Perception

by Eliza Lainn

  When I shuddered again, it was for entirely different reasons. My mind snapped back to Noah hurtling across the living room. The sound of his back connecting with the wall. The whoosh of metal flying through the air. Screaming. Shouting. Chills. Fear.

  I hadn't been afraid of the ghosts until that point.

  But I was now.

  My eyes fell on the debris scattered around the living room. Books ripped from shelves, the torn tapestry, the ottoman flung across the room. The lighter knick-knacks we'd used to decorate littered the floor. Our curtains had been ripped off their rods—all except one, which hung limply in the window.

  It'd been like standing in a tornado. Cyril's fury had turned into wind and madness as objects flew. Noah had taken the brunt of that wrath, and when he'd left, he'd been covered in budding bruises and red cuts.

  Oliver had stayed beside me, his lingering touch on my shoulder chilling. The howling wind, the levitating objects, the taste of ozone in the air—it had all been Cyril.

  One ghost.

  Just one.

  "He's not coming back," I said, my arms tightening around me. "I won't—he's not coming back."

  He sighed again. "I'm sorry I lost control like that."

  "It's fine."

  "Stella, I—"

  I stood up from the couch. "It's fine," I repeated, grabbing the nearest thrown book and smoothing out it's wrinkled pages. Bronte would pitch a fit when she came back.

  God, Bronte. What was I going to tell her?

  "Stella—"

  "I ordered him to get off of me," I said, not looking up. Not that I could see either one of them but still, I couldn't look up into the room. Instead, I picked up another book from the floor. "My voice...it changed."

  "We know," Oliver said. "We heard it."

  "Have you ever heard anything like it before?"

  "I haven't—neither of us have." Oliver sighed and I could hear his frustration. "And you can't remember how you did it?"

  "No."

  "You sounded angry."

  "I was angry."

  "Maybe that's part of it?"

  Cyril remained quiet.

  With my arms full of books, I took them back to their shelves.

  Oliver continued. "What else did you feel?"

  "Just angry," I said, but my voice didn't even sound that convincing to me.

  Oliver hedged softly. "Scared?"

  Sighing, I slid the last book home but kept my hand on it. I stared at the spine of it. Another something I saw everyday but hadn't really looked at—just like with the pocket watch. The pocket watch, that despite the storm, had stayed perfectly still on the fireplace mantle. "Yes."

  "What went through your mind?" Oliver asked.

  I grabbed the curtains and moved toward the window. It was easier to talk if I worked. "He was...he was just on top of me. His hands were around my wrists and it hurt. It felt like an Indian burn—you know, where someone twists your skin in opposite directions. And I was so angry that I'd invited him into my home. I felt so stupid. And then I hated how weak I felt, how easily he just seemed to—"

  "Where are you going?" Oliver interrupted.

  I turned then, looking into the empty room. But I still couldn't see them.

  "I can't hear this," Cyril grumbled.

  "Cyril—wait."

  I stared into the empty room for a beat longer before turning back toward the windows. I'd just managed to get the curtains back up when Oliver's voice floated from near my shoulder. "Please continue."

  I managed to turn my jump of surprise into a swooping motion as I bent to pick up another book and place it on the shelf. "Where's Cyril?"

  "Your bedroom. He just needs a minute. What happened next? You felt angry?"

  Nodding, I moved toward the Paris painting that had been on the mantle—now in the kitchen. Thank goodness it didn’t look damaged. Hefting it up, I answered. "Yes." Then it all came out in a rush, so much easier now that Cyril wasn't listening. "And terrified. I just kept thinking of how I couldn't do anything. I couldn't get him off me, I couldn't call for help. I'd just let him hurt you two like that." I shoved the painting back into its place.

  "We're fine, Stella. We're fine."

  Tears began to well in my eyes and I brushed them angrily away with the back of my hand. "And I just kept remembering how Rose had stormed in here yesterday, repeating his name as if it meant something when we had no clue what she was talking about. Noah Walker. Noah Walker."

