia and the handsome – but dead – Lieutenant Luke, Pandora is beginning to understand that she is heir to a great gift from the Lucasta family – a gift that comes with frightening responsibility.

And New York needs Pandora's special gifts.

There is a new designer in town, and her ambitions extend far beyond taking over the fashion world one knit at a time.

Tara Moss is the author of the bestselling and critically acclaimed novels
Fetish
,
Split
,
Covet
,
Hit
,
Siren
,
Assassin
and
The Blood Countess and The Spider Goddess
. Her novels have been published in eighteen countries in twelve languages, and have been nominated for both the Davitt and the Ned Kelly crime writing awards.

Born in Victoria, British Columbia, Moss is a dual Australian/Canadian citizen. When not writing her next novel she enjoys reading voraciously, spending time with her pet python, Thing, collecting morbid memento mori and Victoriana, serving as a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador and ambassador for the Royal Institute for Deaf and Blind Children. She is married to Australian poet and philosopher Dr Berndt Sellheim with whom she has a daughter. Visit her on the web at
www.taramoss.com
and
pandoraenglish.com
.