Phantasm

by Phaedra Weldon

  Oh. Okay.

  BOBBY was still unhappy with me. I just couldn’t justify getting in trouble. The fact I was even down in the basement was enough to get me grounded for life!

  “Chicken!”

  “That’s so childish.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Widdle Bit one block over is better at teasing than you.”

  “That’s because he was ten when he died,” Bobby said. His transparency shifted as he moved. “Just look in the box, okay? You don’t have to get it down. It’s right up there. Just look in it.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him, knowing it made me look a little more grown-up. “That’s it? Then you’ll leave me alone?”

  He nodded so fast I thought his head was gonna topple off.

  With the biggest sigh I could make, I pulled the stepladder over beneath the shelves where the box sat. With a deep breath I carefully climbed up. I was just going to peek inside—and that’s it. Just peek inside, then get my butt back upstairs to my desk.

  Wait . . . Did I turn the chicken on?

  It was dusty and yucky and dark, and I couldn’t really see anything. I lifted the box, just sure a spider was going to climb out and crawl up my arm and I was gonna fall and bust my head—

  Something moved quickly along my right arm—I yelled, then it was in front of me—a mouth and two eyes—and it was pushing itself into my mouth, making it hard to breathe—

  I’M up, I’m up, I’m up.

  And I was sitting in my bed, with Jemmy just coming in the door with a tray in her hand. “Ah . . . I thought I heard you up here. Talking to yourself?” She set the tray on the bed. “You’re gonna wear that voice out again.”

  The tray was filled with teacup, saucer, small teapot, several bags of tea, a plate of fruit, a slice of lemon-glaze cake, and a crepe filled with strawberries. I pointed at it and looked at Jemmy. “Did you—”

  “Oh no, no. Dags made that before lunch. They are good too. He just fixed this plate for you and left. Said he had plans for the night.”

  Night?

  I looked over at the clock—2:34 P.M.

  “Yow—I slept all morning!”

  “Yeah, you slept a long time. Joe Halloran called. Said to tell you”—she tapped her chin before reciting—“Get your lazy ass up and meet me at PJ’s in Atlantic Square at seven.”

  PJ’s. What’s PJ’s? Time for Google.

  Where’s my computer?

  I nodded. “Thanks, Jemmy.”

  But she lingered next to my bed. “You know he likes you.”

  I felt my cheeks grow hot, remembering the kiss from a month ago. How it felt in my toes and the various parts of my body. “Yeah—he and I are good friends.”

  “He’d be good for you, Zoë. Now, don’t get me wrong—Detective Frasier is a nice man—but to abandon you like this in the middle of a family crisis? That’s not good people.”

  She had a point. But what I didn’t want to get into was all the different times I’d lied to Daniel. How I’d avoided telling him the truth. About me.

  “Thanks for worrying about me and Joe, Jemmy. But we’re just friends.”

  Her eyes widened, and a laugh like I’ve never heard bellowed out of her. She held on to the door handle and smiled at me. “I’m not talking about Halloran, Zoë. I’m talking about Dags.”

  I frowned. “Dags? Likes me? Well, yeah—we sort of fell into a friendship, and I helped him with the Shadow People—”

  “No, Zoë—” She took a step back into the room. “Are you blind? He loves you, girl.”

  Loves . . . me?

  Dags?

  “Jemmy—”

  But she had her hand up. “The heart don’t play favorites, girl—and it never chooses what’s best. It chooses what it wants. I know you love Daniel, or you think you do. And I know you’re attracted to Detective Halloran, and I can see he wants to throw you down on your scrawny butt as soon as possible.”

  Okay . . . it was MY turn to go totally red. I didn’t know what to say. I was used to Mom talking to me this way—but Jemmy?

  “J-Jemmy—”

  “But Dags? That’s a special kind of love he’s got. It’s unconditional. He’ll love you till the day he dies, girl. No matter what. But . . .” She smiled. “You follow your heart. He’ll mend.” And with that, she left.

  I sat there in total shock. It felt as if I’d had a whole bucketful of cow shit dumped in my lap.

