Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2)

by A. C. Dillon

  It was somewhere between rinsing her hands of the citrusy hotel soap and patting them dry with the fluffy hand towel that she noticed the pulsing orb floating behind her.

  Her hand clamped over her mouth as she spun around, staring at the golden-orange glow near the TV. Roughly the span of a tennis ball, it expanded and contracted, as if to sigh, before drifting towards the door. Beckoning her.

  Do I follow?

  Autumn glanced down at her attire: plaid pajama pants and a black cotton tank top. Not exactly outerwear, but not indecent by any means. The crux of her decision was whether it was safe to indulge... it.

  In her head, she could hear Louise, urging her forward. Listen.

  With an apologetic glance at her sleeping boyfriend, Autumn grabbed her key card and followed the sphere out into the hotel hallway.

  Ray was, thankfully, nowhere to be found at the moment. Whether this was fortunate happenstance or some distortion of reality, Autumn couldn't decide. Hell, I could still be asleep in bed, she mused, pursuing the floating orb towards a stairwell. Astral projection is what it's called, right? She'd read a teen horror novel at some point that mentioned it.

  The orb led her up one floor, slipping through the 39th floor entry point and hovering near the elevator. The Up arrow illuminated, the button untouched. Obediently, Autumn stepped on board, gesturing to the large panel of numbered keys. The number 57 glowed and the elevator shot swiftly upwards, causing Autumn to stumble back against the mirrored walls. The orb turned cherry red, pulsing wildly as they drew closer to their destination.

  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea...

  When the door opened, the orb exited to the left, giving Autumn no comfort. Evil goes left. Her video game theory continued to hold true. Stepping cautiously out of the elevator, she was startled to find the ball of light had disappeared.

  "Hello?" she whispered softly.

  A metal door swung open in reply. The brass plate beside it indicated it was for Authorized Personnel Only.

  Enter, the floor seemed to command her.

  Absently rubbing the amethyst stone of her great-grandmother's ring, she complied. The room was cold, colder than it should be. From what she could discern in the dim lighting, it was once some sort of meeting space. Now, it housed an assortment of holiday decor items and spare floor tiles.

  It also housed the translucent form of a svelte woman, perhaps twenty-five years old. Her hair hung in loose, strawberry-blonde waves to the middle of her back, her make-up stark in contrast to her undead complexion. Clad in a silver evening gown, Autumn knew that in life, she had been highly desirable.

  "Why am I here?" Autumn asked.

  The spectre turned to her left, revealing what appeared to be a single gunshot wound to her head. Wistfully, she met Autumn's quizzical gaze.

  "Did you do that yourself?" A violent shake of the head. "Murder?" A nod. "Here?" Another nod, coupled with a ghostly hand pointing to a far corner.

  Curiosity spurred Autumn towards the indicated corner, her eyes widening as she spotted what could possibly be a fine mist of dried blood against the beige wall. A lightning bolt of pain shot through her temple and she buckled forward. It was suddenly difficult to breathe: the air was thin and musty. She glanced towards the ghost and understood that she was sharing how she'd felt as she died.

  "What do you want from me?" Autumn whispered, her visions clouding over.

  In her head, a venomous reply: Revenge.

  "I don't do revenge," Autumn replied. "I'm sorry someone ended your life so young, but this... thing I can do... I'm not some vigilante for the dead. Messages, I can do. The truth. I don't know what you're looking for, but I don't think I'm the right person."

  She'd taken only three steps towards the door before it slammed shut. Autumn's heart stopped as the noisy clunk of a deadbolt engaging filled the room. Trapped. I'm trapped.

  The ghost—now her captor—fixed an angry stare on her as Autumn pressed her back to the wall, sliding towards the only exit from the storage room. More apologies spewed from her lips as she hurriedly made her way to the steel door, tugging pointlessly on the knob. The lock wouldn't release, no matter how hard she twisted the knob.

  "Let me out of here!"

  I need you, the woman menaced. I need to make them pay.

  "I said I wouldn't, and I meant it. Now let me the fuck out of here!"

