The Past-Life Chronicles Box Set: Volume 1 & 2: Duet Omnibus Edition

by C. K. Brooke

  Oh, right. I pull the gear back to the letter R, which I know stands for reverse. The car crawls backward down the driveway as I watch through the rear-view mirror. I press down on the pedal again, and the car flares back. My heart jumps into my throat, and I jam my foot onto the other pedal, braking.

  In an instant, everything comes rushing back, like an avalanche I’d thought I had outrun, inevitably catching up to crush me.

  My Goddess, what am I doing?

  I fumble for the gear and yank it into drive, then tap the accelerator until the car is back where Mom parked it. Panting, I try to switch off the engine, but the key won’t turn.

  “What the—?” I try to yank the key to the left again, but it won’t budge. “Artemis, Isis, Astarte, help me…”

  A knocking on my window makes me cry out. Hand over my chest, I turn.

  My stepbrother stands in the driveway, barefoot, wearing nothing but a Weezer T-shirt and a pair of blue checkered boxer shorts. I want to die a million deaths before I realize he’s pointing to something inside the cab.

  “You have to put it in park first,” he calls through the closed window.

  I shove the gear into park, tear out the key, and fling open the door.

  “What were you doing?” demands Henry, the second my feet hit the pavement.

  “I just thought…” I falter, my throat going choky. I’m also trying like hell not to notice the fact he’s in boxers. “For a minute, I felt like I could…take a drive around the neighborhood, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have a license. You weren’t even wearing your seatbelt.” I feel like I’m thirteen years old as he holds out a hand and I pass him the keys. “What if a cop had pulled you over? What if you’d hit something?”

  “What if you actually minded your own damn business?” I snap. I hurry across the driveway and up the steps to the house. Heading inside, I stalk to my bedroom before he can catch up. I shut the door behind me and lean against it, trying not to resort to tears.

  Willow, you are. A total. Loser.

  #

  It’s almost noon on Saturday. I’m sitting at my desk, updating an old ad copy and biting into a slice of cold, grocery store-bought organic pizza when there’s a knock at my door. “Come in,” I say thickly through my mouthful.

  My stepfather, Greg, opens the door, but doesn’t come inside. I don’t think he’s ever been in my room, even though this is technically his house now, too. Greg is fifty-five with glasses and salt-and-pepper hair, and the same broad frame as Henry, although he carries himself way less awkwardly than his son.

  He’s always been cool for an older guy. Open-minded enough to be with my mom, yet straight-laced enough to hold down an honest job. Never over-speaks, never oversteps, always respects my privacy. Like right now, when he won’t even step fully into my bedroom, even though it’s OCD-level clean and he knows he’s welcome.

  “Your mother said to tell you Persephone texted her.” Greg gives the doorframe a little pat. “She’s coming for dinner tonight. Your mom wants you to make lasagna.”

  “Sure.” I smile, and Greg turns to leave. “Hey, wait a sec.”

  He pauses with a hand on the doorknob.

  “Did she say if Mason’s coming too?”

  With his free hand, my stepdad adjusts his glasses. “That’s right. It was Persephone and Mason.”

  My grin is even broader after he shuts my bedroom door. We’ve only met once, but I’m really looking forward to seeing Mason again. I wonder if it’s just me, or if he felt it too, that possible…spark…of connection between us.

  I mean, not romantic or anything. But friendship?

  Maybe he was just being professional. Maybe he’s friendly to all his clients. After all, he relaxes people and manipulates their brains for a living.

  At the same time, it is uncommon that I meet someone I actually want to be around for longer than a couple of minutes. Mason is one of those rare souls. I feel like we’d have lots to talk about, if we had the chance. I recall the way my name sounds in his voice, amplified and deepened by the digital microphone and production software in his recording, and I wonder if he might have felt…whatever…about me, too.

  I shut my laptop, done for the day. I don’t need to be working on a Saturday anyway. I have a meal to cook. I like to prepare and bake the lasagna first, then let it settle in the fridge for several hours before reheating and serving it. That way, the filler won’t slide out between the noodles and run all over the plate when I cut it.

