by Raven Snow
"You took everything from us," she said. "Don't assume we won't do the same to you."
They both vanished without another word, and Wyatt dropped to the floor. His legs buckled under him, and then his body followed, his whole form becoming very small.
Not knowing what else to do, I wrapped my arms around him, coming down next to him. My head was spinning vaguely, but it seemed a bad time to mention it. I wasn't a baby.
The thought made me gasp, and I was on my feet in the next moment, running to Cooper's room. I flung open the door, half jumping, half falling on his bed. Ripping back his covers, I only started breathing again when he blinked up at me, clearly annoyed.
"Bed checks," I gasped, aware I was crying. "We're instituting them now. So if you're thinking about sneaking out or sneaking someone in, think again, kid."
Cooper looked past me to his dad, who was standing in the doorway, just far enough away so his son couldn't see his weakness. "You've brought a crazy person into this house."
I kissed him on the forehead even though he blushed and told me not to. After shutting the door and turning off the light, Wyatt and I stood in the hallway for a moment longer in silence.
"He's getting more teenager-like every day," I said. "Maybe we should do bed checks."
The next morning, I went to my grandmother’s. She owned a plantation style house on a fairly isolated hill. It was isolated because she'd turned her neighbor of fifty plus years into a toad just about a year ago. Now, not even animals dared to trespass here, and it was completely silent as I drove up to the place.
The house was actually looking pretty good these days because of Wyatt. In one of those archaic moves he sometimes pulls, he got Gran's blessing to date me in exchange for yard work. Now, the lawn is trimmed, the house is painted, and the driveway no longer looks like a ruin.
I didn't bother knocking, because she wouldn't let me in if I asked first. Besides, half the time she knew I was coming anyway. The other half of the time, I just got a couple menial burns for my trouble. Very little scarring.
I found her in the kitchen, as I so often do, bent over a glass that smelled a little strong to be water. She didn't look up as I came in—not an encouraging sign. After pulling up a seat next to her, I took a big swig of whatever it was she was drinking and almost gagged. Straight tequila.
"I have a problem, Gran," I said, gauging her reaction. She didn't give one, so I was left in the dark. "I need to know how to fight ghosts."
That earned me a laugh—a real one. "You don't fight ghosts, you little fool. They can't be killed."
"Oh, that's helpful. Can they be hurt?" I paused, not wanting to get philosophical. "Or sent back to wherever they come from?"
She shrugged. "There are certainly more efficient ways of dealing with them than throwing pure magic at the problem."
Wincing, I took another liberal gulp of the swill we were drinking. It burned my throat, making my insides all warm.
"I've got a ghost, Gran." Well, technically I had a couple, but I wasn't at liberty to discuss Wyatt's personal ghost, so I was just going to stick with mine.
She kicked back the rest of the glass, and I figured that was my signal to continue.
Telling her about the sound equipment and the threatening messages to get out only took a few moments. After that, she left me sitting in suspense, while she pondered whether to help me or not. I wish I could say that this was a new and unusual state of affairs.
"Sounds like whoever's haunting your little business doesn't like the new additions."
I blinked. Had Gran actually been helpful without being cryptic? Of course, she still hadn't solved my problem, only shed some light on it. But if she was right, what did that mean for the Wheel? Was I supposed to go back to 8-track players?
"You could exorcise them," she said finally.
"Would that work?" I asked eagerly.
"No."
I banged my head against the wall. "I think you need an update on the definition of a solution."
Her lip curved upward. "You're not religious enough in either direction to do it successfully. Best to kill the puppeteer."
When I looked at her blankly, she sighed. "The ones controlling the ghosts. Or did you think they all showed up to say hello?"
“So you think it’s all connected.” Always good to have my suspicions verified.
In way of answer, she got up from the counter and walked off. I went to follow her into the hall, opening my mouth to ask if she had any suspicions as to who this puppeteer might be, but she’d vanished. Rolling my eyes at the old woman’s flair for dramatics, I washed the cup we’d been drinking out of and left.
