by Tate James
I shake my head, but Rhythm looks skeptical. He’s twenty-two, cocky as hell, and sullen as a raincloud. My grandma probably would’ve called him ‘troubled’, but then she did say bosom, bottom, and firehose instead boobs, butt, and penis, so what did she know?
“I’m fine.” I snuggle deeper into Dutch’s bed as the logs crackle and shift, and the soft pad of paws sounds on the wood floors. Syxx hops up onto the foot of the bed, yawns, and stretches. He starts to lick his shoulder and then pauses, lifting emerald green eyes up to stare in my direction. He sniffs the air for a long moment before the fur raises along the length of his spine.
“Good,” Rhythm grunts—see, always with the grunting—as he gets out a cigarette and lights it. “Because I’m not about sitting here and babysitting a high-schooler all day.” I’m so irritated by Rhythm that I forget to be weirded out by Syxx’s strange behavior. I mean, he’s a cat anyway; they’re always weird.
“We’re only four years apart, you idiot,” I snap, rolling over and ignoring him. I’ll be glad when I hear the sound of his motorcycle take off down the driveway.
Syxx moves up to snuggle close, kneading my bosom through the blankets. He looks almost triumphant as he does it, so I push him away to continue his biscuit making near the end of the bed. Sometimes, I’ll walk in here and find Dutch surrounded by eleven cats while he sleeps. Syxx is the only one of the bunch that actually seems to like me. Well, the only one of the bunch that likes anyone but Dutch, I should say.
“Whatever. Enjoy sleeping in your boyfriend’s bed.” Rhythm’s boots are loud as he turns to leave, and I do my best to squash down a bright flicker of joy at his words. Boyfriend? Unicorn shit, I wish Dutch was my boyfriend. If Rhythm’s saying that, does that mean he thinks there’s something between us? Could there be?
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, but there’s a bright glimmer in my voice that’s impossible to miss.
Rhythm scoffs as he clomps down the stairs, lets himself out the door, and starts up his bike.
“Good riddance,” I mumble, but really, I hate being left alone. I also hate Rhythm though, so I guess it doesn’t matter if he goes or stays, does it? The motorcycle rumbles for a long time, but I don’t hear it leave. Instead, after what’s got to be at least ten minutes, the engine shuts off. Another ten minutes and I hear the front door open, near-silent footsteps creeping up the stairs.
I can feel Rhythm’s eyes as he checks up on me, pausing in the doorway to Dutch’s bedroom. I can see his reflection in the window across from me, but I think he’s under the impression that I’m asleep.
“Alexiah?” he asks, but I stay silent. I want to see what he does when he thinks I’m passed out. Syxx glares at him from in front of me, green eyes shimmering as Rhythm closes the distance between the doorway and the bed. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he reaches down and fixes my blankets, covering up my shoulder and then heading over to stoke up the fire.
Did he … did that motorcycle riding emo asshole just tuck me in?!
He then plucks my pink and black glasses off my nose and sets them on the side table.
Syxx and I stare at each other as Rhythm takes up the seat next to the fire, kicks his boots off … and settles in with his phone for company.
If my head weren’t killing me, and my body wasn’t riddled with goose bumps, I might’ve thrown the blankets off, stormed over, and demanded to know what he was doing in there. Instead … I took some sort of weird comfort in it. Like, if someone were to break in, at least they’d get Rhythm first and I’d have a chance to escape, right? Because I don’t even like him, so I wouldn’t even care …
Except that’s not the sort of person I am, and I would.
Groaning softly, I bury myself into the strange mix of scents: Dutch’s sunshine and basil, Rhythm’s balsam and cloves. I wrap my arms around Syxx as he moves to adjust himself again, and snuggle him close. The combination of cat, crush, and critic sends me to sleep faster than I care to admit.
There’s a death date floating over the head of every living thing—even the fern on Dutch’s bedroom windowsill has an expiration date. I look around me and there’s nothing but numbers, shimmering menacingly in the air above my crush’s head, above Rhythm’s and Luke’s, Tate’s and Tom Thumb’s.
Month, day, year. It says it right there, plain as day. I look between the TCPS crew, and then back to our boss.
