She'd called ahead to make an appointment. It seemed that Mr. Brooks had gotten picky recently on which customers he accepted; for two months, he hadn't even answered calls from his regulars. Or so his regulars told her, when she'd interviewed them. When a sweet-voiced college girl called to collect information for 'a story,' most people tended to speak freely. Most of them seemed to assume she was writing something up for her school newspaper--she could practically hear that same condescending smile on their faces as they'd use when buying cookies from girl scouts or donating old clothes to their church's charity basement. Maxine Rawls saw no need to correct them.

Tarin Brooks, medium, had many satisfied customers and a reputation as the real deal. Maxine Rawls had a dead aunt and a TV segment in constant need of fodder. The popularity of these fake mediums and the supernatural, if played up against the usual hatred of mutations and the extra-natural, could be interesting. Whether it was interesting enough to make it on the air depended in large part on Mr. Brooks, here.

Rex was magnet-locked inside the fish tank. The song pen flock had been ordered sternly to keep guard--a task they'd likely forget within ten minutes, but that was all the time she needed to get out the apartment door. Only Poe, her most trusted pen, had been allowed to come.

The red head--currently a brunette, thanks to one of the studio's wigs and naturally dark eyebrows--knocked twice, then eased her head instead the door of the medium's shop.

"Hello?" She called in shyly, blinking through the plain glass lenses of her round-rimmed glasses. "Marie Reynolds. I'm here for my appointment?"

By. Appointment. Only. Tarin stood back and looked at the new neon sign with a
happy sigh of pride. He’d finally done it, he’d finally completely restricted the flow of customers into the shop. Walk-ins just weren’t feasible anymore. It wasn’t like he and Lee needed the money that the extra customers provided, either. Their stipends from the Kabal were more than enough to provide them with whatever they needed. The rest of their time was better spent working on things with Slate…or working on that whole baby thing. Tarin grinned at that.

The policy had started before the sign, and the regulars had caught wind of it quickly. The appointment book was now open in front of him with the specific days marked out and blocked in appointment times. Tarin had put in a few other policies as well. Only people with real spirit problems went into the book, there was no need to con anyone these days, with the registration over. A fair share still believed his work was nonsense or something other than actual contact with the other side, but Tarin simply left it as it lay. There was no reason to stir up that mess simply for ego’s sake.

The day was pretty busy, and Tarin sighed a bit at that fact, not pleased by the headache that would surely exist by the end of the day. He’d never really figured out if it was the constant use of his power or the constant prattling of some of the customers that brought them on, but it seemed a whole day of spirit-mancing usually resulted in a throbbing head. As always a few spirits
mingled around the shop, coming and going as they pleased. They didn’t bother him so much now, and Tarin wondered if it had to do with the fact that he actually used his powers with a purpose these days. Whatever it was…he was grateful…sometimes a person simply liked to be alone. Being able to tell the ghosts to take a hike-and actually having them listen - was a welcome change.

The bell above the door jingled, and Tarin watched as a young woman entered. Several spirits were meandering in and out of the shop at the time, so he couldn’t tell if any was specifically attached and he nodded his head as the girl gave her name. Looking down at the book, Tarin marked the arrival time and moved out from behind the counter to offer his hand.

Hello Marie. I’m Tarin, it’s nice to meet you. I have it down in the appointment book that you haven’t been here before. What can I do for you?”

Well he was a charmer. Really? This was Tarin, the locally acclaimed spirit medium? The man who hand-picked his customers, and closed shop at his convenience? Really? He must deal drugs on the side, she decided. That was the only way this place could stay in business. (Actually, that might be something to look into for another story.)

He looked friendly enough. Like a biker teddy bear, who'd rolled out of jail and into the apartment over his parent's garage. The hair could use some work—he wasn't pulling off the clown afro as well as he could. The tattoos, too. He was distinctly lacking an "I <3 Mom."

Maxine channeled her smirk into a shy smile. "Yes. This is… my first time." She slipped inside the door, shutting it carefully behind her. Her eyes found the carpet at her feet. It was a surprisingly nice carpet, from a man who willingly wore those shoes. "I mean, my first time coming to a place like this. My Aunt… she passed away, a few months ago."

