Every Breath You Take

by Chris Marie Green

“What happened?” Twyla asked.

  “I think she emp-blocked me,” I whispered.

  From her corner, 10 hugged herself, shivering, sending a narrow-eyed look around the van.

  Just like she’d known what we ghosts were gonna do to her.

  9

  “She’s onto us,” Twyla said.

  “Why don’t you try empathizing with her?” Marg asked. “Maybe Jensen is still too weak to do it properly.”

  “Hey! I’m charged up.” There went my temper again. But that was kind of par for the course tonight.

  “Sorry, Jensen,” Marg said in her reasonable way. “The odds are that it’s true.”

  Whatever.

  Twyla waited until 10 looked a lot less wary over in her corner, then eased into the van. Meanwhile, Amanda Lee kept her eye on us while listening to Sierra wrap up her Mom story.

  “The bottom line,” the girl was saying, “is that my mom came to me a lot after she died. She kept me company on the nights I needed it the most, like if a boyfriend broke up with me or if I got a bad grade on a test. She’d entertain me with stories about other ghosts she’d met and how confused they were and how they could really use a guiding hand. It wasn’t until years later, when she finally told me good-bye, that I realized she meant that I could be that guiding hand. I’m comfortable with them, and she’d been getting me to realize it. Even without her really saying it out loud, she wanted me to suck my guts up and explore the world around me more. She’d been with me so much that I already knew spirits weren’t scary or bad, just in need of some instruction and attention. So that’s why I’m here. To untangle the confusion so many of them have—”

  Sierra stopped, then tilted her head. This whole time, Twyla had been lying in wait against the roof, biding each second with 10.

  “Do you guys feel that?” Sierra asked, rubbing her arms.

  J.J. went for one of his meters just as 10 sat away from the wall, like she was about to scramble out of the van.

  But Twyla moved first, lengthening her arm until she touched 10’s neck. Right away, Twyla’s eyes turned an eerie, deep, shining blue, a stream of the same intense light coming out of her open mouth after she froze, color waving through her while she read 10’s thoughts.

  Or maybe not reading them, because after a split second, she snapped back to regular Twyla and zoomed backward, out of the van.

  She stopped her trajectory in midair. “Fuck it!” she yelled, punching the emptiness in front of her.

  The van’s windows rattled violently, and all the humans dove out. Except for Amanda Lee, of course. She just sat there, and I swore she would’ve been shaking her head if it wouldn’t have given us ghosts away.

  “Brrr!” 10 bellowed as she scuttled away from the van. She pointed to it. “There’s something in there.”

  Twyla came over to me and Marg. “That 10 skank blocked me, too. Threw me right out of her thoughts before I could read anything.”

  Sierra went to 10. “Landry, you okay?”

  A name! Finally. Or at least we had half a one, because it sounded like a last name.

  “It’s nothing,” 10 said, pushing back some braids from her face. “Just freaky, you know? I think there’s a real shitty ghost around.”

  Times three, and minus the shitty, I thought.

  Twyla assessed her. “That chick blocks like she’s on the Chargers.”

  “You already know some humans are capable of that,” I said. “For me, there was Amanda Lee, then Gavin Edgett. Every time I’d try to go into them, they resisted. In his case, he was highly suspicious, always had his strange-o alarm on.”

  “Until you, like, stopped haunting a confession out of him.”

  I didn’t mention that he was also subconsciously protecting that secret about his killing his abusive father. As for Amanda Lee? She’d wanted to keep the truth about her searching for Elizabeth Dalton’s killer from me, thinking the lack of truth would make me do what she needed me to.

  At first I’d been rattled by both of their cryptic ways, especially Gavin’s. But I didn’t pass judgment on them now. If there was one thing I’d learned in ghost life, there were times when killing was necessary, because it saved the ones who didn’t deserve to hurt. And because there were some humans who didn’t deserve to live, because of the misery and damage they brought with them.

