by Anna Abner
Derek groaned in pain, both physical and mental. “I don’t—I can’t—” If he had any other spirits at his disposal, he wouldn’t put up with Jolie’s attitude, but he couldn’t trust anyone else. At least he was sure Jolie wouldn’t turn on him because she loved her sister. “Fine. But your voice only.”
“Fine.”
“Tego,” Derek cast. A shimmering barrier expanded to include the entire apartment, protecting them from foreign spells as well as any intruder—human or spirit.
Everything went eerily still and quiet. So quiet, Derek’s ears rang from the sudden lack of stimuli. Perhaps he’d been plagued by more spirits than he’d known about. Perhaps he’d gotten better at tuning them out than he’d realized.
His tormentors were gone, though, so long as he remained within the walls of Jessa’s home.
“Derek?” Jessa’s face had gone white, made even more dramatic thanks to the wispy gray shadow trailing her. “I heard Jolie’s name. Is she here right now?”
He nodded.
“Oh, my God.” Her tears returned, and she covered her mouth with one hand. “Are you serious?”
He nodded again.
“Ask her if she wants to talk,” Jolie said from outside the living room window where she’d been banished after his spell.
Derek ignored her. This wasn’t the time. They had spells to cast, spells that could take hours to finish.
“Stop ignoring me!” Jolie snapped. “Do you hear me?”
He bowed his head, his fingers dancing across his tense neck, kneading the sore and tired muscles.
“I just wish someone would listen to me,” Jolie railed. “Why is it so hard to get people to listen? Jessa wouldn’t hear me when I told her I was a witch. Rebecca wouldn’t hear me when—”
Derek’s head snapped up. “You’re a witch?”
Jessa squeaked in surprise, her green eyes widening.
“I was a witch,” she answered. “I’m dead now.”
He’d never met a witch’s spirit before. “Does anyone else know?”
“The only person I ever told was Jessa,” she said, her expression darkening. “And she wasn’t that impressed.”
Derek remembered a bit of gossip he’d heard at some point in his life that dead witches possessed additional power. Perhaps that’s why channeling Jolie felt like harnessing a tornado.
“You may be the answer to everything,” he marveled. With that kind of spirit power, there was no limit to what they could accomplish.
She frowned. “How so?”
“Witches have more power,” he explained.
“I never learned how to be a witch,” she told him. “I only just figured it out days before I died. I’m no good at casting. I tried one little spell and set my bed on fire.”
He chuckled. His first time channeling spirit power hadn’t gone any better. “We’ll practice. It’s fine.”
Jessa stepped into his periphery, and he realized with a pang of embarrassment it must have appeared like he’d been having a two-minute conversation with a window.
That’s not what normal people did. And he wanted to be normal for her in ways he never had before.
“Sorry,” he said, unable to make eye contact.
“She’s really here,” she said, a catch in her voice. “You’re talking to her. This is real.”
He gathered what pride remained and looked up into her face only to find her on the verge of tears.
“Yes,” he said.
“What are you doing now?” she asked, and then pointed at one of his glyphs.
The demon over her shoulder taunted him, not to mention the neon spell marks marring her perfect skin. He hated them so much he felt like punching something. Preferably Paul’s face.
“Protecting you,” he said tightly.
“How long will it take?” Jessa asked, glancing nervously at Esmeralda’s closed door.
“A while.” The spells were complex and strong.
“I’ll be in the bathroom cleaning up.”
He nodded as she left, and then he knelt upon the carpet, and said, “Integumentum.”
Chapter Eight
Blood ran from Jessa’s fingertips—so much blood in one day—and swirled down the sink.
“My sister’s a ghost,” she said aloud as she stood in her bathroom, thinking it wouldn’t sound so ridiculous spoken. She was wrong. It was even more ridiculous.
When people died, they left. Their bodies went into the ground and their souls drifted into the unknown. Gone.