  It hit me. I looked down at my hands. "Noah Walker," I repeated, still staring.

  Oliver caught my change in tone. "What is it?"

  I flew into my bedroom, throwing the door open as I did.

  "Stella, not—" Cyril started then stopped as I dashed straight to my bookshelf. "What is it?"

  My eyes skimmed the shelves, looking for the familiar hefty, black bound book. When I found it, I snatched it and held it reverently in my hands.

  Oliver read the title over my shoulder. "The Name of the Wind?"

  "It's a story about a guy who can conjure the wind. Because he knows the name of it."

  I could hear the frown in Cyril's voice when he spoke at my shoulder. And it took everything I had not to jump at the sound. "What is the name of the wind?"

  "The reader doesn't know. It's something only he—the main character—does. But he can control it because he knows the name of it." Still clutching the book, I turned toward the room and prayed I was at least somewhat facing them. "It's name invocation."

  There was a beat of confused silence before Oliver asked. "What's name invocation?"

  "It's the power of names. Naming thing, knowing their names, it gives you power over that thing. It's a type of magic—well, fictional magic. I've read about it in fantasy stories. This one is the latest I can think of having read, but it's not the first time I've come across it."

  "Not so fictional anymore," Oliver chuckled drily.

  I managed a small smile. "No, not fictional anymore."

  "How does it work?" Cyril asked. I turned as he took the Samwise figure from the shelf behind me. He took it to the far end of the room.

  I slid the book back onto the shelf. "Everyone has three names. A given name, an assumed name, and a true name. They're really self-explanatory: a given name is what your parents call you when you're born, an assumed name is a nickname you take on for yourself, and a true name is the name supposedly etched on your soul. That one is absolutely unique—no two names are exactly same. It's supposed to be the name bared on your spirit when you stand before your maker—so that in Heaven or whatever you believe in, you're completely unique. It's also the most precious. Supposedly, in all these stories, if someone learns your true name, they could have complete control over you. Your soul is theirs to command."

  "Note to self," Oliver aimed for levity, "don't tell Stella your true name should it happen to dawn upon you."

  I quirked up a smile.

  "What else?" Cyril asked.

  I looked over at the Samwise figure. "Your given name is the second most important. Magicians, or, I guess in my situation, psychics, can exert a little bit more influence if I'm given a given name."

  I could practically hear the frowns so I explained. "Giving your given name—or birth name—to someone is dangerous. It's why introductions used to be so big back in the day. It's dangerous for a person to volunteer their name to another. Hearing it secondhand from someone else lessens the impact because it's not given directly—because we all say names differently: the tone, the inflection, the sound. If we give it out, we give the exact way it's said, so there's more power in it. And there's supposedly a power in giving things. As owner of a name, you're not supposed to give it out. It'd be like—like giving a voodoo shaman a lock of your hair or something. It's a big no-no. Does that make sense?"

  "As much as anything else that's happened today," Oliver mumbled. "People shooting laser beams out of their eyes, name invocation. And I thought we were weird."

  If he
was expecting Cyril to respond, he didn't. Samwise continued to float but he didn't comment.

  "Go on," Oliver said.

  "The last one is an assumed name. It's like a ward meant to completely protect against someone holding your name against you. There's no power in it so it's safe to give out. Charlotte's name, Bronte, would be an example of that."

  "But I thought the story went that you gave her that name?"

  "I did. Or rather, I suggested it. But she was the one who took it and ran with it—using it to introduce herself to other people."

  "So you unknowingly gave her a shield against your own power," Cyril mused.

  I looked at Samwise. "I guess so."

  "What on earth?"

  I—and I imagine the ghosts did too—turned toward the unexpected sound of Bronte's voice. Then I raced into the living as Samwise plummeted to the bed.

  Bronte stood just inside the entrance, staring at the wrecked apartment in absolute horror. When she saw me charge into the room, her eyes snapped up to meet mine. Her lips moved, forming silent words, but it took a minute for the sound to follow. "What happened?"