  As my anger stirred up again, I looked at the X on Marg’s chest, then at 10, who was moving her shoulders around like the creepy-crawlies had gotten to her. Was she hiding something from us?

  It was just another thing we’d need to find out.

  * * *

  The Spirit Stalkers ended up asking Amanda Lee to come with them to wander the woods and see what kind of vibes she’d get from some of the more interesting places they’d visited after she’d left earlier. They’d used some research about the White Lady and the witch of the woods to track down a few possibly haunted locations that were connected with the legends, so I gave Amanda Lee my blessing to scoot.

  Before they set out, though, she took me aside to the front of the van. She gave me a real long look, like she was worried about me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re being pulled in a thousand directions, Jensen. You have been for a while.”

  “It keeps me busy.” And not bored. Or maybe that was the Mello Yello in my death system talking.

  “I always tell myself,” she said, “that someday I’ll bring another ghost like you into my confidences as an assistant, to help with the workload.”

  I gaped at her.

  “That’s not good news to you?” she asked.

  I didn’t know how to feel about that. Amanda Lee had so much on her plate, too, and my own death investigation, not to mention other assorted issues, had chipped away at our time for investigating my killer’s other victims, plus the dead people Amanda Lee had tried to raise before me to help her out with Elizabeth.

  She must’ve sensed my feelings because once again she softened the blow. “Hearing Sierra talk tonight . . . It reminded me of how much good I could do, as well, if I had more resources.”

  Sierra. Hmm. I hoped Amanda Lee wasn’t thinking with the ghostie between her legs.

  “Amanda Lee, we’ll get this situation taken care of and we’ll be back on track with the other cases. Wait and see.”

  She didn’t comment, just said, “Will you at least go to your death spot for some genuine rejuvenation? You need it after that scare you endured from the recording. Twyla and Marg will stay with me while you recuperate, and we’ll meet up tomorrow afternoon, after I’ve slept.”

  For some reason, it sounded like I was being brushed off. Touchy, touchy.

  She held up a finger to me, cutting off any protests. “You’re cranky, you’re tired, and I can’t blame you. The dark spirit pulled a couple nasty ones on you. Come to think of it, after you go to your death spot, you might also want to find someplace safe to relax even more.”

  “That’d be okay with me. Hearing my dying words out loud was . . .”

  “Shattering?”

  “Good word for it.”

  She got a second-thought look on her face. “Maybe Marg should stay with you. I’m sure Twyla will be enough of a bodyguard for me. After all . . .”

  “My killer’s not out to haunt you. I know.”

  In the end, I did go to my death spot with Marg. It was in the opposite direction from where the hunters were headed with Amanda Lee, Twyla in tow.

  When we got there, I took in the looming oaks, the silence, and the faint dirt-and-leaf smell of nature that wasn’t as intense as it’d been when I was human. Immediately after that, I began to resist being pulled to the ground where I’d breathed my final breath.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was resisting the emotions coming at me, too, because the last time I was here, fake Dean had sh
owed up.

  That shawl of depression weighed over my shoulders again as I thought of how he’d ultimately turned on me, how much I missed the good times with him. Dammit, though, why’d I have to miss him at all? It made no sense.

  Marg hovered nearby. “I haven’t been back to my own place. Not yet.”

  She was talking about her death spot, where she’d had the life choked out of her. It’d happened in her own house, her own family room.

  “It’s not so bad to go back,” I said, still holding out against my own home, sweet home. “I mean, at least you’d get a huge rush out of it. Twyla told you that the farther you go from your death spot, the easier you get drained?”

  “Yes. It was one of the first things she mentioned.”

  “So you know you’ll have to go back soon or you’ll start to fade into an imprint.”

  “I will.”

  Ugh, this was so very fun. But not. That depressing heaviness really had its thick threads around me now, suffocating me while pulling me to my death spot. I didn’t want to go to it yet, though, not after Marg had brought up this sensitive topic. I wanted to be a mentor, too, dammit.