The fern has longer to live than Dutch Wylde does.
He stares back at me with silver eyes, a wide smile stretching across his lips. When it gets too wide for his face, it breaks into fragments, scattering across the floor at my feet. I try to run, but my feet are planted firmly into the old wood floor; I’ve grown roots.
“I’m so sorry,” a voice says, like dark water over rocks, a cool stream flowing in a cavern far beneath the earth. I look up and all I can see is a man sitting on a giant boulder. At first, I wonder why there’s a boulder in Dutch’s room, but then I realize that I’m not in the Fifth Street House at all anymore. No, I’m standing on the surface of the water, watching ripples expand from the base of the boulder. The man sitting atop it has large, black wings, like a bat’s. Only, instead of one set, he has three, six wings in total. He stretches them out behind him, until they’re a big black shadow against the rocky walls of the cave we’re standing in. “I can invade your dream, but I can’t control it. It’s turning out to be … darker than I intended.”
The man turns emerald eyes over to me, and I swear I’ve seen them before.
Those are Syxx’s eyes.
“You’re a cat,” I say, feeling my yellow dress swirl in a strange, warm breeze.
Syxx smiles at me, but when I count the fingers on his right hand, he only has five. Hmm. The cat has six toes on each paw, so … how could this be him? And you’re more concerned with the fact that his digits are off, and not with the idea of a cat turning into a person with wings, or the death date floating above your own head?
I glance up and see numbers that swirl and change with every breath I take. I can’t decide if I have years to live … or just weeks, maybe even days.
“Not really,” Syxx says, folding his wings against his back as he stands up. It occurs to my dream-addled brain then that maybe his name is Syxx because he has six wings. He also has six horns, two small ones near the top of his forehead, and then two big ones on either side of his skull. His hair is blond on top, dark on the bottom, with an iridescent, almost metallic quality to it. I’ve never seen anything like it. “Actually, I’m just a demon.”
Just a demon, he says. How ridiculous. But in the way of dreams, I’m not really surprised by anything.
“Usually, I dream about ghosts,” I start, exhaling sharply. My headache is gone, but I can see big, white orbs floating all around us, like spirits. “Or unicorns. Sometimes both.”
“What is it with you and unicorns?” Syxx asks, walking across the water in bare feet to stand next to me. His skin is an amber color, not at all human. No human comes in such a glittering shade. “They don’t exist, you know. They’re not real.”
“You’re not real,” I shoot back, but I can’t stop searching for a death date above Syxx’s head. “Where’s yours?” I ask him, and even though it’s the strangest thing in the world, he seems to know exactly what I’m asking after, and frowns.
“Demons … are like ghosts. We’re already dead. And you can’t kill the dead, Alex.”
“Alex?” I ask, but I like the nickname, so I don’t bother to refute it. X is better because that’s what Dutch calls me. Rhythm just … calls me Alexiah. But who cares about that? Not me. “What do you want from me?”
“You need to go back to Claire House, as soon as possible.” He tilts his head to one side, and then reaches out with a hand tipped in claws, tracing my lower lip with the nail of one finger. “The Maou is waiting.”
“Maou?” I start to ask, but already, I can feel myself slipping out of that dream and into another.
When I wake
up, I don’t remember either of them.
Rhythm is gone in the morning, and Dutch is in his place, sipping a cup of coffee and going over the plans for the Nowakis for later tonight.
I sit up and find Syxx laying in a small, black ball next to me. There’s always been something about that damn cat … I reach out and touch one of his paws, spreading his toes and counting them. Yep, six. Don’t know why, but I felt the need to confirm that.
“Sorry I stole your bed,” I say, as I squeeze Dutch’s mom’s quilt around me and huddle into it. Blinking blurry eyes at him, I remember my glasses and slip them onto my nose.
“You know I don’t mind,” Dutch says, smiling as he scrolls through my iPad. He’s always smiling. I wonder sometimes if it starts to hurt his face the same way Rhythm’s constant frowning must hurt his. My emotions are so jumbled, I’m always feeling something different. No fear of getting an expression stuck onto this face. “You’re welcome in my bed anytime.”