  I’ll probably have to make it meatless, because Mom and Persephone are vegetarian. Thank Goddess they’re not vegan, because I don’t know how I’d enjoy it without mounds of ricotta.

  3

  Unlike my mother, I seldom wear jewelry, but this evening feels different. I’ve changed into a vintage black cocktail dress I found at Goodwill two years ago, with a modest lace collar that rises to the neck. It’s cute but plain, and needs a bit of sparkle. I fumble with the clasp of the little silver charm bracelet I’m trying to put on. I’m out-of-practice with girly stuff—hairstyling, nail-painting, jewelry-wearing. Since I rarely go out, I seldom bother.

  Giving up, I push open my door and head up the hall. I hear someone rustling papers in the living room, and assume it’s Mom paging through one of her SageWoman magazines. “Hey, can you help me with this?” I call.

  The head that turns when I enter the living room isn’t the curly brown mane I expected. Henry is on the sofa with a pile of medical textbooks spread out over the coffee table. He glances over his shoulder at my request.

  Before I can say never mind, he sets his spiral notebook aside. “Sure, what do you need?”

  I hesitate. “You don’t know how to fasten a bracelet, do you?”

  He snorts. “Do I look like I was raised by wolves?”

  I appraise him in his gray track pants and mismatched navy hoodie. That shaggy hair, too… “Possibly.” I feel my mouth quirk.

  “You’re ridiculous.” He gets up from the sofa. I hold out my wrist, pinching the ends of the band together with my other hand. Gently, he takes them from me. “What’s the occasion?” His brown eyes rake over me, making me feel slightly self-conscious, before refocusing on the clasps. “Dresses and jewelry aren’t very Willowy.”

  My eyebrow lifts. Just because we’ve lived together for a year doesn’t mean he knows what’s ‘Willowy’ or not. Does it?

  “Just dinner guests. Are you eating with us?”

  His brow is rumpled in concentration as he fastens the delicate ends of the bracelet. “Uh…maybe I’ll have leftovers. I’ve got a lot of studying to do.”

  “Got it,” I say, both in response to his answer and to the sound of the clasps connecting. “Thanks.”

  He holds my wrist for a moment, examining the charms that dangle from the band. There’s an eight-pointed faerie star, the Om symbol, angel wings, and a crescent moon. It was a gift from—who else?—Mom.

  “Hmm,” he utters curiously, letting go.

  I bring my arm to my side, only noticing how warm his hand felt when he’s no longer touching me.

  “You know, Willow…” He chases back his unkempt hair with his fingers, only for it to fall out of place again. Circles beneath his eyes make him look wan, and I know he must’ve been studying his tail off since early this morning. This morning, when… “If you want to learn how to drive, I can teach you.”

  It isn’t the first time he’s offered. But this time feels genuine, like there’re no ulterior motives. “I know,” I reply quietly. “But the obstacle for me isn’t so much learning how as it is overcoming the fear of learning. Does that make sense?”

  He looks square into my eyes when he insists, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  You’re wrong, I think automatically. I don’t know why; it seems irrational of me, yet it’s my first reaction.

  The doorbell rings, interrupting us.

  “Oh,” Henry mumbles. “I should get my crap out of here.” He gather
s his textbooks off the coffee table. I help him, adding the last of his books and notebook to the stack in his arms.

  He disappears down to the bottom level of the house. He’ll probably spend all weekend holed up in his bedroom, studying. And I think, as I go to answer the door, that maybe he and I aren’t so unalike.

  A plump, wild-haired woman squeals when I greet her. Persephone Jade Moon (real name: Aimee Rychards) wraps strong, stout, tattoo-covered arms around me, holding me against her generous chest as I’m doused in her sandalwood scent.

  At four-foot-eleven, Seph is shorter than even me, and a bundle of energy. When she and my mom go out, they’re often mistaken for sisters because of their curly brown hair, even though they couldn’t look less alike otherwise. Seph looks more like Aida Turturro, whereas Mom resembles Anjelica Huston when she played Viviane in The Mists of Avalon on TV.