  I did not need that kind of responsibility right now!

  17

  IT looked like rain. Again. Much more of this, and they were gonna rename Atlanta New Seattle.

  I found PJ’s Coffee easily enough in Atlantic Station, a development of in-community shopping as well as condos and apartments on the east side of Interstate 85-75. Basically on the same side as Turner and across from IKEA. It was nicely groomed, heavily populated, and had the highest crime rate in the whole city.

  Yay.

  I’d been there a couple of times to eat at Doc Green’s, and I’d been to the Regal there to see a movie. PJ’s was just across the street. Of course parking was underground, and that entrance was back around toward the interstate. I drove in, took the ticket, then parked near where my building would be.

  It was nice parking, with a machine at each of the steps and up escalators where you could pay for your parking before you left. I took the escalator up, not bothering with looking for an umbrella, and emerged across the street at the Regal. A quick jog across and I was at PJ’s door, and Joe was coming out, a tall, steaming cup of something in one hand, an umbrella in the other.

  “Here,” he said, shoving the warm cup at me. “It’s a white mocha. You’re late.”

  I tasted the coffee.

  Heeeaven!

  “Traffic.”

  He popped the umbrella open. Luckily, the rain was light, but the distant sky was looking darker, and that wasn’t because it was getting later. “It’s just over here. We’ll walk.”

  “We’re not meeting at PJ’s? Neutral territory?”

  “No. I’m taking you to another neutral territory. Follow me.”

  I did, sipping my mocha, still thinking up all the really mean things I wanted to say. We walked a block over to another three-story building. There was a store below, then a door to the side. Joe punched a code into the pad there, the door opened, and we walked up two flights of well-lit stairs.

  The apartment was near the stairwell door. Joe produced a set of keys, and opened the door. “Lucy, I’m home,” he cried out.

  The first thing that hit was the incredible smell—garlic and herbs and lemon—it reminded me of Mom.

  The front door opened up to a small hall with a line of hooks for coats along the wall behind the door and a mat to brush off feet on a polished, clean hardwood floor. Joe removed his coat, slipped out of his sneakers to his dingy socks, and stood back. I brushed off my feet and hung up my soaked coat on one of the hooks. There were several jackets on the hooks, including a black hoodie and a camouflage-patterned coat.

  The short hall led into an open room that doubled as a kitchen, dining area, and living room. The long wall was made up of windows that overlooked the square, where a large Christmas tree would be displayed in December. To the right was the kitchen, a nook really, with wooden counters, black tops, and clear-door shelves. The refrigerator was stainless steel, as was the sink. And it was clean.

  The dining area was in the middle of the room. Wood table with black chairs, all IKEA by style (and why not?—it was just down the road and affordable). Cone-shaped lights hung suspended from a high ceiling just above the table. In the center was a bowl with water and long-dead flower petals.

  On the far left was a living area, with sectional couches in black, colorful pillows, a plasma TV, bookshelves, and a coffee table. The remote lay on the coffee table next to a stack of magazines. Atlanta’s skyline was punctuated by dark clouds, and I could see lightning every now and then, crooked streaks of light cutting the gray.

  Joe moved on ahea
d of me through the dining area and into the kitchen. I moved a bit slowly, a little shy (what, me shy?) as I saw her from behind. She looked shorter than I remembered. Her hair was brown and cut into layers in the back, and she was wearing a soft mauve sweater.

  Mauve? Since when did Rhonda wear anything other than dark colors?

  Joe leaned in close and spoke to her—she was at the stove, and I could see the table was set for four. Four? But even as I neared it, saw the roasted chicken, the garlic mashed potatoes and yams, the Le Sueur peas, the meal that was oh-so-familiar to me, I knew a truth deep down.

  I kept my expression calm as she turned around and I came face-to-face with Rhonda Orly.

  For months—ever since waking up with no voice, all I’d dreamed about—except for sex with Daniel—was to get my voice back. There had been so many times in the past months I’d wanted to chew a few choice people out. Mostly in traffic. Or that really rude woman with the phone stuck to her ear who always bosses the poor clerk down at the QT next to Mom’s shop.