  Oliver let out a low whistle. "You're going to have to tell her now. About everything."

  I tried to ignore how pleased he sounded by that. "It's a long story."

  Bronte waved at the destruction. "Good. You can tell me while you're cleaning it up."

  Chapter Thirteen

  For the most part, Bronte didn't do angry. She did upset on occasion. And annoyed maybe once in a blue moon. But full-blown angry was not something she experienced often, not with her fair attitude.

  When she did reach angry though, even Tolkienesque orcs would have run for cover.

  Eyes flashing, she stared down at me with the most repulsed look I had ever seen. I wouldn't have even thought her face could screw into such a scowl. "Purified?"

  "Yes," I whispered, still huddled into a ball on the couch. I had my arms wrapped around my legs and I, for whatever macabre reason, couldn't look away from the fire on her face.

  "You allowed him in here to purify our spirits?"

  Behind me, I heard Oliver let out a pleased chuckle. "You hear that? She said, 'our spirits,' like we fit here. Did you hear that, Cyril?"

  "Yes, Oliver, I heard her."

  Both Cyril and I were trying to ignore the joviality in his tone. Oliver, however, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying Bronte's wrath.

  "Go back to the part," Bronte snapped, "where you decided not to tell me about any of this."

  Now I had to look away. "I'm sorry, Bronte, I just...I just wanted to have this handled, you know?"

  "Handled." She spat the word out like a curse.

  "I made a mistake."

  "You did a hell of a lot more than that."

  I flinched at her tone and her language. She never swore. Never.

  I'd really pissed her off.

  I continued staring at the ground, not sure what else to do.

  "And he said the longer the four of us continue to live in close proximity to each other, the greater the risk of summoning that monster back here?"

  "Yes."

  "Because it had happened to him before? And he'd shown you the scars?"

  "Yes."

  "And knowing how afraid he was, knowing that he'd already been hurt once, you thought it'd be a good idea to invite him over for a little tête-à-tête?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Idiot," she snapped, cutting me off. "You're supposed to be smart, Stella, but that was a real stupid thing to do."

  "I wanted to talk with him more."

  "Then you invite him out for coffee or something. A neutral site. You don't bring him to exactly where he wants to exorcise the ghosts—you do know that's what purification is, don't you? Exorcising them?"

  "But I thought Cyril and Oliver might have questions too."

  She ground her teeth together. "Then you write them down and take them to him later."

  "I—yes, you're right. I should have done that."

  She took in a sharp breath. I winced, expecting another verbal attack. And her words were angry. But the content surprised me. "And the bruises on your arms?"

  I raised my eyes up enough to see the splotchy purple marks around my wrists. My instinct was to jerk them out of her sight but it was too late for that. She'd already seen them. And I'd already told her what Noah had done while he was here.

  Behind me, the ghosts were absolutely silent.

  When she sighed, I looked up to see her posture had fallen. Sagging shoulders, the fire drained from her eyes, her lips pulled into a frown. Her eyes met mine and for a minute, we just stared at each other.

  I opened my mouth to apologize again when she held up a hand to cut me off. Then, without a word, she trudged into her room.

  I wanted her to slam her bedroom door. I wanted the wall to rattle from the impact of it—violent anger somehow seemed easier to deal with than icy distance.

  But it just clicked shut as softly as it always did.

  "Crap," I mumbled, leaning my head back against the couch.

  She'd looked so betrayed. So hurt.

  And she had every reason to. I'd essentially let a madman in our apartment to kill Oliver and Cyril. All without telling her a thing. Keeping her in the dark.

  I'd meant it to protect her, to keep her from making the tough decisions. On the surface. Beyond that, if I really examined my thoughts, I knew exactly why I hadn't told her.

  I hadn't wanted her to stop me from letting Noah purify them.