  “I hear that even ghosts like Jim Morrison have to go back,” I said. “He and some of the higher-profile ones supposedly haunt more than one location, but there’s always a final resting place, like a bathtub for Jim, waiting for them.”

  Marg surveyed my spot—just a piece of ground with dirt and leaves under an oak tree. Tens of people had probably walked right over it, never knowing I’d died there.

  She said, “A death spot sounds like a bad boyfriend who tells you he loves you and won’t let go, even while giving you nightmares. Is that what it’s like to go back for you? Twyla said it’s that way for her.”

  “Well, it is a sick, dysfunctional relationship. It’s gross how something so bad makes you stronger.”

  I couldn’t battle the force—the trembling, the noise—anymore. My whole essence was crying for my death connection.

  “Don’t worry, Jensen,” Marg said. “I’ll make sure nothing gets you while you take a rest. I’m here.”

  And I believed her, just like so many students had no doubt believed her before she’d retired into her cougar years.

  I let my spot haul me to it, the white noise fading into a black hole as it embraced me like it had long, dark, spindly arms, hugging me to my murder and submerging me in it. . . .

  Running, hiding, praying that he won’t get me. Then . . .

  The mask. Shriveled skin, long nose, blue eyes behind the grotesque grandma-face rubber.

  The ax, swinging down at me—

  Over and over I saw it, but I when I eventually pulled myself out, I was whole again, humming with energy, revitalized.

  And still pissed off at my killer, except a million times worse.

  The sky was paling as I escorted Marg to where we heard the ghost team trampling through the leaves and twigs less than a mile away. Just before I left her with Twyla and Amanda Lee, she started to hug me with compassion from seeing me go through my death-spot renewal, but her arms passed right through my form, making us both fritz.

  “Oh,” she said. “I keep forgetting.”

  “Me, too.” I sent her a small smile, then nodded at Twyla. “Amanda Lee wants me to go somewhere and rest until late morning rolls around. You good with that?”

  Amanda Lee, who was nearby listening to Sierra chat about the legend of the forest gypsies, who I could feel hiding behind those trees again, subtly cleared her throat.

  “That’s a yes,” Twyla said, floating back and forth, like she was pacing, eager for the hunting team to finish for the night. “You need to be as strong as you can so, like, we can get that bad-turd spirit put down.”

  “Ten-four,” I said.

  Then I whipped up my travel tunnel. But before I dove into it, I realized that I had no idea where I should be going. My little cottage here in the forest was out of the question, since fake Dean had given it to me, and there was no telling what kind of kooky traps he could’ve installed in it. Amanda Lee’s casita, my old haven, was spirit-proofed now.

  I thought of Gavin. It’d been only half a day since he’d had that tiff with Suze, and something perverse in me turned over in excitement. I tamped it down, but whatever was dogging me was impulsive, insistent, pushing me toward the travel tunnel.

  As I hopped into it, I told myself that, hey, I was actually on my way to the Edgetts’ so I could check on Wendy.

  Yeah. Wendy.

  After I tumbled through the pink, I flew out of the tunnel just in front of her second-story window. Scott was lounging near the ground, his pronged fingers plugged into an outlet while he charged up.

  Waves of slight color danced through him as he opened his eyes, seeing me.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Uh-huh. I thought I’d just check on Wendy.” Erm-erm.

  “I already got that covered, sis. You bored or something, then?”

  He was watching me like . . . Oh, right. Like I was the dark spirit imitating Jensen.

  “Just ask me a spy question,” I said. “You know, like I did with Louis earlier.”

  And, yup, he’d clearly been dying to. “Once, you told me your favorite surfboard. What was it?”

  Easy. “A 1980 Ocean Pacific short board. Next?”

  He was already satisfied. “So, did you hear the recording Louis was talking about?”

  “Yup. Pretty sure it’s my killer talking on it, and he’s doing it to boo me.” Bored now. “So, uh, how is Wendy?”

