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She glowered at me, falling silent. Then she slunk back to the space between the wall and the washing machine and sank into it. She started playing with her hair, and took no apparent notice of me.
I got up. It was hard. Everything spun around. On the floor, I found a dusty towel. I used it to sweep some of the grime off of my skin.
I went to the door and tried it. It stood firmly locked. I tested my weight against it, but the effort made a sudden fire of scarlet flash through my belly and I dropped to the floor, convulsing again. I threw up in the middle of it, and tasted blood in my mouth.
I lay exhausted for a while after that, and might have dropped off to sleep again. I looked up to find Justine holding the towel, and pushing it fitfully at my skin, the fresh mess.
"How long," I managed to ask her. "How long have I been here?"
She shrugged, without looking up. "They had you for a while. Just outside this door. I heard them taking you. Playing with you, for two hours, maybe. And then they put you in here. I slept. I woke. Maybe another ten hours. Or less. Or more. I don't know."
I kept an arm wrapped around my belly, grimacing, and nodded. "All right," I said. "We have to get out of here."
She brayed out a sharp laugh. "There is no out of here. This is the larder. The Christmas turkey doesn't get up and walk away."
I shook my head. "I ... I was poisoned. If I don't get to a hospital, I'm going to die."
She smiled again, and played with her hair, dropping the towel. "Almost everyone dies in a hospital. You'd get to be someplace different. Isn't that better?"
"It's one of those things I could live without," I said.
Justine's expression went slack, her eyes distant, and she became still.
I stared at her, waved my hand in front of her eyes. Snapped my fingers. She didn't respond.
I sighed and stood up, then tested the door again. It was firmly bolted shut from the other side. I couldn't move it.
"Super." I sighed. "That's great. I'm never going to get out of here."
Behind me, something whispered. I spun, putting the door at my back, searching for the source of the sound.
A low mist crept out of the wall, a smoky, slithery mass that whirled itself down onto the floor like ethereal lace. The mist touched lightly at my blood on the floor where I'd thrown up, and then began to swirl and shape itself into something vaguely human.
"Great," I muttered. "More ghosts. If I get out of this alive, I've got to get a new job."
The ghost took shape before me, very slowly, very translucently. It resolved itself into the form of a young woman, attractive, dressed like an efficient secretary. Her hair was pulled up into a bun, but for a few appealing tendrils that fell down to frame her cheeks. Her ghostly wrist was crusted with congealed blood, spread around a pair of fang-punctures. Abruptly, I recognized her, the girl Bianca had fed upon until she died.
"Rachel," I whispered. "Rachel, is that you?"
As I spoke her name, she turned to me, her eyes slowly focusing on me, as though beholding me through a misty veil. Her expression turned, no pun intended, grave. She nodded to me in recognition.
"Hell's bells," I whispered. "No wonder Bianca got stuck on a vengeance kick. She literally was haunted by your death."
The spirit's face twisted in distress. She said something, but I could hear it only as a distant, muffled sound accompanying the movement of her lips.
"I can't understand you," I said. "Rachel, I can't hear you."
She almost wept, it seemed. She pressed her hand to her ghostly breast, and grimaced at me.
"You're hurt?" I guessed. "You hurt?"
She shook her head. Then touched her temple and drew her fingers slowly down over her eyes, closing them. "Ah," I said. "You're tired."
She nodded. She made a supplicating motion, holding out her hands as though asking for help.
"I don't know what I can do for you. I don't know if I can help you rest or not."
She shook her head again. Then she nodded, toward the door, and made a bottle-shaped curving gesture of her hands.
"Bianca?" I asked. When she nodded, I went on. "You think Bianca can lay you to rest." She shook her head. "She's keeping you here?"
Rachel nodded, her ghostly, pretty face agonized.
"Makes sense," I muttered. "Bianca fixates on you as you die tragically. Binds your ghost here. The ghost appears to her and drives her into a vengeance, and she blames it all on me."
Rachel's ghost nodded.
"I didn't kill you," I said. "You know that."
She nodded again.
"But I'm sorry. I'm sorry that me being in the wrong place at the wrong time set you up to die."
She gave me a gentle smile - which transformed into a sudden expression of horror. She looked past me, at Justine, and then her image began to fade, to withdraw into the wall.
"Hey!" I said. "Hey, wait a minute!"
The mist vanished, and Justine started to move. She rose, casually, and stretched. Then glanced down at herself and ran her hands appreciatively down over her breasts, her stomach. "Very nice," she said, voice subtly altered, different. "Rather like Lydia, in a lot of ways, isn't she, Mister Dresden."
I tensed up. "Kravos," I whispered.
Justine's eyes flooded with blood through the whites. "Oh yes," she said. "Yes indeed."
"Man, you need to get a life in the worst way. That was you, wasn't it. The telephone call the night Agatha Hagglethorn went nuts."
"My last call," Kravos said through Justine's Ups, nodding. "I wanted to savor what was about to happen. Like now. Bianca has ordered that you should receive no visitors, but I just couldn't resist the chance to take a look at you."
"You want to look at me?" I asked. I tapped my head. "Come on in. There's a few things in here I'd like to show you."
Justine smiled, and shook her head. "It would be too much effort for too little return. Even without the shelter of a threshold, possessing even a mind so weak as this child's requires a considerable amount of effort. Effort," she added, "which was made possible by a grant from the Harry Dresden Soul Foundation."
I bared my teeth. "Leave the girl alone."
"Oh, but she's fine," Kravos said, through Justine's lips. "She's really happier like this. She can't hurt anyone, you see. Or herself. Her ranting emotions can't compel her to act. That's why the Whites love her so much. They feed on emotion, and this little darling is positively mad with it." Justine's body shivered, and arched sensuously. "It's rather exciting, actually. Madness."
