Busted Flush

“Oh . . .” What Ellen did not usually tell her clients was that when the person she channeled was an ace, she channeled their power as well. The contestants from American Hero included some pretty potent aces. If occasionally wonky ones. Ellen pursed her lips. “Before we go any further, there’s one other thing we do have to discuss: payment.”

“I am not rich,” Isis said, “but you will have the eternal gratitude of the Living Gods, this I promise you. And you may join us at any of our temples as our Nepthys.”

“No offense, but I’ve got Catholic nutjobs after me. Rather not have Muslim ones, too.”

“Osiris foresaw this. As payment, he offers prophecy. The night hawk has killed the red bird, he told me. Does this omen bring ease to the heart of Nepthys?”

Ellen sat back. A red bird? A cardinal? Contarini was dead? That would be welcome news—mostly—but she’d like better assurances than a vision from a Las Vegas lounge act. She made a counteroffer: “Just let me keep your daughter’s things.”

“They are mere mementos. If you can make my Aliyah live again . . .”

Ellen composed herself, picking up the jeans. They were . . . unimportant. “You can keep these.” She touched the T-shirt, feeling a touch of excitement, a thrill of passion, and a great deal of disappointment, quickening as she touched one, then the other of the earrings.

“Aliyah very much wanted to have her ears pierced,” Isis explained, Ellen hearing her words as if from the end of a long tunnel. “I would not let her until she was sixteen.”

Ellen unwound her scarf and pulled off her pullover, shedding them along with her identity as she slipped on the T-shirt, adding the earrings, and then . . .

Aliyah yawned, coming awake muzzy-headed as if from a dream. In the back of her head, Ellen stayed silent, watching and observing as Aliyah shook her head and focused on Isis. “Mama?” She blinked. “When did you get here?”

“Aliyah,” Isis breathed. “Oh, you are back. You are back. Nepthys be praised.”

“Uh, when did I leave?” Aliyah looked around the messy cabin, taking in the oddments and fabric notions, then looking back to her mother. “Mama, where the hell are we?”

“We are in the bark of Nepthys. She has brought you back from the dead.”

“The dead?” said Aliyah, standing up, then looked at Ellen’s hands, her hands, in incredulity. Then she touched them to her small breasts. “Where the hell are my tits?”

“You are in the body of Nepthys. She has lent you her form.”

Aliyah grabbed her chest and squeezed, feeling herself up. “I haven’t worn an A cup since I was twelve.” She scanned the room. “You expect me to believe I’m suddenly some flat-chested old lady so I can freak for the cameras? What sort of fucked-up illusion is this?”

Actually, Ellen thought, it’s not an illusion. You’re in my body. And I’m not flat-chested. Or old. Hell, I’m not even forty.

“Aliyah,” Isis cried, tears forming in her eyes, “it is no illusion. You died in Egypt.”

“Egypt?” Aliyah echoed incredulously. “I’ve never even been to Egypt!”

“Yes, you have. You were killed by a villain named the Djinn. But your uncle Osiris foresaw a way for you to return, and so I quested until I found Nepthys . . .”

“Then why don’t I remember anything about it?”

Because, Ellen thought, when I channel someone, I can only channel them up to the point where they last touched or wore something. I’m channeling you from your shirt and earrings.

“Oh, this is utter crap,” said Aliyah, “and I’m not buying it. Watch.” She grabbed the front of her shirt and pulled, ripping it straight off over her head and tossing it into the corner.

The connection faded a fraction, becoming appreciably weaker, and Aliyah staggered.

Isis caught her. “Aliyah, my dear one. It is true. But Nepthys has brought you back.”

Aliyah hugged her mother. “Egypt . . . why would I go to Egypt?”

“The Djinn was killing the Living Gods. You went with John Fortune to save them.”

“The PA?” Aliyah had a flash of memory. It was as if a dam broke, belief and realization crashing through, coming out as tears and great gasping sobs. “Oh, Mama . . . Mama . . .”

Ellen stayed silent. It was best at these moments.

“Hush, Aliyah. Hush, my dear one. Mama is here.” Isis rocked her in her arms, stroking Aliyah’s hair, Ellen’s hair, one and the same. “Mama is here. It is all right.”

“I didn’t tell you how much I loved you . . .”

“Nor I, Daughter,” Isis said, tears at last beginning to fall, “nor I.”

They held each other for a long while, rocking in time with the boat, Isis crooning some wordless Egyptian lullaby.

Volunteers of America

Victor Milán