by Vivien Dean
Ramona wasn’t here. She’d been sent home for the day. Loren was gone too. After yesterday’s events, he didn’t want to be anywhere near the sweep, reacting exactly like Cruz had told Brody some people did.
“Brody will be my eyes,” Loren had said. “I trust him to keep me informed.”
Cruz didn’t understand their relationship. On one hand, Brody was adamant that it was fractured and that it had never been particularly strong. On the other, Loren seemed to love his son, certainly speaking highly of his achievements. Were one or the both of them in denial? It very well could go back to the death of Loren’s wife—perhaps she had been the glue to bond them. Her absence could’ve torn them apart or created resentment in either man.
All of that led to the grand question: Was she the ghost roaming these halls?
He hadn’t posed the question yet. Before he could, he needed more data, including the confirmation of ghosts on the premises and where their energy was concentrated. There were already enough negative feelings swirling around the Weber men. Cruz didn’t want to add to the maelstrom by unnecessarily reminding them of the greatest tragedy of their lives if it was obvious she wasn’t the resident ghost.
Besides, his gut was telling him no. The acts so far had been childish and vindictive, and while ghosts who lingered where they shouldn’t weren’t exactly known for their maturity, he found it hard to believe a mother would torment her husband and son this way. Maybe that was his own experiences coloring his perceptions. He could concede he was a tad biased when it came to familial relations. But he didn’t want it to be true for their sakes too.
Now was not the time for more debate. Now he had to get to work.
Cruz pulled out one of the candles from the bag hanging from his belt. Even before the ghosts had announced their presence to him, this particular sweep was always going to be exhaustive, every room in the house tested, every window, every door. Right now he stood on the front step while Brody hovered on the driveway behind him. Brody would be the one to close doors behind him, to mark any spot that reacted positively, to note those that might need further examination. Though he’d been instructed to stay at least six feet behind Cruz during the process, Cruz felt his presence as if he stood right next to him.
“Ready,” he announced.
“Mark,” Brody replied.
Cruz lit the candle. He had twenty more in the bag, one for each room in the house. They weren’t typical tapers, mass-marketed for disposable consumption. Etienne made these from scratch, a very specific combination of tallow he purchased special from someone in New Orleans along with drops of his own plasma. According to Etienne, other people’s plasma didn’t work. He specifically needed someone who was sensitive to ghosts. Since he was the only one he could fully trust, that’s what he used. In addition, each candle also had an extra-fat wick to encourage the flame to smoke. The smoke was necessary to create a visual marker for Etienne—or Cruz, in this instance—to judge. It would change colors depending on the level of supernatural interaction.
In each room, he’d left a bundled sprig of anise, thistle, and sweet grass to burn, but here on the front step, he used the one he’d held on to. Holding the flame to the tip of the sprigs, he waited until it caught on fire before withdrawing it. The next step was moving the plants through the air, spreading their essence so the candle would have something to react to. This was the one part that made Cruz feel ridiculous. He was convinced he looked like every stereotypical New Age guru, the type who saw auras and burned incense to cleanse them.
He couldn’t even rush his way through this. Thoroughness was the key here. All he could do was grit his teeth, concentrate on the task at hand, and not think about whether or not Brody was snickering behind his back.
Once the air was thick with the burning scent, Cruz dropped the sprig into the waiting glass of water and passed the candle he held through in the same path. In the absence of ghosts, nothing happened. The smoke remained gray and murky. Since all the manifestations had occurred inside, Cruz expected that result here.
He was shocked when the smoke turned a pale shade of blue.
To be certain, he repeated the candle’s path, but the color stayed the same. Pale blue was a weak reaction, which meant this wasn’t a hot spot. But a ghost had been on the doorstep in the recent past, even if it hadn’t lingered long.
“So I write down ‘blue’ for the front door?” Brody asked in a low voice.
“Pale blue,” Cruz clarified. “Any color change at all is a positive response. When it’s dark, make a note for me to look at it again later. That’s a potential hot spot. If there’s anything else to note, I’ll tell you.”
“Got it.”
With the front door done, Cruz snuffed out the candle and set it next to the extinguished sprig. The foyer was next. Inside, he repeated the process and got the same result.
A new color showed up in the living room. Instead of blue, the smoke turned gold, deeper in hue and stretching farther. He wasn’t surprised like he’d been at the door. The ghost, a different one than from the blue, had exerted its force onto the physical world in here. That expenditure of energy couldn’t just disappear. His only concern was that it wasn’t nearly dark enough to consider the room a hot spot.
The first floor took over an hour to finish. On the second, the guest room with the music box yielded both blue and gold, but the corridor was completely clear, as were Loren’s and Cruz’s bedrooms. Cruz was tired, and from the way Brody was falling farther behind, he probably wasn’t the only one. His eyes were constantly watering from smoke irritation too, which wasn’t helping his concentration.
“I think I need a break,” he said.
“Are you allowed to do that?” Brody asked.
Cruz rubbed at his eyes behind his glasses. “Better that than screwing this up because I can’t see straight.”