  I wasn’t lucky enough to inherit my mother’s tight curls. But my hair falls in loose, dark waves to my shoulder blades. Persephone runs her fingers through it, remarking how long it’s grown. I feel a pinch of guilt. It really has been a while since I’ve gone to a full moon circle with them. It’s not like her coven sisters mind whether I share their beliefs any longer or not, but each of those seven women are like family to me. Some even used to babysit me and my sister when my dad first left. I should be making a better effort to keep in touch with them.

  “How are you?” Persephone beams.

  “Can’t complain.” I give her a lopsided grin, which melts off the instant someone else steps in behind her. He wears dark jeans and a pair of beat-up brown boots that somehow look ridiculously stylish on him. His hair hangs just above the shoulders of his leather jacket, and his lake-blue eyes are smiling as they land on me.

  “Willow, what’s up?”

  “Mason!” Instinctively, I’m about to hug him, until I remember we’ve only met once. I quickly step back and hold out a hand. But he laughs and gives me a one-armed, wrap-around shoulder pat. I feel awkward as he lets go.

  Mom and Greg finally come and greet our guests too, and we gather in the kitchen, talking and uncorking a bottle of pinot grigio. Once everyone’s seated, I serve up the salad and garlic bread. The kitchen is full of the sounds of Mom’s and Persephone’s laughter, Greg’s grunting, glasses clinking. Mason sits in the chair across from mine, grating parmesan over his salad, and I observe him discreetly behind my wine glass.

  There’s no doubt about it, Mason Rychards has to be the cutest guy I’ve ever seen. A more confident girl would spend her evening pursuing him.

  Lucky for him, I’m not a more confident girl.

  “How’s work, Greg?” Persephone asks my stepdad.

  He finishes chewing before he answers. “Busy.” Greg is a man of few words, and he leaves his answer at that. He’s employed at Middling’s steel plant, and lately he’s been working multiple shifts. The big orders from Detroit’s auto country have been steadily rolling in.

  “Mason, how are things going with your new practice?” Mom pours a glass from the water pitcher and passes it to him.

  Mason sets it to the left of his plate. “A little slow,” he admits. “But I’m no longer practicing in my apartment, at least. It’s nice to have a real office for once.”

  “How long have you been practicing?” I ask him.

  “I got licensed last year. Before that, I was working at Ash and Oak.”

  “Miracle’s store?” I picture him employed at the local new age shop where Mom and Seph’s coven gather monthly for the Esbats—full moons—and biquarterly for the Sabbats, which are the solstices, equinoxes, and their cross-quarters. (Don’t be confused. If you celebrate Halloween, Easter, Christmas, and the like, it’s all pretty much the same.) The shop is owned by a Hispanic woman named Milagro Romero, who goes by Miracle. She attends all the circles with our moms, but doesn’t like the word ‘witch.’

  Mason nods. Everyone looks about finished with their salads, so I get up from my chair, collect their plates, and head to the stove where the lasagna has been cooling. Carefully, I cut into it and serve up five hearty squares.

  “Willow made this from scratch,” Mom boasts as I place down Mason’s dish.

  “Well, I mean…” I return to my seat and lay my napkin over my lap, “it’s store-bought noodles and sauce, Mom.”

  “Still way better than the microwave junk he lives off of.” Persephone jabs her thumb toward Mason, whose mouth is full. He gives us a thumbs-up, and I grin.

  “Mason’s going to help Willow overcome her fear of cars,” Mom informs Greg.

  My stepdad half-smiles, and I pray we don’t start talking about me.

  “This is delicious, by the way,” Seph enthuses.

  Grateful for her keen change of subject, I eat, listening as my family and guests delve into conversation about the steel and auto industries, and eventually resume discussion about Mason’s practice.

  “Well, I’ve always been curious.” Mom folds her hands over her finished plate. “I’ve been considering hypnotherapy myself, just to see what it’s like. Maybe you two can do a little demonstration for us?”

  Mason swipes his napkin over his mouth. “You mean, right now?”

  “Willow can be your subject again, can’t she?”

  I look up. “I’ve already done a session with Mason, Mom.”

  “Another won’t hurt you.” Mason shrugs and draws a sip of water. “It’s up to you, though.”

  “Don’t worry about the dishes,” grunts Greg, getting to his feet and taking our plates. I can tell he wants us to mingle, or maybe he covets some alone time.