I stare at him, feeling my cheeks turn a sort of horrible purple-red as I blush.
“Are you sure? Because humans shed over thirty-thousand skin cells per hour, so every time I sleep in your bed, I’m probably losing like, a quarter million …” Oh my ghost! Did you just mention shedding skin cells?! While sitting snuggled in your crush’s bed?! Have you lost your ever-loving mind, Alexiah?
I must have.
I really must have, because of all the useless trivia to blurt out, why did I have to pick something so damn disgusting?
Dutch glances over at me with a befuddled sort of expression, and then a bright burst of uncontrollable laughter escapes his throat. He slicks his fingers through his silver-blue hair as he gives me a quizzical look.
“You have nice skin,” he says with a loose shrug of his shoulders. “I guess, if anyone was gonna shed some in my bed, I’d prefer it was you.” He chuckles again and shakes his head, turning back to the iPad and the task at hand, pausing only to squirt some mustard on his toast, and spread it around with a plastic knife. Gross. Dutch’s only fault, the mustard thing. Well, okay, and the really bad singing thing. And the work-centric denial. And using smiles and grins to cover up and smother more pressing emotional issues.
Fine.
The guy’s a mess, I’ll admit it. I still like him.
I stand up, ignoring Syxx’s mewl of protest, and move over to sit in the chair opposite my boss’. He lifts his head to smile at me again, wearing thick, black rectangular glasses. He seems to prefer contacts in public; Dutch saves his glasses for the toughest clients. According to him, research shows people trust folks wearing glasses more than those without. I’m on the fence with contacts. Let’s just say that those little lenses and me, we have a complicated relationship.
Dutch’s smile freezes in place as he locks eyes with Rhythm’s leather jacket. It doesn’t fade or diminish, but there’s a static quality to it all of a sudden that makes me want to slip the damn thing off and chuck it into the flames. What the hell?
“Take a seat, and let’s go over this Nowaki stuff. I’ve checked all the camera feeds, but I can’t figure out what might be causing the family to see faces in the windows. Let’s just hope they don’t want to stick around for the overnight, and we can check all the usual suspects: distorted glass in the panes, a neighbor’s porchlight, peeping toms.” Dutch hands the iPad back to me and our fingers brush again. Heat that has nothing to do with the fire seeps into me as Syxx pads over and takes up a position between us on the rug.
I sit down and study the house map, photos of the bedrooms, the transcription of Mrs. Nowaki’s statements.
“Could be a tough one,” I say, realizing why Dutch decided to bring in Rhythm.
In cases he can’t figure out, Dutch Wylde always shifts blame to a higher power: God and the devil.
Mrs. Nowaki is clearly religious, so talk of demons is an explanation that’ll work. And demons can only be gotten rid of by the power of a priest, so we’re off the hook if we can’t solve the problem.
At the edge of my mind, I feel something tugging, and my head begins to throb.
Great.
I slept all of yesterday and all of last night, and it still hurts.
Orbs flicker and flutter in the corner of my eye.
“Is Rhythm still here?” I ask, spying his boots next to the fireplace.
Dutch, who’s now staring at his phone, pauses to glance over at them. Something strange passes over his face, and he shrugs.
“I think he went to lunch with that new girlfriend of his.”
“Good,” I say, but really I don’t care much either way. I’m just curious about his weird behavior last night is all. “Because if he’s spending the night at the Nowakis with us, I’m gonna need some space first to work on my paper.” I stand up, realize my laptop is fried, and then frown.
But good ol’ Dutch, he’s already handing me his.
“Here, you can write about penises on my computer instead.”
“Sexual health,” I grumble, but he’s right. I really am going to write about penises, vaginas, the whole lot.
“Good for you,” Dutch mumbles, smiling to himself. “Not bad for a virgin, right?”
I slap him in the shoulder hard, but I don’t confirm or deny that.
It’s none of his damn business anyway.
So why then does the flipping cat look so curious about that statement?
4
“Syxxth Sense”
“We’re spending a fortune to get swindled,” John Nowaki says, reluctantly passing me his credit card and watching with narrowed, brown eyes as I swipe it on my iPad and submit a four figure transaction that has him cringing when he signs the screen with his finger.