  Her ribs stung as she tugged and yanked, her eyes searching for some sort of latch or release. Surely, the door didn't lock from the outside? No one made an inescapable room! Glaring behind her, she fumed as the vicious spirit tossed back her head and laughed.

  You can't leave. I couldn't leave.

  "Get out of my head, you stupid bitch!" Autumn seethed.

  But she was inside her now, and Autumn was helpless as a series of rapid-fire images flooded her: an angry shout; the glimpse of a man shoving the bitter ghost to the ground; a plea for forgiveness; "It's over!" A gun, gleaming as it aimed at a cowering woman in a silver dress. Blood. So much blood.

  Someone needs to pay, the spectre hissed in her head.

  "Not through violence," Autumn whimpered. "Justice is different."

  With one last, futile tug against the door, Autumn faced the poltergeist holding her prisoner. The intensity of her rage was overwhelming. The room seemed to vibrate with emotion, its walls pressing incrementally harder against her chest akin to a vice. Closing her eyes, she struggled through the haze of exhaustion and medication to find a solution.

  "Let her go," a familiar voice demanded.

  Autumn opened her eyes, relieved for the first time to find her ancestor standing beside her. Her lavender dress pristine and flowing, she edged towards the jaded spirit.

  "She's told you no. That is the right of a conduit. Now, let her go."

  A silent battle unfolded before her: each incorporeal woman challenging the other, adamant the other would relent. Inside Autumn's head, she heard Louise, her voice clear and frantic: Get out of here, now!

  Autumn thought back to Sophia's apartment, to the menacing figure cloaked in shadows. Get out, get out.... Andrew. He was her way out.

  Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the memory of him coming to her aid beneath her boarding school, pulling her battered body into his arms. Pulling her away from evil's grasp. His reassuring promise that she was safe... The feel of his leather jacket... Let me out! she screamed silently with one final yank of the door.

  As it fell open, spilling her into the hallway, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. What she did know was that it was time to flee. Scrambling to her feet and clutching her side, she jammed the elevator button hard, throwing herself into the car as its metal maw opened.

  Nineteen floors sailed by as Autumn kept her focus on Andrew, on the moments that defined their relationship. Music in the editing suite. The cabin weekend with Veronica and Evan. Music festivals. Late-night movie marathons. Central Park. With every passing second, her body warmed up, shedding the icy cold of the murderous ghost's claim upon her.

  The doors opened at last on the 38th floor. Rushing into the hallway, she collided roughly with Ray and yelped in pain. His strong hands gripped her shoulders, examining her body carefully for... what? Wounds?

  "Ms. Brody! What are you doing out here? How did you get out here?" As she slumped against the wall to catch her breath, his voice softened. "Are you okay?"

  "Just got the wind knocked out of me, Ray," she reassured the protection officer. "I… I think I was sleepwalking? I remember sleeping and then I was in the elevator."

  Frowning, he helped her towards her suite. "But I should have seen you. I've been in this hallway all night."

  "Bathroom break?" she deflected.

  "I call hotel security before I leave and have them stand down. I'll have to talk with them about their vigilance, I suppose." He paused in front of her door, gesturing to the way she held her ribs. "Are you sure you're alright?"

  "Please don't tell Andrew. He worries too much. Pa
inkillers just make me wonky."

  "Fine," Ray relented. "Just stay in your room, alright? He may be a lightweight compared to me, but that man will tear apart heaven and hell if anything happens to you. I'd like to avoid his wrath."

  "Deal."

  Swiping back into the suite, she quickly secured the security latch and tossed her key card on the sofa. From the bedroom, she heard a stirring and winced. He's awake. Wait for it...

  "Autumn!"

  "Shh! I'm coming back to bed."

  Pasting on a smile, she returned to the bedroom, where Andrew was upright in bed, a moment away from leaping to his feet. Waving for him to lie back down, she tugged her tank top down and yawned.

  "Where did you go? Are you hurting?"

  "No more than I have been," she replied, sitting on the bed. "I got up to pee and heard a weird sound in the hall. I checked in with Ray. Must be the Percocet playing tricks on me."