“Why don’t you go out in the backyard for some fresh air?” The entire house smelled like burned licorice now, and they had both coughed at least once from the cloying aroma. “I’ll bring out some water.”
Nothing had sounded better. Cruz left behind the candles to show where he had to pick up after their break was over and followed Brody downstairs.
The day was cool, but the sun was high, inviting Cruz onto the grass to stretch out and bask in its brightness. It blinded too much to lie there with his eyes open, so he shut them tight, focusing on the rhythm of his breath until his head started to clear again.
In the distance, he heard the back door slam shut. Seconds later, a shadow fell across his face.
“You look like you’re ready to take a nap,” Brody said.
“I probably will when I’m done.”
The shade disappeared. Something brushed along his right arm. Cruz was too relaxed to bother looking to confirm that it was Brody.
“Is it that tiring?” Yep, it was Brody. His voice was now next to him instead of coming from above.
“Not physically.” Etienne had warned him about psychic exhaustion. That level of interaction with ghosts took its toll, though Etienne couldn’t explain why. “But I’ll tell you now, the evictions will be worse. Especially since there are two of them here.”
“That’s not encouraging.”
Cruz was doing his best not to think that far ahead. “It’ll be worth it in the long run.”
Conversation lapsed between them. Cruz was still thirsty, but the heat from the sun and the solidity of the earth at his back acted as a tranquilizer, casting physical needs aside in favor of rest. Having Brody at his side helped too, a reminder that he wasn’t doing this on his own, even if his partner was a skeptic. Etienne would’ve been better, but in that moment, Cruz was glad he’d taken the job instead of letting his friend turn it down. He and Brody seemed to have reached an accord that morning over the coffee and tea fiascos. The ghosts might’ve been playing poltergeist, but the side effects of their antics eradicated the last of Brody’s doubts. His goose bumps had been real, as had been the dr
op in temperature that surrounded his body. Cruz felt it sometimes when Simone was around, so he’d long ago become inured to the sensations. But it had rattled Brody, and when he’d let Cruz test the air around him, he’d looked up at Cruz with a pleading that outshone all the sadness he usually displayed.
Never had Cruz wanted to help someone as badly as he wanted to help Brody. It wasn’t just a reaction of his overdeveloped sense of nurturing either. It was the desire to take care of him in ways that were anything but platonic. To show him the world didn’t have to be terrible, that he didn’t have to hide away in a research lab because it was safer than exposing himself. Whether it was due to a bad breakup or a lifetime response to losing his mother at such a young age, Brody seemed afraid to trust. Cruz wanted to be the one to pull down that wall.
“I have a confession to make,” Brody said softly.
“Let me guess.” He didn’t want serious. He wanted to hold on to this feeling of floating for as long as possible. “You only work as a researcher during the day. By night you’re a drag queen named Gia Jubilee.”
Brody burst out into laughter. “God, no. I would suck as a drag queen.”
“Can’t lip synch?”
“Too hairy and a low tolerance for pain.”
“No excuse. There’s plenty of drag queens with beards.”
“How do you know that?”
“RuPaul’s Drag Race, of course.”
“You watch a lot of TV.”
“Not really. My youngest sister loves RuPaul. I watch it with her.”
“How old is she?”
“Eight.”
“And your parents are okay with their eight-year-old daughter watching a drag queen reality show?”
He’d had no intention of bringing up his family, especially since helping with the hospital bills was the only reason he was even here. But he was the one who needed Brody’s trust. How could he do that if he wasn’t honest with him about details of his life that had nothing to do with ghosts?
“They’re pretty generous about what they let Mariana do,” he said. “Things like arguing about TV shows seem insignificant in comparison to her cancer.”
“What?”
The shadow was back on his face. Cruz opened his eyes carefully to find Brody sitting up and staring down at him in shock. “She has cancer,” Cruz said. “Acute lymphocytic leukemia. She’s in remission now, thank God, but her maintenance therapy is still rough on her. We started watching RuPaul when she was in the hospital and I’d go visit.”
“That’s why you didn’t want to talk about the money. Because you’re doing this to help with her treatment.” Brody didn’t wait for a response before burying his head in his hands. “Jesus, I really am that big of an asshole.”
With Brody no longer blocking the sun, Cruz was forced to sit up. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You had no way of knowing.”
“Does Dad know?”
“Nope.”
His shoulders hitched. “I suppose that’s a small comfort.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Cruz said. “I’m still planning on doing everything I can to help here.” He dared to rest a hand between Brody’s tense shoulder blades. Though Brody jerked, he settled when Cruz started to massage the knot there. “Seriously, let it go.”
“Are you kidding me?” At least Brody lifted his head to rest his chin on his knees. “You’re a damn altar boy, and all I’ve done since you got here is attack you.”
Cruz did his best not to let his consternation show. If Brody knew how much he was winging this, he wouldn’t be nearly as generous in his description. In fact, he’d probably have the cops at the house to have him arrested for fraud.
“I don’t feel attacked,” he said. Words weren’t going to be enough, though. Brody was stuck inside his head, beating himself up for imagined crimes. “Come on.” He pushed to his feet, scooping up one of the forgotten water bottles as he stood. “Let’s get back to work.” Keeping busy might snap Brody out of his brooding.