Never once had Jessa imagined her sister floating around her apartment watching over her and occasionally complaining to random necromancers.
Jessa peeked in on Derek, but he remained on his knees in the living room chanting in a foreign language.
Supposedly with Jolie’s help.
So many things had gone wrong between her and Jolie in the weeks before her death, and a few immediately before. So many things left unsaid. At the same time—too much said. Jessa couldn’t think of her sister without feeling guilty. She expected she always would.
Even if Jessa believed she could communicate with her sister, she didn’t know what she would say. “Sorry” was so lame. Her apology would have to be epic, but she just didn’t have the mental stamina to compose one. Yet.
Shaking her head, Jessa left Derek to his business because she couldn’t think about the supernatural anymore. It was making her headache worse.
Her cell phone was in her purse in the kitchen and when she turned it on, she had several messages from her boss and a couple callbacks from Monday.
She texted Ryan, I’m coming down with something. Won’t be available the rest of the day.
That should buy her time to deal with Derek and everything else going on.
The other texts she ignored.
She was scrolling through a weather report when Esmeralda’s bedroom door popped open, and she rushed out.
“Wait,” Jessa called. “Where are you going?” Her life was such a wreck today, she couldn’t lose Esmeralda too.
Her roommate paused on the threshold. “I’m leaving you two to your twisted love story. I’ll stay at my friend’s place.”
Derek ceased chanting and looked up. “Jessa needs you.”
“Don’t even act like you know what she needs, freak.” Esmeralda slammed the door behind her.
“I may never see her again,” Jessa said sadly. She supposed that stabbing a man had been a lot for her friend to deal with. Maybe if she heard how many disturbing things Jessa was dealing with she’d better appreciate their situation.
Her feet itched to chase Esmeralda and apologize, but again she just couldn’t scrounge the energy. Her headache pounded.
Derek resumed casting in lilting, foreign phrases.
As if he couldn’t care less about Esmeralda defecting. As if nothing fazed him at all. While Jessa’s entire life crumbled around her ears.
She didn’t know anything about magic, but she knew fear, and it infected her system like a plague. She turned and fled, needing space and a moment to gather a plan of action. A hard copy of Paul’s offer on Derek’s property crumpled underfoot.
Jessa collected the printed contracts strewn across her bedroom floor and sorted them. They stated, once signed and notarized, that Derek would relinquish legal rights to his home in exchange for a specific sum of money. A very generous sum of money too. She glanced through them, her eyes skimming across the spots highlighted for his signature.
She felt like a chump, felt taken advantage of. She felt like a damned fool.
One page at a time, she tore the offer to shreds.
“I’m taking a shower,” she announced to Derek, not even sure he was listening. It didn’t matter.
She was streaked with blood and dirt, surrounded by paper scraps and the sounds of Derek’s spell. She needed a shower. A long one.
The weird thing was, even shut in the bathroom with the door locked and the water running, his gruff voice leeched through t
he walls.
He was so different, and she wasn’t sure the changes were all positive. He hadn’t been obsessed with magic and ghosts before his accident. Or, if he had been, he’d kept it on the down low.
If she didn’t know him as well as she did, she wouldn’t have recognized him under his shaggy hair and beard scruff. Gone were his quick wit and fluid speech to be replaced with monosyllabic replies and a slight stutter.
And his clothes! Oh, lord, his clothes. They were atrocious, ill-fitting, off-brand jeans. The kind of shoes old men and invalids wore. His long lost shirt had been nothing but a discount store’s polyester disaster. How could his sense of fashion have changed so much in four months?
Clean and dry, Jessa pulled on some pajama bottoms and a white baby tee and then wandered into the kitchen looking for brunch ideas because ordering in wasn’t an option with Derek murmuring to himself in the living room.
Her gaze bounced around from the specialty wheat bread with a round orange sticker on it to the jar of organic mayo with an identical sticker. Esmeralda was very sensitive about her groceries. Jessa had always been understanding of Esmeralda’s dietary needs, mainly complying they were off limits, but looking at the food, all she felt was grief that she’d left in such a hurry she hadn’t even packed all her stuff.