“I saw another face in the window last night,” his wife retorts, her voice hard. Last time we were here, just a few days ago, she was much softer. Clearly these faces she thinks she’s seeing are getting to her. She’s sitting on the edge of the couch in a white dress with pink flowers, and I don’t miss the subtle movement of her hand toward her calf, probing at the three scratches Syxx left behind. Bad kitty.
I push my glasses up my nose with my finger as Rhythm finishes his sweep of the house, dressed in black robes that just slightly mimic those of a real priest’s. If there is a hell, we’re all going to it, that much I’m certain of.
“You were right to call me in,” he says gravely, that brooding voice of his playing the part of a demonologist so well he doesn’t even have to act. Good thing, too, because I’m pretty sure that, despite his name, Rhythm Newhart is one note. “The spirits occupying this house are non-human entities.”
“They’re not ghosts?” Mrs. Nowaki asks as her husband jams his card back in his wallet, snatches his keys, and storms out the front door. He slams it so hard behind him that one of the pictures on the wall rattles and falls off. Dutch catches it one-handed, his face a grave mask as he studies Rhythm’s.
“In a sense, they are,” the faux-demonologist continues, moving into the living room next to the stack of cat carriers. This time, Syxx was let out as soon as we arrived, and Rhythm let in him through the back door with the broken lock. Just a few seconds later, we hear another crash from upstairs and Mrs. Nowaki jumps. Her eyes flick from Tate to Luke to me to Dutch, then back to Rhythm again. “But generally, demons haunt people, not places, so even if you moved houses, that wouldn’t solve the problem.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Dutch intervenes, stepping forward dramatically, gray coat billowing around him. My headache is better, but I swear it feels like there’s a string connected from my brain back to … somewhere. It’s tugging and pulling on my every thought, and I don’t like it. “But demon spirits, they were never people. They’re not just the dead, but something else entirely?”
“Exactly,” Rhythm says, opening this big, wooden box and pulling out a silver crucifix, chalice, bottle of holy water, and bundle of candles. “Demons haunt this plane from another world. While it is possible that they’ve opened some s
ort of portal and brought ghosts along with them, your main problem here is not simply a lost soul.”
“But you can get rid of it?” Mrs. Nowaki—I have yet to get her to give me her first name which is sort of telling—stands up, wrinkling her hands in the front of her dress. From outside, I can hear her husband laying on the horn, and I frown.
“We can, but it’s going to be dangerous,” Rhythm says on the end of a long exhale. He flicks his brown eyes up to meet Dutch’s, and our boss nods ever so subtly. “We may even need to bring in a proper priest.” Mrs. Nowaki makes a sound in her throat as more strange noises echo from upstairs. Syxx is really on a roll tonight. It almost sounds like there truly is someone up on the roof. “Tonight, we’ll assess the situation, and see if we can’t drive the entity out.”
“We’ll have a detailed report ready for you in the morning, so there’s really nothing more for you to worry about tonight,” Dutch says, putting his arm around the poor woman’s shoulders and gently guiding her toward the front door. “If there’s a portal here, we’ll find it. If there are ghosts, we’ll find those, too. All you need to do tonight is sleep well and let us handle the worrying for a few hours.”
Our client—our mark, really—nods and lets herself be escorted out the front door of her own house. We all wait patiently as their shiny black SUV rumbles down the driveway, sweeping headlights across the living room wall, and disappears down the quiet suburban street.
We’re in a new development, with postage-stamp sized lots dotting a pre-made cul-de-sac, but the Nowakis are the only house on the loop so far. The rest of the lots are made up of dirt, grass, and the sleeping giants of bulldozers and cement trucks. It almost feels like we’re alone out here which, of course, is what Dutch prefers.
“Fuck, I thought they were going to try to stay the night with us,” Rhythm groans, shrugging out of his robes and stretching his tattooed arms over his head. He yawns dramatically, and scratches at the front of his black t-shirt, looking pointedly around the beige and white living room. “This place is so boring, I’d be shocked if they had mice let alone ghosts. What’s your game plan?”
