Give Up the Ghost

by Jenn Burke

  “That’s awesome.”

  “And I asked around for support for Evan.”

  “He told me. He’s a bit freaked out about his appointment.”

  “He said he might ask you to go with him.”

  “He did.” Given how I’d fucked up my relationship with him, I wasn’t sure how good of a plan it was. But he’d asked me to be there, so I would be.

  Rosanna gave me a sidelong look. “Maybe you should talk to the doctor too.”

  “Me? Why? I’m fine.”

  “Wes.”

  “What? I’m not lying—”

  “You’re a god.”

  I snapped my open mouth shut and straightened, pulling away from the doorjamb. “No.”

  She sighed. “You might not want to believe it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  “Way to blindside him, Mom,” Lexi called from the living room.

  Rosanna gave me an exasperated look and abandoned her coffee. I followed her down the hall to the living room, where Lexi was now wide awake and scowling.

  “You said you were going to lead him to that news slowly,” she scolded.

  “You know as well as I do that slow and subtle doesn’t work on him.”

  “Hello. I’m right here.” I flopped onto Lexi’s couch, my legs stretched out on the cushions. “So you already discussed this?”

  If I’d known they were going to take the information I gave Lexi last night and come up with this...ugh, I still would have told them. What choice did I have? Between the two of them, they’d forgotten more about magic than I would ever know. I just hoped they remembered all the stuff that would help me.

  “While we were waiting for the doctor to sign me out,” Lexi said. “We knew what the crown was supposed to do, right? Give the focus of the spell immortality or—”

  “Godhood,” I finished bitterly.

  “You sound pissed.”

  “Because I am!”

  “Why? Think of all the good things you can do. You can help so many people.”

  “I never wanted this. I was happy as I was.”

  Rosanna sat on the coffee table, facing me. “Things change,” she said gently.

  “Okay—yes, usually. But this is me. I don’t change.”

  “Well, you have,” Lexi snapped. “So suck it up, buttercup.”

  “Suck it—” I blinked at her. “Really?”

  “Lexi, that’s not helping,” Rosanna said.

  “Sorry.”

  “But the underlying sentiment is valid,” Rosanna continued, turning back to me. “The crown is gone and there’s no way to undo what it did. You need to accept it and move on.”

  I shifted on the couch so I was sitting up properly. “Are you sure there’s no way to reverse this or...or whatever?”

  “Honey, I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she admitted quietly. “I’m not my grandmother, you know? April was... She was exceptional. Fearless with magic, in a lot of ways.”

  “And highly motivated to fix her brother’s mistake.”

  “Yes. And it cost her.”

  It had. The spell that had brought me back from the dead had drained April so much she’d never truly recovered her constitution. She’d lived a long, happy life, but she’d had only one difficult pregnancy and she’d been frail throughout the rest of her years.

  “There’s a reason Darrell and I decided to reclaim ‘Aster’ when we got married,” Rosanna said. “It was a tribute. A connection. I’m a decent witch—”

  “Mom, you’re better than decent.”

  Rosanna shot Lexi a smile. “I’m not being self-deprecating, just factual. I’m decent—good but not great, and I can’t undo what the crown did to Wes, even if I wanted to.”

  “You don’t want to?”

  “No, I don’t. Because Lexi’s right—this is a gift. Maybe a burden too,” she said with a shrug. “But only if you keep looking at it like that.”

  “Easy enough to say when it’s not your magic that’s causing holes in the otherplane,” I grumbled. “How do I stop it?”

  “That I’m not sure,” Rosanna said with a sigh. “Most of the information about gods has become the stuff of legends—and I mean that literally. There are tales about gods’ heroic and fantastical deeds for their people, but not a lot of details about how their magic worked. Works,” she amended. “That’s the problem with being something no one’s seen in centuries.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a step up or not from being something nobody’s ever seen.” Because as far as I knew, I was the only not-ghost ever. “So what do I do?”

  “Stop using your magic,” Lexi said. The duh was unspoken but implied.

  “At least until we can find more information,” Rosanna added.

  Stop using my magic. Sure. That’d be simple.

  Not.

  * * *

  I stood on the sidewalk outside the Candra Café, the first place we’d encountered imps. There was a red CLOSED notice from Toronto Public Health posted on the door, which made my gut twist with guilt. The imps had invaded Bhavana’s because I’d used my magic there—for a good reason, maybe, but I had to wonder if it would have been better if the customer had slipped. Being sued because of a puddle would have been better than being closed down, right?

  I sighed and, with a quick look around to make sure no one was paying attention, stepped into the otherplane.