She did, too. Magdala Ralls croaked last November. Maxine had been on bedside vigil at the time, though she'd missed the actual moment of expiry—she'd been finishing a paper for a class. She managed to get the laptop tucked away and the fake tears started before the nurses stormed in.

Not that any of that mattered, though. That wasn't how these people worked.

"Marie Reynolds" had an aunt, too, who'd also died last Fall—a sudden heart attack, as a quick search in the local newspaper obituaries would have revealed, along with her community involvement to the very end, and all the other tidbits a thriving medium who didn't accept walk ins would no doubt need. "Marie Reynolds" was actually a girl in her photojournalism class. What? She'd gotten permission for the identify theft. Maxine was tasteful.

The same couldn't be said for everyone in this room…

The brunette's gaze tentatively raised higher, her green eyes mouse shy behind her glasses. "I just wanted to say… I… Can you really talk to spirits?"

Tarin nodded as the girl in the shop explained that this was her first time dealing with the paranormal. She seemed shy enough that joking about the fact was out of the question, and Tarin simply nodded his head, crossing his arms across his chest. The young brunette went on to explain and Tarin nodded his head, apparently she’d lost a beloved Aunt.

Marie asked if he could really talk to spirits. Tarin nodded his head.

”Almost as clearly as I can see you standing there. I realize it’s a little hard to believe, and I guess that I don’t know for sure if that’s what they really are.” he paused and shrugged, trying to decide how much to tell the girl to put her at ease with the situation while still maintaining a little privacy and mystique. ”They sure look and act like everything people say ghosts do, though. They’ve got their own memories, their own goals…” he stopped again, considering before he spoke, ”I don’t get the logistics of the whole thing. Just that I can see them, and talk to them. Now let’s see if your aunt is here. Did she look anything like you?”


Almost of his own accord, his eyes started traveling around the shop, taking a better look at each spirit in turn. All the men were immediately excluded and told in no uncertain terms to leave, which they did. The women were next, and while he waited for Marie to answer, he scanned each one individually. There were no links yet, it was too hard to concentrate, ”There’s a lot of spirits around here right now, so any info you can give me about her appearance helps.”

Aww, that was cute. So he didn't know "for sure" if he was talking to spirits; they just looked like ghosts, talked like ghosts, and milked money like ghosts. She liked the straight-forward, humble medium angle: it fit with his fashion sense. He wasn't one of those sage talk show mediums with an answer for every question, and he wasn't a boardwalk palm reader with a mysterious aura: he was an every man who just happened to see ghosts, and just happened to build up a local niche market based on it. And who just happened to be selling knock-off paranormal accessories on the side, like those third-rate books on his shelves. The incense sticks were a nice touch. Not only did they draw in hippies, they also gave the store an appropriately occult smell without seeming like he'd meant them too.

Tarin Brooks was good.

Little Marie Reynolds was clearly being put at ease by his honest answers. She listened attentively, and with proper awe.

>> ”There’s a lot of spirits around here right now, so any info you can give me about her appearance helps.”

And now they got down to business. This would be fun. "She had blonde hair. It was dyed--will that make a difference?" Marie fretted her hands over whether dye jobs lasted into eternity. "It would have been gray, naturally. She was eighty-two when she died. About this tall--" Maxine motioned to the height of her own shoulder. "She smelled like butterscotch." The brunette's cheeks gave a sudden red flush, darkening her freckles. Her eyes dropped to the ground again. Such a silly detail surely wouldn't help Mr. Brooks.

Meanwhile, Magdala Ralls tried and failed to light a cigarette in the Medium's shop. She was two inches taller than Maxine, and had a head full of naturally riotous red hair with silver streaks. She'd been sixty-five, thank you. Her lighter hadn't worked since she'd shuffled off the mortal coil. Shame. She tucked the cig between her teeth anyway, and hopped up on the medium's counter. Her stripped black and white socks dangled above the floor, peaking out from her gray sweat suit. She'd been barefoot when she died. A hazard of being bed ridden. Could have been worse: she could have been in one of those hospital gowns. As Magdala had told the nurses: she wouldn't be caught dead in one of those things.

Self-fulfilling prophecies were a b*tch.

She took the cig out, and exhaled out of long habit. "She is just a little brat, isn't she."

