Shadow Kissed 03 - Shadowman

a myth. But as she thought of last night, her heart gave an off-rhythm, double-beat glub. She’d never felt like this before.
    More difficult to face was the idea that wraiths might have a viable paranormal explanation after all, rather than the science-based origin she’d been pulling for since day one. Personal bias might have slanted her articles, which made her wince. And here she’d thought she was being so scrupulously neutral. She’d have to ask her editor to hold that last article.
    Layla was hoping to see some case files, but Talia said she’d have to be set up on the view-only interactive tablets that accessed Segue’s database. So, for now, she’d be going old school and browsing the texts amassed on the library shelves behind her, then later doing some staff interviews with those who felt comfortable sharing their findings. Dr. Sikes’s work on wraith cellular regeneration was very high on her wish list.
    She intended to get started any minute, but she couldn’t rip her gaze from the painting over the library’s fireplace mantel, not even to enjoy the fire licking below, though the room was cold.
    Trees and more trees, craggy with age and glowing with magic, filled the canvas. The artist’s execution gave the forest an uncanny, realistic depth, yet the paint had the texture and surface immediacy of brushstrokes.
    As Layla stared into the boughs, her breath grew short, her body hummed, and her nerves crackled. These were Khan’s trees, the ones in his mirror, the ones she’d glimpsed when she’d passed through Shadow in his arms. But more than that, she’d seen this place, time and again, though mostly darker, over the course of her life. Thank God, someone else had seen it, too. The proof was right there.
    Layla cocked her head. A child was crying close by. Had to be one of Talia’s kids, but with each squall, the leaves on the magic trees rustled. The painting, like Khan’s mirror, was alive.
    She glanced at the corner of the canvas. Kathleen O’Brien was written in a loopy script. Talia’s mother. So that’s why it was here and not in some gallery proving to the world that Layla wasn’t crazy. Talia kept her mom close.
    Layla stepped back and forced herself to turn away; otherwise, she’d stare all day.
    The library was old-fashioned, with dark wood bookcases, thick and deep. Books lined the shelves, their covers faded, the old paper smell prevailing over the wood burning in the fireplace. Three neat cubby desks had laptops ready for use. And centered in the room were two large tables for spread-out work.
    Better get started.
    As she skimmed her fingers over the first row of spines, an old guy stepped out from among the deeper shelves, a short pile of books in his hand. He was white bearded, disheveled, with a bit of a belly hanging over his pleated slacks. He moved his reading glasses down his nose as he approached, his gaze sharp on her face.
    â€œYou’ll want to begin with these,” he said.
    â€œExcuse me?” Layla had to keep from looking behind her to see if he addressed someone else.
    â€œFor background. One of them is mine. It has the most comprehensive review of what you’ll be looking for. The bulk of what’s out there is just sloppy work.”
    He handed her the books, and she glimpsed the titles: The Soul of Man in Philosophy and Social Anthropology and Relativism and Rationalism in Paranormal Linguistics . Talk about taking her work in another direction.
    â€œUm, thank you.” She hated initiating introductions. “I’m Layla Mathews, by the way. New here.”
    â€œNot so new, from what I’ve heard.” He held out his hand, and they shook. “I’m Dr. Philip James. Talia asked me to get you started. Colic keeps her busy with her children.”
    Disappointed, Layla turned back to the painting, from which she could still hear the faint cries of a baby. She was used to seeing things, not necessarily hearing them. “You mean they’re not down here?”
    â€œNo, but I’d not be surprised if you could hear them scream. Their mother, after all, is a—”
    A chair went skating across the room.
    Goose bumps swept across Layla’s body. Oh, crap. Not another one. “Ghost.”
    Dr. James frowned into his jowls as his gaze darted around the room. “Ms. Mathews, you need to do a lot more reading if you believe a spirit did