  The interior of the Candra Café was empty. There were signs of work in progress—drop sheets to protect the floor, a stepladder, a hammer on the counter—but there were no workers present. I hoped that was because of the time—5:30 p.m.—and not because they’d given up trying to bring the place up to code.

  I walked through the construction materials and the counter to reach the back room, where the imps had originated. It wasn’t a surprise to find a tear there, near the back door. The tear was smaller than the one at Scott’s frat house—it wasn’t pulsing, either, and didn’t feel like a threat. Lexi had done a good job in patching it closed, but I saw where it could easily be torn again.

  I stared at it, considering my options. I’d meant for this to be a sort of dry run in my fix-my-shit plan, since it was the first tear we’d discovered and less likely to have people around it. If I could perfect my approach here, I would be less likely to put anyone in harm’s way at the hospital or Aurora House.

  But the approach I’d used at the frat house—which had been mostly willpower and brute strength—wouldn’t work here. Pulling on my magic like that would split Lexi’s haphazard seal apart, and then god knew what I’d be facing. If I was lucky, it would be only a few imps. If I wasn’t...

  Given how my luck was going recently, I wasn’t willing to chance it.

  If brute strength wasn’t the answer, what else could I do?

  I rematerialized and sank to the floor with my back braced against a wall, and stared at the space where the tear was. I couldn’t see it in the living plane, but I could sense it now that I’d seen and felt it in the otherplane. I reached into my pocket to pull out my phone, and something fluttered to the ground.

  Ren’s business card.

  I picked it up and considered it. He was the first one to name me a god—did he know anything Lexi and her mom didn’t?

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I punched in his number. It rang four times and I expected it to go to voice mail, but it connected.

  “Ren Oshiro.”

  “Hi. Uh, this is Wes—Wesley Cooper. Hudson’s—”

  “Oh yes, Hudson’s.” Ren’s voice dripped with suggestion, but I ignored it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? Have you reconsidered our business connection?”

  “No,” I said quickly—probably too quickly. “Sorry. But I think you’re going to need to give Hudson some time to rearrange his thoughts there.�
�

  Ren sighed, and some of the frivolity left his voice. “I do understand that. It’s not easy to change one’s perspective. So if you’re not calling for that, then, Mr. Cooper...?”

  “Wes is fine. And, uh, I have a question for you.” I scrunched up my nose. “I don’t suppose you know anything about nonwitch magic and how to seal tears in the otherplane?”

  “What’s the otherplane?”

  Shit. I let out a disappointed breath. “Forget it.”

  “Is this about what I called you? The G-word?”

  “I’ve had it, uh, independently confirmed.”

  “Glad to hear it. All right, so...magic is intuitive. Witches focus their magic using spells and rituals, for reasons, but other magic users don’t necessarily have to do that. I suspect you fall into that category. You can think something and it happens, right?”

  “Sort of.”

  “It’s all about will. Shaping the magic to what you want it to do. But also intuition—learning from the shape the magic wants to take.”

  I frowned. “Isn’t that a contradiction?”

  “Not really. Sometimes you need one, sometimes you need the other. Not one size fits all.”

  Okay...that actually made sense. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Remember this poor vampire’s contribution to your godliness, oh Lord Wes.”

  I hung up on his laughter.

  So...shaping and listening. Since I didn’t know what shape to urge my magic into, I decided listening was the better approach here. I leaned my head back against the wall, closed my eyes, and breathed.

  This was the first time I’d sought out my magic without trying to use it for anything, and it felt...weird. Weirdly natural. Ever since I’d realized my magic was bigger than it used to be, I’d been thinking of it like a separate thing. An invader. But it wasn’t, was it? It was me. Part of me, an essential part. Interwoven with my soul, as it had been from the moment I’d woken up after April’s spell, only bigger and harder to contain.

  But still familiar. Still mine. Understandable, now that I knew how to listen to it. I let its knowledge flow into me, over me...

  And grew more terrified with every moment that passed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I was so busy panicking over what my magic had told me, I almost forgot about Evan’s first appointment with his witch-healer-therapist. Cue some frantic driving across town to the Rosedale neighborhood—but I got him there on time. And then he told me he didn’t want me to come in.

  I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed.

  Either way, it gave me some time to think. I sat in the car—so I wouldn’t have to make small talk with the receptionist—and mulled over everything I’d learned, trying to make sense out of it. Because what my magic had told me...it couldn’t be right. Now that some time and distance separated me from the revelations I’d had in the Candra Café, logic insisted my imagination had dreamed up the actions I needed to take. Some twisted part of me—maybe the part that thought I should run whenever I encountered trouble.