Except Brody didn’t rise.
“No. We don’t have to do that.” He squinted up at Cruz, still unsmiling. Sweat tinged his collar and darkened his pits, and his face was flushed, his forehead dotted with perspiration. “I told you there’s something I need you to know. As much as I might want to, I can’t joke it away, and you deserve to understand what’s really going on.”
Any chance he’s gaslighting his old man?
His stomach dropped. Etienne might’ve been right after all. From the way it looked, Brody wanted to come clean about something nefarious, and all of a sudden, Cruz didn’t want to hear it. He trusted his gut reactions. How could he have been so wrong about Brody?
“Can’t it wait until we’re done?” he tried, desperate to delay the revelation as long as possible. Besides, if Brody had somehow rigged the house to react to Etienne’s sweep methodology, Cruz needed as much information as possible to pass along to Etienne so he could prevent it from happening again.
“That’s what I’m saying. We are done. You don’t have to do the rest of the house.” He looked utterly miserable, but to his credit, he maintained eye contact throughout his declaration. “You just have to sweep me.” When Cruz didn’t move away, he barked, “Please. Just do it. We both need to see this.”
Cruz didn’t understand what Brody thought he was going to accomplish, but he went back inside to grab one of the plant bundles and a fresh candle. Brody was in the same spot when he returned, but when he saw Cruz had the tools, the tension in his shoulders collapsed.
Cruz fidgeted with the candle. “It’ll be easier if you stand up.” Maybe. He had no idea if sweeping a person was even possible, but it seemed to make sense that if Brody was trying to pull something, Cruz needed to be able to see all of him.
Brody obeyed slowly, as if his body was waking up from a long nap. Without prompting, he held his arms out to his side like he was about to be frisked. “Do it.”
Cruz went through the routine, lighting the candle, setting the herbs on fire, passing them through the air both in front of and behind Brody. Brody’s gaze tracked his movements until he got back to the burning taper. Then he stayed locked on the flame.
Gray smoke curled upward. As soon as Cruz started following the path of the sprig bundle, it thickened into a swirl of dark blue and gold, deeper and way more intense than any of the incidents they’d recorded in the house.
A shiver ran down Cruz’s spine. In the next instant, a sharp puff of wind extinguished the candle.
Brody let out a shuddering sigh. “Is that enough? Because I don’t think we’re going to get another chance.”
The argument was poised on the tip of Cruz’s tongue, but it died as he searched Brody’s face. “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? It’s me.” He waved his hand through the lingering smoke until no more traces of blue or gold could be seen. “The ghosts are only here because of me.”
Chapter Six
AS much as he wanted it to not be true, Brody couldn’t deny it any longer. Ghosts were real. It wasn’t a figment of his imagination or a byproduct of his unique neurology. None of what had happened over the past twenty-four hours—for the past twenty-two years—was caused by him.
The realization had come halfway through the first floor. The first spark of color had felt like a trick. Even though Cruz had handed everything over to Brody to inspect before they’d even started, Brody was sure there was some kind of chemical reaction happening that Cruz had engineered prior to his arrival. He’d even discounted the darker shades that appeared in the living room. After all, Cruz had been there when the glass shattered and the fire lit. He expected ghosts to have been in the room.
It was the absence of reactions that had finally convinced Brody that his years of trying to pretend it was somehow a manifestation of some sort of psychic power he possessed were a waste of valuable time. In rooms he hadn’t entered since he’d shown up yesterday, the smoke staye
d gray. No sign of ghostly activity or presence. And why should there be? Brody was the center of their world. They only went where he went, and few doors had the capacity to keep them out.
That was when he knew he had to confess. He’d been on the fence about Cruz’s veracity after he let it slip that he couldn’t see them, but regardless of that detail, Cruz believed in them wholeheartedly. If anyone could understand, it was Cruz. It was a waste of their time and his father’s money for Brody to let him go on without having the full picture.
Cruz stared at him, not in horror but in confusion. “You’ve known there were ghosts all along?”
“I never wanted to think of them as ghosts.” The answer was evasive at best, but he needed to make Cruz understand. “I’ve been seeing them since I was nine years old. I thought it was all in my head.”
He could see Cruz putting the pieces together. “Your mom died when you were nine.”
“Exactly. I tried telling my dad about them, and he told me it was all grief related, that none of what I was experiencing was real.”
“And what were you experiencing?”
Sweat tickled down Brody’s temple, and he brushed it away. “Little things at first. Books in different places than where I’d left them. The water turning on in the shower when nobody was around. Then I started seeing shadows where there shouldn’t have been any. I started sleeping with the light on, but when I woke up in the middle of the night, the light would always be off.”
“Your dad could’ve—”
“I asked him. He denied it.”
When Brody swiped at a drop of perspiration that clung to his lashes, threatening to drip into his eye, Cruz frowned. “Why don’t we talk about this inside where it’s cooler?”
Brody shook his head. “It’s better for me out here. For whatever reason, they don’t follow me outside as much when it’s bright and sunny.”