”Hmmmm…” Tarin said, eyes scanning quickly over the assembled spirits in the front of the shop, trying to find one who matched the description that Marie was giving. She commented on the color of hair, and the dye job that had been perpetrated on her aunt and Tarin shook his head, voice slightly distant as he sifted through female spirit after female spirit, ”Usually, they appear how they were just before they died. I’ve seen exceptions…but for the most…”

He stopped at the voice from behind him, and turned slowly to face the woman who was swinging her legs off the edge of the counter. Tarin’s eyes narrowed slightly at the woman, wondering if she was some sort of trickster. She seems like a nice girl to me. How would you know any different? he commented mentally, opting out of talking to what would appear to be thin air in front of Marie. This woman looked nothing like the description he’d been given, but something about the attitude, the way the woman held herself, Tarin glanced quickly over his shoulder, then back at the woman. The lady shrugged with her cigarette still hanging halfway out of her mouth and Tarin rose an eyebrow.

Then he linked with the spirit, what he saw was…revealing. Tarin turned back
to Marie, a small smile on his face.

”Magdala Ralls, Aunt on your mother’s side, I guess?” he said, softly, wondering if Marie would remember that she’d never given Tarin the woman’s name. She’d given him more than that with the glimpse into her death and the girl at her bedside.

“Except that she’s a red-head, and quite adamant that she was only sixty-two. Now that we’ve proven I’m not fraud…shall we go into the back so you can talk to her? I don’t like to do this in full view of the street.”

Oh, he was good. Good with italics, and maybe a 'g' in fancy script. He played along with her description, his eyes searching the host of unseen specters. She was completely off guard when he launched his parry.

>> "Magdala Ralls, Aunt on your mother’s side, I guess?”

A master of this game stood before her. The details that flowed from his lips next were just icing; she'd have been disappointed if he served his cake without it.

>> “Except that she’s a red-head, and quite adamant that she was only sixty-two. Now that we’ve proven I’m not fraud…shall we go into the back so you can talk to her? I don’t like to do this in full view of the street.”

Maxine's little red head spun under her wig. Two details stood out jarringly.

Aunt on your mother's side. Sixty-two.

Magdala was an aunt on her father's side--hence the 'Ralls' last name; she'd never married--and sixty-five. Mr. Brooks had been doing his homework, obviously. To get to Magdala's files, he clearly knew who she was already--he or one of the clients she'd interviewed must have recognized her voice from TV. Either way, he knew. He'd known when she called, and he picked up the glove of her challenge.

Why Mr. Brooks, Maxine thought, you've got balls.

"S-sorry. One of my friends said I shouldn't give you any details--she said that's what the fake mediums use to do their readings. Not that you're fake. I--How did you know her name? Is she... really here?" Little Marie stuttered, keeping up the acting if only for kicks, no matter what he knew. Hey, she knew he was acting, and he was still keeping it up--it was only fair. Show must go on.

Those two details continued to bug her, though, as she followed the medium into the hallowed magic halls of his 'back room.' If he knew enough to get Magdala's hair color and name, family relations and age should have been a synch. So the question was: had he gotten them wrong, or was he really that good?

Magdala always liked to joke that she'd disowned her little brother and adopted Maxine's mother: a familial net gain of zero. As for her age, she'd been sixty-two for the past three years. Everyone said that she'd be sixty-two when she died, too. They'd just... expected it to be more toward Magdala's eighties. Or nineties. Or from lung cancer, at least. The heart attack had come out of nowhere. They'd all expected her to be stronger than that.

Tarin gave Marie a slightly deadpan look when she pointed out that her friends had given her advice on how to tell if he was a fake, then he shrugged his shoulders. ”It’s fine.” he said, then started to make his way towards the back of his shop.

“No you idiot. Her father’s side.” the old woman said as she hopped down from the counter top. One of the biggest advantages to being dead…aside from the whole absence of raging chest pain thing, were the absences of arthritis, osteoporosis, and irritating family members as well. The woman glanced at Marie, at least for the most part.

Tarin nearly snapped at the woman, because that couldn’t possibly be right considering the fact that the young woman in question had a different last name…then he shut his mental mouth and glanced at the left hand of the girl. No ring. That meant one of two things. Either her parents had gotten a divorce, her mother had remarried, and the man had adopted her…or something fishy was going on here.