On my way home, I passed the motel Fate was staying at. Coming to a stop at a red light, I looked over at it and bit my lip. As unfair as it might be, part of me blamed Fate for all that was happening, like she’d brought it with her. She could have, for all I knew, but that didn’t make it her fault.
Coming to a sudden decision, I veered off the road and into the parking lot of the motel. Car horns blared behind me, and people swore from their open windows. This was probably the reason Wyatt always insisted on driving.
After finding a spot right next to the entrance, I went up to Fate’s room reluctantly. Having never had a client before, I wasn’t sure what the protocol was here. Was I expected to comfort her after yesterday’s trauma? Shuddering at the thought, I knocked on the door.
Fate answered, looking pale and withdrawn. She was still in the clothes from yesterday, which were ripped and showed her bruised and cut skin. She smiled at me and her dry lip split open, blood running down her chin like red tears.
“How ya doin’, champ?” I asked, more than a little afraid she was going to cry on me.
She did.
Fate collapsed into a spectacular puddle of tears, sinking down into the nearest couch. Taking an involuntary step back, I watched her with a mixture of panic and nausea. I couldn't even comfort Wyatt. How was I going to comfort a woman in hysterics?
"I…haven't…slept…in…days," she sobbed. "Everything's horrible!"
Coming down beside her, I patted her hesitantly on the shoulder, doing my best not to make any faces of disgust. Open displays of emotion were uncomfortable for everyone in a five-mile radius of me. When I told her that, she started snotting all over the place, and I winced. Not even Cooper cried like this.
"Has the ghost ever gotten physical with you before?"
She shook her head vigorously, trying to wipe away some of the wetness with her sleeve. It really did no good, because she was still leaking profusely from both eyes. It made me glad I wasn't a crier. The whole affair looked messy and painful.
"Usually," she gasped, "…it just watches. Constantly." A shiver went through her body. "It feels like a constant hand on your body. Like you'll never be clean even after they're done watching."
A little bit of my annoyance at her outburst went away. Clearly, the woman had been pushed to the limit. I knew a little bit about that feeling, and I reached deep down within myself for a little empathy. Like my magic at the moment, it was mostly an empty well, but I managed to come back with a little more patience, if nothing else.
"Sometimes...." Fate trailed off, looking around as if someone was around to eavesdrop. Maybe they were. The thought made me glance to my sides in paranoia. "I think it goes through my stuff."
This, she hadn't told me.
Trying not to betray my excitement, I asked, "How do you mean?"
"I'll find clothes in different places than where I know I put them." She blushed. "Personal clothing."
It was really hard not to roll my eyes at that. Really, I didn't understand people shying away from the subject of underwear. Maybe it was just my past as a stripper that had alleviated me of that modesty. Still, a ghost raiding a girl's panty drawer was interesting. I just didn't know if it was relevant.
"It'll move furniture, too—rearrange a room. And if I try to move it back, all the pieces are stuck
to the floor like they've been nailed."
"Does it leave anything behind?" I asked, thinking of the oil I'd found everywhere.
"Dirt. And some black substance sometimes." She paused. "And these red candies. I find them everywhere. The weird thing is, I think I've seen them somewhere, but I just can't remember."
"That's the weird thing?" I asked, completely deadpan.
She smiled slightly, a startled laugh escaping through her lips. I felt accomplished that I'd at least managed to help her in that way. Maybe I should have gone into business as comedian.
Of course, then I'd have to deal with humans instead of the supernatural. I'll keep this job, thanks.
"What's the next step?" Fate asked, sniffling slightly.
"Breaking and entering."
Chapter Eight
I stretched in the loaner car, getting limber and ready for another chapter in my criminal life. I was dressed in all black—more because the color was slimming and made me look kind of ghost-like with my pale skin and dark hair. This could work in my favor, if seen, now that most of the town was terrified of the ghosts now.
