Ghost Hold (The PSS Chronicles, Book Two)

by Ripley Patton

  “I see you don’t believe me,” Dr. Fineman said. “That is understandable. David is a very reluctant but convincing agent, but he is our agent all the same.”

  “I will never believe that,” I said. “He hates you. He would never work for you or the CAMFers for any reason.”

  “You are mostly correct,” Dr. Fineman said. “He does hate us, me particularly. But there is one reason he would do anything we ask. One very compelling reason that lives right here in this compound in a cell very much like yours—though she’s been here much longer than you.”

  Danielle. The name echoed in my head. He was saying they had Danielle, that they hadn’t killed her like Marcus had told us, but kept her to control him, to use him. And if that were true, yes, Marcus would do anything they said. I knew what Danielle meant to him. The guilt he was wracked with over her. There was no doubt in my mind that Marcus would lie, kill, steal, and lead a group of strangers to the slaughter to keep her safe. And yes, he’d even play my heart like a fiddle if it served that purpose—that all-consuming purpose. But I was pretty sure Danielle was dead, and Dr. Fineman was the one playing me.

  “Danielle is dead,” I said. “You told me she died of leukemia. Marcus told me you killed her. Either way, I’m pretty sure you don’t have her.”

  “Do you really believe I would eliminate such a valuable resource as that?” he asked. “How do you think I recovered instantly from my coma? And what about Mike Palmer? He certainly made a speedy recovery. And my nose,” he said, pointing to his face. “You broke it rather thoroughly, but it was nothing a little touch from Danielle couldn’t fix.”

  Shit. Had she healed them? Was she here? Had Marcus been working for the CAMFers all along? We had known there was a double agent among us at the McMansion—someone who’d switched out the feed of Mike Palmer. Mike Palmer who had left a message for someone about Shades. But why would he warn Marcus not to go if the plan was for the CAMFers to attack there? Unless it had been some kind of reverse code to confuse anyone else who saw it. And it had done just that. It had confused me.

  “Would you like some proof?” Dr. Fineman interrupted my agonizing labyrinth of logic.

  “Sure,” I said. “Why don’t you bring Danielle in here right now and introduce us.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said, “but how about something almost as good.” He gestured to the guard outside the cell who wheeled in a television monitor on a stand, its chords trailing out the door and down the long hallway. Dr. Fineman reached up and turned it on, and there was a cell on the screen, very similar to mine, with a girl sitting in one corner in a chair. She could have been a grown-up version of the Danielle I’d seen in Marcus’s picture. Or not. It was hard to tell.

  She got up, pacing the room, her PSS arm glowing up to the elbow and swinging gently at her side. I found myself knowing exactly when she would turn, and which way, because she paced just like Marcus.

  “This could be footage from before you killed her,” I said, trying to keep the doubt out of my voice. “It doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Olivia,” Dr. Fineman said, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to face reality eventually. He betrayed you. He works for us. He has always worked for us.”

  “Why not have him tell me then, right to my face?” I asked. “I’d believe that.”

  “Ah well, he’s on another mission,” Dr. Fineman said, waving his hand dismissively and glancing away from me. I wasn’t sure if he’d been lying to me before, but he was definitely lying to me now. I could see it on his face. If Marcus was his agent, the man had no idea where he was.

  “And after all he did for you, he didn’t come back and demand his sister’s freedom? He didn’t earn some precious time with her, or a chance to see her? He ran off immediately on another job?”

  “It is what we required of him,” Dr. Fineman said.

  “Bullshit!” I said. “If you were using Danielle as a hostage, he’d want payoff before he did anything else.” Unless he couldn’t come back to collect because he was at the bottom of a river.

  “Fine,” Dr. Fineman said, getting up and turning the monitor off. “You will see that what I’ve said is true. How else would I know the intimate details of your time together? Such a naive girl, to believe he cared for you after each new lie. And that moment at the side of the road when he confessed his love for you? Truly an amazing performance. But then, he had to do that so you wouldn’t ruin our plans and keep him from the Eidolon for the sake of a few dismal paintings by a dead man.” He turned his back on me, ushering the monitor toward the guard. He never should have done that. It left him completely open to attack.

  I was on his back, my arm around his throat, squeezing, while the guard still had his hands occupied with the rolling monitor cart.

  Dr. Fineman whirled around, gasping like a fish, and charged backwards, slamming me into the stone wall of the cell and knocking the wind out of me, my ribs flaring pain again like they were on fire.

  My arms came away from him, refusing to listen to me, and I slid to the floor, the rough wall scraping my back through my thin shirt on the way down.

  He was standing over me, his fists clenched, his face red, his eyes as wild and crazy as my own.

  Behind us, the guard finally drew his gun, much too late.

  “You won’t kill me,” I said when I got my breath back, laughing. “Not if you want your little box back inside of you. Not if you want to understand what I do and the power I have. But, you’re going to have to take off this cuff to find that out, and when you do I’m going to strip your soul clean out of you.”

  “No, you won’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Not after we break you.” He whirled and left the cell, the door clanging shut behind him, but not before he gave the guard explicit instructions on how to begin breaking me. And his words, as horrible and terrifying as they were, were nothing compared to what one human being can do to another alone in a cell with no eyes watching.