  But now that I had it back—standing on the other side of the kitchen island, staring at the friend who’d betrayed me—I couldn’t think of a damned thing to say. All that mental practice, and I botched it.

  Epic Botch.

  Well, I could think of a million things to say—but not one of them left my lips.

  She looked—different. I was amazed at what a month could do to someone. She looked—older. A bit more mature than before. Her hair wasn’t matte black anymore, and her makeup was oddly . . . normal. The only thing that still looked like Rhonda were her black fingernails and the spiderweb tattoo that snaked from her shoulder and climbed her neck. All I could see was part of it on her neck. I’d always known it was there, but she’d kept her hair to her shoulders and mostly down.

  But with it short, the tattoo was very visible.

  She was staring at me, her expression unreadable. Her eyes looked . . . huge.

  Joe stood to the left of us, between us, looking from me to Rhonda, to me to Rhonda.

  And then it dawned on me—what he said earlier—about neutral territory. How he had a code and a key. And Rhonda was already here cooking dinner. The way he’d greeted her when he got in.

  I turned and glared at him. “You and Rhonda are living together? You’re dating?”

  “You got your voice back!” Rhonda shouted out, her hands to her face.

  I kept my laser beams trained on Joe. He looked a little . . . frightened. “You didn’t tell her?”

  “Not all of it. There were some things I thought she needed to see—or rather hear—for herself.”

  I couldn’t believe it. These two were—Joe and Rhonda were—They were—After he kissed me like that!

  Oh-kay, this was not the life I ordered, and I did not have to stay here. I checked my jeans to make sure my keys were still there and marched to the door.

  “Zoë,” Rhonda called out, “Rodriguez is looking for the Grimoire.”

  I stopped.

  “And Randall Kemp’s sister was a member of the Cruorem.”

  I stopped where I was, realizing that by stomping out I was running away. And Rhonda, being Rhonda, had given me an out. A way not to be a child anymore. I hung my head and took in some deep breaths and tried not to be a girl. I tried not to think of the two of them together, living day by day in each other’s company, while I watched Daniel and my mom drift farther and farther away and became increasingly alone.

  Yeah . . . slip on that pity-party dress, Zoë. You’ve gotten good at it.

  “How do you know this?” I stayed where I was. I didn’t want to look at her. At them.

  I could hear her coming near me, her sneakers on the hardwood floor. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I was so angry with her. So damned angry, and I still missed her so much. “I’ve got to go.”

  I was almost there, at the door, when someone grabbed my left upper arm and turned me around. I knew it was Joe from the smell of his cologne. His expression was serious, almost . . . frightened. And he put his hands on my shoulders, his grip firm.

  “Go? Go where? You don’t have many options left, Zoë. Your powers as a Wraith are gone—we have to find out why—because that makes you vulnerable to men like Rodriguez and Kemp. We have to get your mother back, but we can’t do that until we fix what’s wrong with you.”

  I tried to pull free, but I just didn’t have the strength. In fact, I was amazed at how tired I was even after that long nap. And it didn’t feel like a normal tired either—like run, exercise, play hard, good old-fashioned exhausted. This felt like a really intense flu tired.

  “Zoë.” Rhonda was suddenly by Joe, looking at me with wide eyes. I hadn’t heard her move. And I was again taken by how different she looked. “Have you taken a look at yourself? You look like you’re wasting away. You’ve dropped too much weight too fast, you’re still dehydrated. Your face is gaunt, and you have dark circles under your eyes. You look sick. How are you going to help Nona if you’re sick?”

  I glared at her. “Don’t you dare act like you give a fuck.”

  “I do give a fuck, you asshole!”

  “Bitch!”

  “Selfish prick.”

  “Ass-hat!”

  “Cop-sucker!”

  I blinked, mouth open, but I didn’t say anything. That wasn’t quite what I thought she was going to say, though cock-sucker and cop-sucker sounded similar. I glanced at Joe, then back at her. “You’ve got room to talk. At least you’re really sleeping with one.”

  Joe turned a bright red and looked down—though I noticed he wasn’t letting go of me. Rhonda just looked mad.