The moon only a sliver in the sky, I snuck into a small house just a couple blocks from mine. The lights were all off on the interior, but I could still make out a couple capes hanging on the coat rack. What I couldn't make out were the boots lying on the ground, and I tripped over them, a startled squeak coming from me.
"Who's there?" Oliver asked, his voice a soprano. It was an odd effect, the high voice with the New Orleans drawl.
"It is I," I said in my best spooky tone. "The ghost of girlfriends past.”
The light flickered on, and I came face to face with a very unamused Oliver Belafonte. He put his hands on his hips, taking in my outfit and messed up hair. It was messed up from the bush I'd had to sneak through to get past one of the big dogs in the neighborhood.
"Sugar plum," he said, "you have a key."
"Sold it to some girl in town. Said she wanted to use it to sneak in and slit your throat while you were sleeping."
"Hope you got a good price for your best friend's life."
"Easiest five bucks I ever made."
Since he looked about ready to throttle me— and it was the middle of the night—I fell into one of his kitchen chairs and told him what I had planned for us this evening. He followed me and miraculously listened without interrupting.
"Why do you need my help to break into Leah's house?"
I waved vaguely to my chest. "I'm tapped out of magical power, as you may have heard. What I need from you is to throw fire at any ghost we come across."
He looked reluctant, so I pulled out the big guns. "If you don't, I'll be forced to send a letter to Judge Holsen with those pictures of you and his wife."
"Blackmail."
"It suits me."
Ten minutes later, Oliver was in his black cape and suit, and we were pulling up to the Anthony residence. Leah's car was gone, as I'd expected.
Oliver shot me a look. "How'd you know she'd be gone?"
"I sent her an email about a special séance Madam Mystic was having tonight, two towns over."
"I'm guessing there isn't a séance."
"You get to keep the farm on that one. For now."
Leah might have been gone, but none of her neighbors were, the street practically overflowing with cars. Despite this abundance of people, the neighborhood was as silent as the grave. No one was coming and going, no one was having guests over. Hell, it was almost like they were all hiding under their covers, just listening. Not good when you're trying to break into a place.
We stepped up to the front door, keeping to the shadows. Oliver moved as if he was going to get the lock. I'd been teaching him how to do it with magic, but he was still a long way from being adept. For one, he made a lot of noise.
Holding him back, I crouched down in front of the lock, pulling out my old tools. They were worn and loved and just holding them sent me back to another time. A melancholy smile on my face, the lock clicked open, and I held the door gallantly for Oliver. He didn't seem to appreciate it.
"I could have done that," he said.
"Without waking the whole neighborhood?"
The oil-slicked boots were right by the door, incriminating the whole space. It wasn't exactly a hole in one, though. Plenty of people worked in the factories just outside Waresville. But not many of them had motive to bring a whole bunch of ghosts back to life, which was why Leah topped my list.
"Why bring back so many?" I said out loud, getting a closer look at the boots.
"An accident?" Oliver hypothesized as he went through the refrigerator. "Maybe she only meant to bring back her husband but got a couple of tag-alongs."
"We're talking about more than a couple here. Bringing all those people to this plane would take power.... could you do it?"
Mouth full of salami, he said, "Did you bring me here just to interrogate me? Rude."
I smiled absently, but kept my mind on the issue at hand. "That brings us back to the Afghani woman and Madam Mystic."
"I hope it's that mystic chick," he said, looking around for some milk to wash his deli meat down. "She gives the rest of us a bad name."
"Says the man wearing a cape."
"A very stylish, form fitting cape. Don't forget that."
Joining him in the kitchen, I tried to get a close look at all that I might have missed during my brief, unsuccessful visit a few days prior. In the dim lighting, I was having trouble finding the small clue that would put this whole thing together. And we didn't dare risk turning on a light in this neighborhood. The cops would have us in handcuffs before we even finished flipping the switch.
I turned away from the almost pristine counter and was about to head upstairs when an awareness made me turn back. When I did, there was a single piece of red candy on the counter that had been empty a minute ago. Frowning, I picked it up, turning it over and looking for anything insidious.