  How long have I been here? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know how many days I’ve sat trying to keep track of the minutes and the hours, and I don’t know how many nights I’ve lain on a cold stone slab, my body and arm numb, trying to make my ghost hand obey me. But I do not sleep, because when I do, the dream comes. I have it every time I close my eyes, without fail, as if my subconscious only has one source, one pool of memory and regret, one place it must always return to.

  Marcus, even in this darkness, I try to swim back to you.

  I swear, I do.

  THE END

  Coming in 2014:

  Book Three of The PSS Chronicles.

  Go to www.ripleypatton.com for more details.

  BONUS SHORT STORY

  Before I started The PSS Chronicles, I wrote short stories. That was the writing form I frolicked in for years, winning awards, contests, and publication, before I braved the more extensive world of novel writing. I love writing short stories and reading them. For that reason, in September 2012, to celebrate the upcoming release of my debut novel, Ghost Hand, I sponsored a young adult short story contest for writers age 12-19. The lovely story featured next, inspired by the cover blurb and first chapters of Ghost Hand, won that contest earning a cash prize and publication in Ghost Hold. And so I present to you, with much pleasure, “Blue, Blue Eyes” by Emma Shi.

  BLUE, BLUE EYES

  BY EMMA SHI

  When I see it, the first thing I think of is the blue poster that hangs across from me on the wall of Ms. Kingston’s English class, listing an array of literary techniques. The next thing I think of is you—sitting at the drab desk next to mine—and your blue, blue eyes. The third thing I think of is that you’re back. But that would be impossible.

  I burst into the girls’ bathroom as another memory of you fades away. Shaking, I open the tap and put my hands under the water, bringing it up to my face. It gets into my eyes, but I continue doing it; the breath of cold against my hot skin makes me feel more alive. After three more
splashes, I turn off the tap and wipe the sleeve of my shirt across my face.

  And then I look up at the mirror and see you standing behind me.

  I jump back, heart pounding, but you’re gone. All I can see in the mirror now is myself, and my muscles slacken in relief. Panting softly, I stare at my own wide eyes, a droplet of water poised just at my right temple. It was just my imagination. You’re not here. You can’t be here.

  A flash of blue cuts through my mind and I breathe in and out slowly, willing the images to disappear and fold themselves back into my brain. But they never do. I thought I’d tucked them away safely, but now here they come again, desaturating every color I see. They bleed into reality, bringing the image of you to life. But you’re not here anymore. I made sure of that, didn’t I?

  I dig into the pocket of my jacket, with shaking hands, and take out a neatly folded piece of paper. It flutters as I unfold it, and I read words that have been written neatly in blue ink.

  Alliteration. The repetition of the same sounds or the same kinds of sounds at the beginning of words or in stressed syllables. Can be the most beautiful thing ever if the alliteration is Mia Morgan.

  A girl’s handwriting. That’s the first thing I thought when I saw those evenly spaced words. It looked too neat, too precise to be a boy’s. But it turned out to be yours. I never knew that a boy could write so elegantly. I remember you shouting “Sexist!” at me from across the room when you heard me tell that to one of my friends.

  I stare at the paper for longer than I should, the silence of the empty bathroom floating around me. I’m supposed to be in class, which is why there’s no one else here. But once I saw this piece of paper tucked inside my English book, I knew I couldn’t sit there, half-listening to the teacher, the blue poster haunting my peripheral vision.

  You and I, we had a thing for passing notes. We did it in every class we were in together, and we never got caught. Once, we were reviewing literary techniques and Ms. Kingston was going through every one of them on that blue poster. It was the day after you’d taken me on our first date. My heart flipped every time you talked to me. It was beautiful to hear the person I loved—you—say my name, Mia. And on that day, you passed me a note, a note that made me smile, a note like the one in my hand about my own alliteration.

  The original was written on lined paper, I remember that. But this note is on blank white paper. It looks like your handwriting, but how could it be? Did someone else write it, pretending to be you? Does someone know what I did?

  Or did you actually write this? Are you still here, watching me, taunting me?

  I put the note back into my pocket and turn away from the mirror. I don’t want to look at myself, but I also don’t want to go back to class, so I lock myself in a cubicle and sit on the closed seat of the toilet, still shaking.

  I remember how I answered your note. I looked up at the teacher to check that she wasn’t watching, then scribbled down a response on a different slip of paper. I passed it to you and watched your blue eyes light up as you read my response.

  Allusion. An indirect reference to a place, a person, or an event. Most effectively used when referring to an amazing boy with beautiful blue eyes called Asher Edwards.

  The thing I loved most about you was how you did your best to listen to me. Even if I wasn’t making sense, and even if you disagreed with me, you listened first.

  The second thing I loved were your blue eyes. My eyes are achingly average: a simple shade of dark brown. But your eyes, they were a color I wanted to swim in, a blue I wanted to breathe in. I wanted to inhale that blue and feel it fill up my empty lungs, let it be the oxygen that brought life to my red, red heart. I loved your eyes most when you smiled, and I remember how they looked so pure and happy when accompanied by the curve of your lips.