  “Zoë—”

  “Oh . . . it didn’t work out with Dags, so you turned to Joe . . . maybe thought that because he was like you, some paranormal geek, that you two could settle down and make little geeks?” I heard what was coming out of my mouth, and I was shocked (a long-unused voice sometimes has a mind of its own), but what was even more confusing was the rage I was directing toward Rhonda—but not because she betrayed me and Mom pretending to be a friend so she could spy on me—

  But because she had Joe. All this time—while I was alone and slowly losing my power—she’d had Joe! How was that fair? Why was I suffering? Why was my mom trapped in some other plane while the one that betrayed all of us was happy, off making nice with the cop that—

  —the cop that—

  Who made my knees so weak with a single kiss I couldn’t stand up.

  “Zoë—I’ve waited just as long as you have to hear that voice again, but, so help me by the Lord and Lady, if you don’t shut up—”

  “Look,” Joe interrupted. “You girls can stand here in the doorway and throw names later. I’m hungry, and from the looks of Zoë, she needs to eat a few sammiches herself. I—”

  My knees buckled. I couldn’t stop them. It was as if something were standing behind me, placed its knees behind mine, and pushed me forward. Joe caught me as I flailed toward him, then I was in his arms.

  Whoa. What just happened?

  “Zoë?” Rhonda’s hand was on my forehead. “You okay? You’re really pale.”

  “Yeah . . .” I found my feet again and pulled away from Joe. “I just—I got really dizzy.”

  “You need to eat.” He kept hold of my arm and pulled me back to the table. He pointed to a chair, and I sat. He sat on the end, and Rhonda sat down facing me. He ladled out heaps of food on my plate, and my stomach growled. Even after eating what Dags had fixed, I was still hungry.

  Amazing.

  “Who’s the chair for?” I pointed to the empty one beside me.

  “That was supposed to be for Dags,” Joe said before shoveling a large helping of yams into his mouth.

  I looked at Rhonda. She said, “I thought maybe he’d come.” And watching her—I saw her gaze lingering at the plate.

  Ah! She’s still in lust with Dags!

  I nodded and tasted the yams. Mm. They were just like Mom’s.

  “You lo
ok awful,” Rhonda said. “Are you getting any sleep?”

  I stared at her across the table. “You sound like Nona.”

  She smiled. “Well, I miss her.”

  “I wanted to steal the Eidolon back from Rodriguez—see if I could command her back to her body.”

  Joe nodded. “I told you he doesn’t have it.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Rhonda said. “In fact, most of what was stolen or appropriated from your great-uncle has been liberated from Francisco Rodriguez. And Joe also told me what happened to you at the hospital. He was there—trying to elicit Daniel’s help?”

  I nodded and gave her a brief recap of what happened, avoiding any mention of TC in Cooper’s body. And I silently wondered what that idiot was doing with the captain’s body. The thought that there was a powerful Symbiont running amuck with a gun was not comforting.

  But I sure as shit wasn’t going to tell Rhonda.

  I was still a little sick to my stomach about Rhonda and Joe together. Living together. Sharing a bed.

  And me alone in my bed.

  “I’ve been to see Nona every day,” Rhonda said. “I sometimes bump into Cooper there. Apparently we were both avoiding you.”

  “Someone took the Triskelion.”

  “I did that,” Rhonda said. “I don’t know who put that thing on her—but it would have prevented her from coming back into her body if she escaped from TC.” She paused. “And that’s what the Archer told you? That she left him?”

  I recapped again and finished with, “He also said I was an Irin.”

  Rhonda didn’t blink.

  “You knew that.”

  She nodded. “As you know, I was sent by the Society to keep an eye on you. They knew you’d been born to an Ethereal but lost track of you when you were twelve.”

  Twelve. That’s when Mom and I lived in Oregon. “Could they not find me?”

  “They couldn’t sense you.” She sipped her wine.

  When had Rhonda started drinking wine? I noticed Joe was drinking a beer, right out of the can. Was she trying to be elegant to impress me, or him? “Sense me?”