"Oh good," Oliver said, reaching for the candy, "dessert."
Swatting his hand away, I slipped it into my pocket. It might yet prove to be a clue—or not—but I was pretty positive no one should eat it until we'd identified it either way.
There was a clang upstairs, and we both froze, instinctively crouching close together for protection.
"I thought you said she wouldn't be here," he hissed.
"There's no car in the driveway."
"I don't suppose someone else broke in minutes before us? Maybe they brought snacks."
"Get your mind off your stomach."
"I'm a growing boy."
While we were having this conversation, Oliver I and crept toward the back door, carefully avoiding anything that would make more noise than our mouths were already making. I wanted to shut up, but it was like a nervous tick. Some people clean in high stress situations; Oliver and I blab.
Shutting the door carefully behind us, we scrambled down the back stairs, avoiding the gardening tools that littered the path. Between one blink and the next, a man appeared before us on the empty path. Instinctively, I clapped my hand over Oliver's mouth, muffling the little kid scream he made.
A cloud moved a little to the right, revealing more of the moon, and Tom Anthony came into focus in front of us. Unlike in life, and recent death, he wasn't smiling. In fact, the small, cheerful man looked downright menacing standing in the moonlight. I had to fight not to scream just like Oliver.
"Oh! Tom. Good to see you again."
Oliver nodded in agreement, and I realized I still had his mouth covered. Releasing in haste, I wiped his spit off on my pants, not taking my eyes off of Tom for a second.
"You were warned, Harper Beck."
Glancing at me with a frown, Oliver said, "You didn't tell me you were warned."
"I get warned so much it's hard to keep track."
Another blink of an eye, and he was right in front of us. This time, Tom had a little shovel in his hands. Only it didn't look so little when a ghost was th
reatening us with it.
Neither of our mouths were covered in time, and Oliver and I let out a blood-curdling, slash-movie scream. It echoed in the darkness. All down the street, lights start to turn on. And though I couldn't see it, I knew 911 was getting an earful.
The shovel swung, and Oliver went down. It happened so fast, I couldn't do anything but watch, horrified, as my friend took the hit that should've been mine.
I went to gather my magic, only to remember I had none. Again. Kicking myself, I realized I'd become dependent on the one thing that scared me more than anything. It was a sobering, chilling thought. Hated or not, my magic had always been there for me. Now I was more alone than I'd been when my life filled with loneliness.
"This is your final warning, Harper Beck," Tom said, not sounding anything like his old self. "Leave Fate Settler alone."
In that way that was really starting to annoy me more than scare me, he vanished into thin air. Falling onto the ground next to Oliver, I rolled him over gently. The most immediate concern was the big gash to the forehead he'd gotten, courtesy of the shovel. A couple of his fingers were sticking out at odd angles, though, from the way he'd landed on them.
Wincing, I helped him to his feet as he regained consciousness. When he staggered a bit, looking like he was going to go down all over again, I fitted myself under his arm, taking most of his body weight. Thankfully, he was built like me, and there wasn't too much weight to worry about.
I started forward, and he groaned. "Unless you want to wake up in jail tomorrow, we've gotta move," I told him.
Hearing sirens in the distance seemed to light a fire under his butt, and we made it to the fence in record time. Luckily, there was a gate, so we didn't have to hop it—a feat I didn't think Oliver capable of at that moment.
"Tom Anthony hit me with a shovel," he said, astounded, as we cut across backyards.
"He did a great job of it too from the looks of it."
"I've been hit by a shovel."
"It probably won't be the last time."
Red and blue lights flashed on a nearby street, and we dove into the closest bushes we could find. Unfortunately, they were rose bushes, thorns and all. We didn't have time to leap to another hiding spot, though, because a pair of uniforms were coming this way, shining their lights at anything that moved. Beside me, Oliver mouthed a four letter word that perfectly summed up the situation.