She added to her mental to-do list to call her friend as soon as possible and make things up to her. Until then, she grabbed the unmarked oatmeal and skim milk.
“Are you hungry?” she asked Derek.
“No,” was the only reply she received.
She heated up some oatmeal and stood at the stove watching the lumpy mixture simmer. And for some reason she saw her car smoking and sputtering on the side of the road in the jumble of oats and milk. The man and woman had appeared in the drivers’ side window as if by magic, and before she could fully process what was happening, they had spirited Derek away. Plucked him from the car and tossed him into their own like so much luggage. The ease with which the pair had taken what they wanted frightened her.
And to think she’d brought him here. She’d practically served Derek to them on a silver platter.
Jessa didn’t realize the oatmeal was boiling until a gust of sweet, steamy air hit her nose.
“Crap.” She turned off the burner and slid the pot off the heat.
“You okay?” Derek called from the other room.
“I’m a little distracted,” she admitted, “but everything’s fine.”
Quickly, she slapped together a couple pieces of toast and ate alone at the kitchen counter. As she chewed what may as well be wet cardboard and grade school paste, her cell phone chimed. Her stomach clenched at the thought of receiving a gloating message from the mayor.
It wasn’t Paul.
You should be at work today, Ryan texted.
Rolling her eyes, she turned off her phone without responding. It was too much effort to fight with her boss. Instead, she set her dishes in the sink and threw away the remains of her breakfast.
So far, everything Derek had told her about magic and the mayor had come true. But they hadn’t killed him. They’d bullied him, cut him up, and left him for dead, but they hadn’t actually seen the deed through.
“Why did Paul let you go?” she asked, pausing in the kitchen archway. “Not to be a pessimist, but if he’s as evil as you say, why didn’t he kill you?”
The chanting died off. “My blood is a part of the spell,” he said. “If I die, the spell loses power.”
So, he was valuable to them, but only as a means to their selfish ends. Jessa clenched both fists. It wasn’t fair. He was worth so much more than they gave him credit for.
“I’ve got to finish these shields,” he said, “so when he does come, we’re prepared.”
She stared at his bare back, her gaze tracing the lines of muscle and bone visible under flesh streaked with dried blood. She may not be able to help him with the magic stuff, but she possessed other skills.
“You need clean clothes,” Jessa said. “Did you bring any luggage?”
* * *
Derek studied the filthy jeans in question. On his feet were the ridiculous Velcro sneakers he wore every day. He still hadn’t learned how to tie his laces. That skill was simply missing. Either way, he did need clean clothes.
“My suitcase is by the door,” he said. Before he could go after it, Jessa had the overnight bag in her arms and was dumping the contents on her bed.
“Is there another one?” she asked, confusion on her face.
He saw the tumble of jeans and shirts from her point of view. It wasn’t very impressive.
“These are almost as gross as the clothes you’re wearing now,” she lamented.
He tried not to take that as an insult.
“I had to pack fast,” he explained. Though his hasty exit from Alaska really didn’t explain the sorry state of his current wardrobe. The truth was, he just didn’t care what he looked like or what he wore as long as it was comfortable and weather appropriate.
Sweating under Jessa’s scrutiny, Derek started to care very much.
“Luckily,” she said, stuffing all of his clothes back into the bag, “I have the answer.” She dug around in her closet full of mostly feminine dresses and dark, slim slacks. From the very rear, she pulled a zippered garment bag and held it up for his inspection. It was so long it covered everything but the top of her head.
“This was at Rebecca’s office when she closed up. Remember you used to keep an extra suit there in case you needed it and you didn’t have time to run home? And this was there too.” In her free hand, she held up a toiletry kit.
“Take a shower,” she instructed. “And then you can get dressed. You’ll feel so much better.”