  I also remember how your eyes looked the day you left. Except I made you leave, didn’t I? But it was an accident. An accident, an accident.

  I had only reached out to touch you like I had so many times before, but this time was different. This time, the need to do so was powered by some external influence I couldn’t control. It felt like my hand was a part of someone else’s body. And instead of touching you, I reached further, deep into you, and your eyes went so wide as the blue drained away, leaving only a lifeless grey. When I saw that happen, I finally had the will to jerk my hand away, but you were already slumping to the ground, nothing left in you. I rushed to your side, my hand still glowing slightly, calling me to do it again. But there was nothing left in you to keep going on, even if I succumbed to the energy inside me. I felt a wave of enigmatic emotions crest in my mind, and all I could do was stare in utter disbelief for a few seconds before a broken voice—my own broken voice—cried out your name.

  I crouched there next to you for a while, just shaking. I couldn’t think at first and had no idea what to do. My mind was the mist at the bottom of a waterfall; every thought a droplet of water that tumbled downwards before spraying and scattering into nothing. With this fall came a rush of strange memories, pounding me. I realized later, days later, that they weren’t mine, but yours. After a while, the memories slowed down enough that I could catch a glimpse of them. Sometimes it was something trivial, like walking to school. Other times I saw myself, through your point of view. It was strange and— interesting. But I didn’t want it, I didn’t want it. I knew that I didn’t want it.

  Finally, the mist in my head began to clear, and I saw you lying in front of me. Then I cracked, grabbing you by the arms. I shook you, but you didn’t answer. I shouted your name, Asher, Asher, over and over again, but all I heard was my voice echoing off the empty walls. And then I staggered away and left you.

  That is my greatest regret: leaving you. But I was scared, and I didn’t know what I’d tell anyone if I asked for help. Your eyes looked so empty without their blue. So I ran, like the coward I’ve always been. I know that you wouldn’t have left me, and that thought makes my heart sting with regret. I killed you and then I left you. But I swear it was an accident. I loved you, and I couldn’t control it.

  When I got home, my mother looked at me strangely.

  “What happened to your eyes?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  My mother frowned. “Did you get some of those colored contacts?”

  Then my heart sank as I thought of your blue eyes, a blue I’d turned to grey. I didn’t answer my mother. Instead, I ran to the bathroom, realization settling to the bottom of my stomach, making me feel sick.

  And there, in the mirror, I saw that my eyes were no longer brown. They were blue. Your blue. I took them from you somehow, when I killed you. And now, every time I look in the mirror, I see what I did.

  A bang—the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing—brings me back to the present and the memories of that day drift away. At the sound, I stiffen, even though I’m hidden away. I tell myself that whoever has come will use the bathroom and leave, and then I can too, but then they speak to me.

  “Mia Morgan,” a male voice says, and my heart almost stops.

  That voice—it’s you.

  “I know you’re here,” you say, and a folded slip of paper slides under the space at the bottom of the cubicle door towards me.

  I pick it up, hands shaking as I unfold it.

  Writer’s Voice. The unique features and personality of an author’s writing style. The most amazing of voices belonging to a girl named Mia Morgan.

  This is the last note you ever gave me, but it’s not the original. The original is at the bottom of my desk drawer at home, amidst long-forgotten study notes.

  Another folded slip of paper slides under the door, and I open it just as another piece follows it.

  Hyperbole. An exaggeratio—

  I stuff the note into my pocket before I can read any further. I already know what it says, but still, I want to read more. I grab the other bits of paper as they come and fervently read each piece, my eyes scanning words that I don
’t want to see, but also words that I’m yearning to see at the same time. A part of me wants to remember you again, even if it hurts.

  Caesura. The—

  Again and again, I unfold those bits of paper, reading only enough to remember, my throat dry.

  Foreshadowing. Oxymoron. Irony. Symbolism.

  Suddenly, the stream of paper stops. I stare at the one still in my hand before letting it drop to the floor.

  Plot Twist.

  “Mia,” you say again. And this time, I respond.

  “Asher,” I choke out. “How can you be here? I—” I saw you die. I took the color of your eyes. I killed you. And now your memories are bouncing around in my head and it hurts so much.

  “I’m here now,” you reply. “Come out. I want to see you. I’ve missed you, Mia.”

  I sit there on the closed toilet seat, staring at the door, surrounded by slips of paper that carry the most precious memories I have. You can’t be alive. You can’t, you can’t.

  But what if you are? What if you’re here, and you’ve forgiven me?

  I unclench my right fist and stare at my hand, the hand that ripped away your life.

  And then I open the door.

  I almost cry out in happiness when I see you. That same head of black hair, that same smile, those same blue eyes. We embrace and tears are running down my cheeks, and all I can think is Asher, Asher, you’re back. I thought I lost you, but you’re back.

  And that’s when I feel your hand encircle my neck, not in a gesture of love, but tightly with the intent to kill.

  Before I know it, I can’t breathe and no, you’re not smiling anymore. Your eyes are frigid and impassive as you take my life away and slowly do what I did to you. A bittersweet ending.