  Satisfied with her perfectly rational (and completely bullshit) answer, Andrew patted the mattress, beckoning her back into his embrace. "You are pretty loopy on meds. I remember how you kept confusing words after you broke your wrist. You'd completely swap verbs that sounded sorta alike, but meant wildly different things."

  "I'm glad I amuse you," Autumn grumbled, nestling under the covers.

  "Just one of many things I love about you," he replied sleepily, kissing her cheek. "Sleep, babe."

  Easier said than done. As Andrew snored quietly behind her, Autumn's mind drifted through a series of violent images and the overwhelming helplessness she'd felt inside the storage room. I was trapped. Powerless. She'd vowed to never let anyone make her feel that way again.

  To close the door, I've gotta open it. Well fine, she thought bitterly. I opened it, alright. Now, it can stay shut for all I care. Boarded over. Barricaded. The notion of helping troubled souls was romanticized bullshit.

  I am no one's conduit. Closing her aching eyes, she pushed away anything she couldn't tangibly hold or scientifically define. I'm done with all of you. Stay away. This is my life.

  Unknown to her, the universe was laughing at the notion.

  EIGHTEEN

  Monday morning was a series of disappointments, marching in quick succession through Autumn's phone. Although Gabriel had been able to recall someone moving away from the vicinity of his car the day before, the description he provided boiled down to every generic Caucasian male with brown hair in history. Having only seen him from behind, they didn't even have an approximate age to work with. The parking garage cameras were astonishingly poor, providing no coverage of Gabriel's car and no useful angles of the mystery male.

  The first set of lab results had come in for the letters, and with them, more frustration: no DNA, no fingerprints. The stationery was a specialty brand, but the company had moved at least five thousand units via twelve stores in the New York area in the past three months. Between cash sales and sheer volume, there was no way to narrow down a list of potential suspects. Not even a cross-reference against those in possession of an ARC panned out, much to Kevin's frustration.

  The one glimmer of hope Autumn spied in the day was a message on her voicemail from Zoe Ferguson, the stage manager in charge at the O'Rourke. True to her word, she had been in contact with her colleagues past and present, looking for signs that Veronica's stalker might have harassed other actresses.

  "Hi Autumn," the message began. "It's Zoe. I've tapped everyone I can in the Broadway world and I think I might have something that can help you and Veronica. Would you both be able to meet me at the theatre this afternoon? Maybe at three or so? I have some things to do today, but I should be free by then. Have Veronica call me if that doesn't work. See you."

  Autumn had slept through the call, her painkillers knocking her out until eleven. Glancing at the time, she mulled her next move. Three hours to kill. Could they be productive at all?

  Andrew was in the living room of their suite, running through the interviews he'd shot on Saturday. Autumn remained in bed, propped up by pillows, watching him from afar. The expression on his face while he worked on a project always captivated her. Somewhere between child-like wonder and a beyond-his-years seriousness, yet simultaneously both... she could never describe it. She simply knew the look to be his working face, which meant something incredible was coming together.

  Apparently, she also had a working face. Andrew had once compared it to "a dreamy delirium grounded in determination."

  Reaching for her purse on the ground beside her, Autumn absently pawed through her belongings. Taking inventory, as she explained it. Ever since the incident in the tunnels, she'd felt a compulsion to be prepared for everything and anything. Bank cards, cash, medications, keys—it wasn't that she was the only one to carry these things; it was that the world literally came crashing down if she found herself without them. Back home, she also carried a tiny multi-tool, including a knife that resembled a dull scalpel. It was legal, her father assured her. It also made her feel safe.

  As a bonus, it came with a corkscrew and other useful gadgets. She pointed them out to anyone questioning her choice of possessions.

  A stray rectangle of cardstock caught her attention as she dug deeper. Withdrawing it from her purse, she stared at the business card. Madame Audrina. She gave me her card that night. Autumn tapped it absently against her knee, debating her impulsive idea. Would it make things better, or worse? Wasn't she trying to slam the damn door shut on all of this?

  Surely Audrina knows how to shut them up. She can't be talking to the dead 24-7.