He did as he was told because his shields were holding and, truthfully, the idea of hot, soapy water washing away the evidence of everything that had gone wrong in the day was a glorious one. He locked himself in the bathroom, stripped, and turned on the hot water as high as it would go.
When he stepped into the shower, scalding water cascaded over his back. As he turned to face it, the water stung, but he didn’t care. He lathered enough soap for two men, and then scrubbed his flesh raw. All of the fear and guilt and shame rinsed off him in layers, circling the drain in a muddy spiral. Finally, when the water began to cool, he was satisfied.
Steam hung heavy in the small room, and Derek didn’t bother wiping the mirror to see his reflection. Witnessing it wouldn’t help him feel any better. Instead, he wrapped himself in a large, white bathrobe. When he swung open the door, cool air rushed in, and he experienced a moment of dizziness at the abrupt change in temperature.
“Better?” Jessa stood in the spot he’d left her.
“Yes.” He eyed the garment bag suspiciously.
“Wait,” she said, chewing thoughtfully at her bottom lip. “Before you get dressed, can we please do something about your hair?”
“My hair?” His hands ran through the long blonde strands. It was well past his ears and uneven. “I haven’t c-cut it in a while.” Since before he’d left North Carolina, in fact.
“I can tell.” She spread the garment bag beside him on the bed and clasped his hand. “I used to cut your hair for you, do you remember? Back in the old days?”
He pulled his hand away as her words retrieved a memory. Sitting in a desk chair, his laptop balanced on his knees while Jessa trimmed his ends. How could he have forgotten such a sweet and intimate moment between them?
“I do,” he said softly.
“You complained you didn’t have time for haircuts. So, I learned by watching YouTube.”
“That’s so sweet,” he said. “Thank you.”
“That’s the first time you ever thanked me,” she admitted, and then got busy collecting supplies and scissors from around the apartment.
He situated himself in a kitchen chair. After a few minutes, Jessa joined him with a comb, a towel for his shoulders, and a pair of shears.
Jessa
acted as if she knew what she was doing, ruffling his hair, making parts with her comb, and always her hands sure and quick upon his skin. Eventually, he closed his eyes and savored the sensations. This didn’t count as touching, anyway. This was a service he might receive from anyone.
Her fingers were small and warm on the back of his neck, sort of tickly.
“All done,” she announced, giving his bicep a squeeze. “Let’s suit you up.”
“I got it.” Being coddled like a spoiled infant didn’t sit well with him. He may have gaps in his memory, but he was a full-grown man who didn’t want to give Jessa the wrong impression of him. He could damn well dress himself.
Derek carried the toiletry kit into her bathroom, shaved, and then applied the fancy antiperspirant and cologne. The slacks fit well, but the button-down white shirt was a little tight around the chest and arms. He’d gained muscle while working in Alaska. The suit jacket was equally snug, so he left it in the bag with the silk tie. He opened the top button of the shirt, and finally faced himself in the mirror.
He looked different.
For the past four months, he’d worn jeans or sweat pants with discount shirts and sweaters. He’d dressed for the weather, but without any care for fashion or design. He stared at his reflection. Who was the slick and glossy young man staring back?
Without a definite answer, he concluded he could do a little better from now on. Sweat pants were for sick people and athletes. He was neither.
Derek stepped out of the bathroom barefoot, and when Jessa saw him framed in the doorway, she visibly flinched.
“Holy cow,” she said, raking her gaze up and down his body.
Derek fiddled with the buttons of his shirt and then his belt. “Is it okay?”
“Okay?” She guffawed. “You about knocked me off my feet. So, yeah, I guess you look ‘okay.’” She continued chuckling as she appreciated his new appearance.
“Can you help me order more clothes?” he asked, forcing himself to stop fidgeting. “Like I used to wear?”
“Of course.”
She dug a pair of leather shoes from the bottom of the garment bag and offered them to Derek. “Put these on and we’ll get some new stuff online.”