  Cyril had called me out on it. And for some reason, having the ghosts know that about me was different than Bronte. They could see my cowardice because they wouldn't be around long enough for it to matter. But Bronte?

  God, I'd called Noah a coward, but what did that make me?

  "I'll talk to her," Oliver said, his voice floating past me toward Bronte's closed door.

  Then I felt a chill tingle down my arm. It didn't move, didn't brush past, but stayed. A cool patch just barely grazing my arm.

  "You ok?" Cyril asked.

  I shrugged and filled my voice with mock enthusiasm. "She wasn't as excited about the newfound superpowers as I'd hoped."

  "She'll get there. Maybe she's just jealous her own superpowers haven't developed yet?" he played along.

  "Maybe this is the impetus of our epic superpower rivalry?"

  "Could be. A clash of psychic titans."

  "Psychic titans?"

  "Oh, do you think psychic juggernauts sounds better?"

  I felt a wave of appreciation for him. For not blaming me for trying to have him purified. For not kicking me when I already felt down. For just sitting there, ready to agree with whatever I said. For trying to make me feel better.

  I leaned in toward him just a little closer. "No, you're right. Psychic titans does sound much better."

  "She'll forgive you, you know."

  "Really?"

  "I've been friends with Oliver for over one hundred years. We've fought more times than I can count. But we always forgiven each other afterward."

  "And you don't think that has anything to do with the fact that you've been alone with each other for the past one hundred years?"

  He made a razzberry sound. "Of course not. It's all down to my persuasive charm."

  "Obviously." I sighed. "I screwed up, Cyril."

  His tone softened. "But at least you recognize that you did. That's a step toward mending the situation." When I didn't answer, he sighed. "She'll forgive you, Stella. Just wait."

  I did wait. All the rest of the day. But she never came out of her room.

  And I was far too cowardly to knock on her bedroom door. As I slid into bed, Cyril assured me that she'd want to talk in the morning. That, most likely, Oliver was convincing her to forgive me.

  But when I woke up the next morning, she'd already left.

  And had taken the pocket watch with her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Why would she take the pock
et watch?

  I stood in her bedroom, looking around at the Parisian styled furniture dotted with The Lord of the Rings memorabilia, the wide array of pineapple decorations, and at the clothes hung in her closet in color coordinated order. It felt wrong to be in there—we hardly ever went into the other's room. At most, we leaned in the open door frames if we needed to speak with the other while they were in their room. It was our unspoken arrangement: bedrooms were private.

  But she'd taken the pocket watch when she'd left earlier. And the ghosts with it.

  I should have thought about her leaving before I woke up—she usually did on Sundays. I was the night owl; she was the early bird. It should have dawned on me that she'd be gone by the time my lazy ten o'clock morning pulled me from bed.

  The Ouija board was set up in the center of her room, on the floor, a discarded pencil and an unused notepad nearby. I checked all the trash cans for the paper she must have used to write down whatever Oliver told her, but they were gone too. She'd most likely taken them when she left.

  The apartment felt strangely empty without the ghosts haunting it. Thinking back, it had only been two days since we'd made contact with them. Well, two days since we could communicate with them. They'd always been here though. Ever since we'd bought the pocket watch.

  It hadn't occurred to me that removing the pocket watch from the property meant the ghosts could leave the building. But why would she want to take them? Where would you take a pair of ghosts anyway?

  Not to Noah, certainly. She'd been furious that I'd try to exorcise them. Maybe to her parents' house? Thinking it would be a safe place to stash them while she dealt with Rose's new boyfriend?

  It hurt that she hadn't trusted me enough to tell me her plan. But then again, I really didn't have room to complain.

  I grabbed my phone from beside my bed and tried calling her. She didn't answer. Neither did she respond to the text messages I'd sent. A thought crossed my mind to call Rose, but the last thing I needed was to explain to our third that we'd been fighting because I'd allowed her boyfriend into the apartment to exorcise a pair of ghosts and he'd turned on me instead.

  A knock came from the door and I rushed to answer it.