  A sideways glance at Andrew told her that he would be content to keep working for the rest of the afternoon, if she let him. Does he really expect me to stay in bed all day? It was a foolish question: of course he did. He was angry enough that she'd been up and doing things yesterday.

  She'd never sneak by him. Kevin was also nearby, Veronica and Evan opting to stay in their suite for her day off. No, if she wanted to do this in person, she would have to get him on board.

  "Andrew?"

  He tore his headphones off with a vicious tug, spinning in her direction. "You okay?"

  "I'm fine. The pain, anyway. I... I have something I want to do today."

  Abandoning his gear, Andrew approached the bed. "You're supposed to rest. It's bad enough you're going to the theatre later."

  "Just hear me out," she insisted, passing him the card by way of explanation.

  Examining the text, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'm listening."

  "I want it to go away. Maybe she knows how?"

  Autumn could see him struggling with the pros and cons on multiple levels: rest versus activity; digging into things he didn't fully understand versus trying to ignore them; her precarious mental health and the impact of exploring her gift. With one final look at the card, he handed it back to her.

  "I'm going with you," he announced, shutting down any argument with an urgent kiss.

  * * *

  Audrina was sitting on her tiny porch when they arrived, nursing an iced tea from Starbucks while flipping through a copy of Time magazine. Spotting them between page flips, she closed the magazine and waved them closer.

  "I hate at least half of the crap they say in this magazine, but it's force of habit," she sheepishly admitted, tapping it against her thigh. "Come on in."

  Audrina didn't generally work days ("People want the ambiance of the night for a psychic," she'd explained on the phone) but she was willing to meet with Autumn at two. The place was as Autumn remembered it: "lived in" and favouring antiques in the decor.

  "Take a seat at the table," Audrina urged them. "Did you want something to drink?"

  "I'm fine," Andrew replied, settling at the farthest seat from the psychic. "Autumn?"

  "Nothing for me, thanks." Scooching her chair closer to the table, she waited nervously for Audrina to take the lead.

  Tugging her hair into a high ponytail, Audrina rolled her neck and exhaled slowly. "I'm glad you came back. I know our last me
eting was a tremendous shock. It wasn't easy for me to accept my gifts as a teenager."

  "I'm still not convinced that 'gift' is the right word," Autumn grumbled. "I'd say 'pain in my ass' covers it."

  Audrina shook her head wistfully. "We all go through it. The adjustment, the acceptance. It's not unlike the stages of grief. We're grieving the normal life that we're promised from birth. But it's really an awakening. It's self-acceptance."

  "All the same, I need to shut it down, whatever this is. It's becoming too intrusive." Autumn kept her words vague, unwilling to share the terror of last night with Andrew.

  Audrina's brow furrowed, her head tilted slightly. "One moment... Ah. I see now. I've described it to you before. It's a door. It doesn't stay shut. Right now, yours is wide open, which isn't ideal." Turning to Andrew, she added, "You're going to have to be strong as she learns to cope."

  "I don't have anything to do with this," he protested. "I'm still trying to understand what 'this' is."

  Audrina settled back in her chair. "A skeptic. I know. Melissa explained it when you arrived."

  Andrew's face drained of colour. "I'm sorry—what did you say?"

  "Your mother. She says if you don't believe me, that I should remind you of the time you caught her singing Geri Halliwell while cleaning out the attic when you were twelve."

  Autumn's hand slid across the table, seeking Andrew's in solidarity. From the way his mouth hung slightly open, lower lip quivering, she knew that the psychic's words were true. He brushed roughly at the tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

  "No one knows that story. No one."

  Audrina's face was sympathetic as she slid a box of tissues across the table. "I hate springing these things on people, but it's the only way with a skeptic. Now, as I was saying, the key to controlling the dead is a firm grip on the living. It's like meditation: you need to ground and centre. The more centred your life is, the more control you maintain. When things are unbalanced, our gifts go a little... haywire."

  "I have anxiety," Autumn blurted out. "An anxiety disorder. I've dealt with depression. Staying balanced takes a lot of effort. Too much fucking effort, sometimes," she confessed sadly. "How can I possibly protect myself when some days are a challenge from the minute I wake up?"