  Mom seems excited, and a little drunk. “Lie down on the couch, Wil.” She and Seph lift their wine glasses and head for the living room.

  #

  I’m lying on the sofa, but it takes me a minute to remember that Henry is no longer studying here, and I’m not still asking him to fasten my charm bracelet. And that, in fact, I’ve already served the wine and bread and pasta…

  I moan, slowly sitting up. The lights are dim, and four anxious faces surround me. I find Mason’s face among them. But it’s not the same, steady calm that greeted me when I awoke from my first session in his office last week. Instead, he looks…spooked.

  My forehead pinches as I turn to Mom and Seph. Both appear rapt, yet somehow worried. Even Greg is standing in the entryway between the kitchen and the living room, frozen. I notice his phone is out, but he isn’t looking down at it.

  “W-what happened?” I clear my throat. With each passing second, I’m beginning to fear the worst. Had I said or done something utterly mortifying while I was under?

  Mom leans over and switches on a lamp, adding some light to the room. She looks speechlessly to Greg.

  My stepdad hesitates. “Once I noticed something…strange was happening, I turned on my camera.” He holds out his phone. Mason reaches for it and passes it to me.

  The freeze-frame image is a little hard to see because the lighting is so dim. But when I tap the play arrow on the screen, I recognize myself on the sofa, arms flat at my sides.

  But I don’t recognize the voice coming out of my own mouth.

  “No one can know,” I say in a delicate voice, with a breathy southern twang. “Don’t want anybody findin’ out…” My breathing picks up, and it sounds like I’m about to cry. “Keep it secret, y’hear?”

  My heart rate accelerates when the short video ends. I have no idea why, but I feel like I’m about to squirm out of my skin.

  Immediately, I round on Mason. “What did you make me say?”

  “Nothing.” He shakes his head, his eyes reflecting the shock I feel. “I was only taking you back to a memory from your past, to see if we could uncover the origin of your fears. But your voice changed and this…this started coming out. I didn’t want to stop you.”

  “Are you messing with my head?” I challenge him. I’m feeling hyper-defensive. Whatever this is, it’s like an invasion—though of what, I’m not entirely sure. “Is this
your idea of entertainment or something?”

  “It was you mom’s idea,” Mason counters. “And I would never mess with your head. I take my work very seriously.”

  Greg motions toward his phone, which is still in my hand. “You can delete that, if you want,” he offers.

  I bite my lip, my thumb hovering over the trashcan icon. I decide to send the recording to myself first. After hearing my phone ding in the other room with a new text message, I delete the video off of Greg’s phone. Then I go into his trash folder and erase it from there for good measure. I push myself off the couch, feeling shaky, and give Greg back his device.

  Our heads turn as footsteps tread up the carpeted stairs. Henry emerges from the lower level, slowing as he scans the room. His gaze lands on Mason, and his nose twitches. “What’s going on?” my stepbrother asks at our silence.

  Mom and Persephone rise to take care of the kitchen, not answering. Meanwhile, Greg pretends to be preoccupied with his phone.

  “Nothing,” I reply, weaving around my stepdad to join the women in the kitchen. While Mom and Seph clear the table, I stand at the sink, rinsing the dirty dishes that come my way.

  As I’m loading plates into the dishwasher, I feel a presence come up behind me. I look up. Mason’s wearing an apologetic frown.

  “Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m really sorry for whatever happened back there. I can tell it shook you. Maybe we can—?”

  “It’s fine.” I begin arranging the glasses in the top rack, although the voice of the girl in the video—me, yet somehow, not me—still haunts me.

  Keep it secret, y’hear?

  “It was probably just some long-forgotten memory from my adolescence. You know how teen girls are. It’s all about secrets and gossip at that age…”

  “Oh!” Persephone laughs from the other end of the kitchen, swatting her forehead, clearly not having heard us. “I forgot the apple pie! Mase, can you go out to the car and bring it in?” She tosses him a set of keys, and he catches them.

  From the corner of my eye, I see him cast me one last uncertain glance before crossing the kitchen and disappearing outside. My heart sinks. He thinks I’m angry.