“Maybe not such an idiot.” Magdala commented, with a ‘hallelujah’ raise of the arms as they proceeded to the place where all the magic happened.

”I knew her name because she told it to me.” Tarin answered frankly as he settled himself in one of the two chairs at the round table in the back. The stupid crystal ball mostly obscured his view of the young woman, but he left it where it was. Marie seemed like the type of young woman who needed all the bells and whistles. Besides, until Tarin figured out what she was about with her inconsistent last name and sputtering questions, he was going to play this one close to the chest.

”So, was there anything specific you wanted to ask her?” he said, patience and understanding evident on his face.

Mr. Brooks seems like the type of carnival worker who needed all the bells and whistles. He didn’t disappoint: she was fairly certain she could brain an elephant with that crystal ball. Overcompensating, much?

>> ”I knew her name because she told it to me.”

Maxine’s eyes grew owlishly wide as she tentatively slipped into her own seat, clutching her purse in her lap. Poe tried to squirm out, but she’d ruthlessly zippered the pen inside.

>> ”So, was there anything specific you wanted to ask her?”

That patience and understanding was almost enough to crack her up. Maxine took a deep breath, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“Is she... okay where she is? Happy?”

Magdala gave a hearty snort, crossing her arms as she leaned against the door. “She could at least be original. Tell her I’m the one who deleted that paper.” Magdala rolled the cigarette to the other side of her mouth. “Serves her right for typing at my deathbed.”

Magdala had never gone in for the idea of guardian angels. Poltergeists, on the other hand... A dedicated posthumous lady could bring considerable talents to bear, when it came to a little old-fashioned CTRL+A-Del-CTRL+S. Ghost in the machine, indeed.

“Oh. And that hot coffee at Christmas? My present to my useless brother’s lap.”

The weird vibe from the young woman in his shop was making Tarin more and more uncomfortable as time went on and he eyed her a little suspciously as she sat. The crystal ball really was ridiculous, and now it was obscuring his view of Marie as she sat.

The owlish look of surprise on Marie's face looked quite simply out of place there, and again Tarin found himself wondering exactly what the girl's game was. She had a spirit with her, and as unpleasent as the woman was, she seemed almost as interested in seeing how this played out as Tarin was. A glance towards the front of the shop told Tarin there weren't any other customers, so he played along a little longer.

Marie asked if her Aunt was happy where she was and Tarin actually snorted a little, "Your Aunt doesn't exactly reek of contentment. From her sunny disposition, though, I'd assume she wasn't the most content person in life either."

The ghost spoke and Tarin actually laughed out loud, "She's a hell of a character though." he said, shaking his head then fixing Marie with a slightly more stern look, "Shame on you for typing next to her death bed though. Slightly bad form. I suppose you were there though, and it's not my place to judge."

The second comment went unrepeated and Tarin grinned slightly, pulling back the other chair at the round table and scooting the crystal ball aside so he could look at Marie, "Look kid, I'm going to level with you...what you're saying and what she's saying just isn't adding up. If I didn't know better I'd think we were talking about two different people....I do know better though, and that means there's something strange going on. Want to fill me in?"

Little Marie Reynolds looked startled for one more precious moment, drawing back slightly as the medium moved the crystal ball aside. Then, like a switch flipping, her own grin rose up to answer his.

“You’re good, Mr. Brooks,” she stated, taking off her glasses and setting them on the table. “Very good. Did you really figure it out over the phone?” The wig came next. She set it own over the crystal ball, and shook her red hair out. Her movements had distinctly lost their timid edge as she pulled a small notepad from her purse, and leaned back in the chair. A black pen flew casually over to perch between her fingers, ready for writing.

“Who was your source for the deathbed detail? That is some talented investigative work. You should consider a career switch.” The compliment was entirely sincere. She crossed her legs, hooked one arm over the back of the chair, and raised an eyebrow. “Not that you’re doing bad for yourself. So tell me. How does a man who speaks to ghosts make enough money to keep a downtown shop like this, when he keeps it closed half the time?”

Magdala snorted. “She still thinks you’re a fake.”