  He sent me a suspicious look. “She’s just grundy.”

  I thought that could mean either good or bad.

  “Say,” he said, “you’re not really here for her, are you? I think you’re just wondering about her brother.”

  I bluffed. “Like, no way.”

  I’d been around Twyla too much tonight. And it wasn’t just my speech that was telling me that. Some of her rash behavior had clearly rubbed off also, and it was prodding me to do a flyby of Gavin’s window, just to see if his curtains were open.

  Scott closed his eyes and relaxed again as he charged up. “He’s not even home, so forget it.”

  Hmph. So where was Gavin, then? On a beach, throwing stones into the water and nursing a broken heart? Or was he at a bar, drowning his sorrows?

  “Already forgotten,” I said, settling to just above the ground next to him.

  I hovered. Do-do-do-do-do. Hovered some more.

  “What’re you doin’?” Scott asked, his eyes were open, his gaze impaling me.

  “Amanda Lee told me I should get some downtime.”

  “Could it be somewhere else? Your downtime is a drag on my downtime, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “But I—”

  I thought I heard the sound of a sports car.

  Darting up from the ground, I flew to the alley where the downstairs garages were. Sure enough, a silver Corvette was making its slow way toward the entrance.

  I fizzed, I fluttered, I frittered away my time in the air, wondering what to do next. Then guilt struck me, because I had no business here. But, dammit, wasn’t Gavin sort of my friend now? And wasn’t it a friend’s responsibility to make sure he was okay after a breakup?

  That impulsive urge made me fly down and into his garage just as the door was closing and he cut the engine. No spirit-proofing down here.

  The overhead light sputtered at my presence as I got too close, but I didn’t mind it as I waited for his door to open.

  And . . . his door wasn’t opening.

  I lowered to the driver’s-side window, where he was still in his seat, slumped, his eyes closed. He had the longest lashes. . . .

  I stopped right there. Like thinking about his lashes was cool. Why wasn’t I at Suze’s right now, checking on her a
nd her own lashes?

  What was wrong with me?

  Trying to sort out my cluttered head, I moved toward the tiny gap between the garage door and the wall, thinking now would be a great time to get out of here. But I couldn’t resist one more look behind me.

  Gavin still hadn’t gotten out of the car. Something was wrong.

  I inched over to his door again, peering in the window. The guy was asleep, and he had a pained look on his face, too.

  He was hurting, even unconsciously, and my chest twisted into an agonized shape for him. Thing was, I had the power to affect moods just with a touch, and I’d given people happy thoughts before, not only scary ones. But that was when they were awake and susceptible to hallucinations.

  Still, I’d also gone into sleeping people and interacted with them in their dreams.

  I backed away from the idea, fidgeting. The top of his window was cracked, just as it’d been when I’d entered his Corvette in Suze’s parking lot. And Gavin . . . he was already having a bad dream. I could tell by how he flinched every so often.

  I couldn’t help it—I slimmed myself into a line, sliding through the window crack.

  He smelled of whiskey. Had he been driving drunk? Shit.

  On a streak of impulse, I touched him hard, right at the neck, and, with an electric whoosh, I tumbled into his psyche, spinning and spinning endlessly. . . .

  I landed somewhere. Then, slowly, like time was bent and weighing me down, I righted myself, getting my bearings, feeling the body that I always had in dreams, just like I did whenever fake Dean had been with me. I could feel like a human here, and could be hurt like one, too. Dreams could be beautiful but dangerous.

  Months ago, I’d done some dream digging with Gavin to see what lurked in the depths of him, to find out if he was capable of murder. His mindscape had been full of a video-game designer’s creative genius: fire, dragons, flying machines, and spidery monsters. After he’d been cleared of Elizabeth Dalton’s murder, there’d been blue skies, oceans, and Suze.

  Now, as a draggy wind blew, caressing my neck with my hair, I found myself standing on a colorless floor with emptiness all around me, except for a simple stand to my right.