  And every one of those logical thoughts reverberated with wrongness.

  By the time Evan emerged from the therapist’s office, his feet dragging, I still hadn’t reached any conclusions about what my magic had told me.

  What I thought my magic had told me.

  No...it had definitely told me something.

  Evan slid into the passenger seat of my Toyota and leaned his head back. He looked like he’d been up for three days straight.

  “Rough session?”

  He grunted.

  “Was it worth it, though?”

  Another grunt, and then, “Maybe.”

  That was better than an out-and-out no.

  “It was weird talking to a stranger. But...good. She didn’t judge me or anything, just...listened.” He sighed. “I needed that more than I thought I did.”

  That sounded a lot more positive than a maybe. I held in my enthusiasm, though—I was thrilled that these sessions might work for Evan, but it wasn’t about me or what I thought was best.

  “And she gave me these.” He held up a crystal on a leather string and a slip of paper. “A prescription for antidepressants, and a talisman that’s supposed to help my vampire brain absorb the meds properly.”

  “Yeah? You happy about that?” I wasn’t naïve enough to think that meds worked for everyone, but it was something to try, anyway.

  “It’s not going to fix everything. I know that. But the doctor said it was a part of a larger solution.” He let out a breath. “Honestly, if they can make it a little less overwhelming...”

  I rubbed his shoulder. “Yeah. Let’s go get that filled.”

  Pulling out of the parking lot, I headed in the direction of the office. The music was on low and I could barely hear the bass of the pop beats beneath the swish of tires through puddles on the street. The revelations from my magic prodded my tongue, but I didn’t say anything—Evan was staring out the window, clearly lost in thought, and he definitely had enough to occupy his brain for the moment.

  “She thinks I should take up painting again,” he said suddenly.

  “Who? Wait—you paint?”

  Evan turned to offer me a crooked smile. “I was studying art history.”

  Did I know that? I thought I had. Maybe. “I didn’t know you were an artist, though.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call myself an artist. I dabbled. Sketched.” He looked at his hands and flexed his fingers. “Haven’t in a long time.”

  “Does she think it’ll help?”

  “She said a creative outlet is a good way to get in touch with my emo—watch out!”

  I turned my attention back to the traffic in time to slam on the brakes and not hit the cube van that had skidded to a stop in front of us. My Toyota jerked forward as the car behind us tapped the rear bumper, but I didn’t think it was hard enough to cause any damage. In front of us, the van driver got out and rushed around the hood of his vehicle, hands rising to grab at his woolen toque.

  What the hell had happened?

  “You okay?” I asked Evan.

  “Yeah,” he said in a shaky voice. “Fine.”

  “Wait here.”

  I got out of the car and jogged to the front of the van. A crowd was starting to gather and multiple people were on their phones, calling 9-1-1. I pushed through the barrier of people, knowing that whatever I’d find on the other side wouldn’t be good.

  I hated it when I was right.

  Two people crouched over someone, one performing chest compressions while the other was doing mouth-to-mouth. I couldn’t make out any of the victim’s features—which was fine by me. The horrible, unnatural angle of one of his legs and the pulpy mass of one of his arms told me enough. He was partially under the van, which hid other injuries from view.

  “He jumped in front of me!” the van driver yelled at no one in particular. “I swear to god, I tried to stop!”

  “He didn’t jump! He was pushed!”

  A man on the far side of middle age staggered forward, none too sure on his feet. Someone grabbed one of his elbows to help steady him. His nose was brilliantly red from the cold—and maybe a few drinks at one of the nearby bars—and his eyes wouldn’t focus. But that could be shock too.

  “He was pushed!” he screamed.

  “Did you see who pushed him?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “It was no one.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I know what I said!” Spittle sprayed from the man’s mouth. “He was pushed, but no one was there. No one!”

  * * *

  I wasn’t surprised when Katrina Li came knocking the next day.

  Evan and I had stayed to give our statements to the police the night before, which basically amounted to “we didn’t see a
nything,” and that’s where our involvement should have ended. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the victim’s friend screaming to anyone who would listen that his buddy had been pushed by no one. Eventually the cops had allowed us to leave, right around the time that the victim’s friend had been carted into an ambulance.

  He had to be mistaken. Confused, or in shock, or maybe so drunk he didn’t know up from down. But if he was telling the truth...

  I didn’t really want to think about it.

  Kat stomped her boots on the mat and shot me a grin as she brushed off the snow her coat had accumulated on the short walk from the parking lot to our door. The white stuff had been coming down all day, in a lazy sort of way. Pretty, but made for lousy road conditions. “Wow. Empty in here today. Where are your buddies?”

  “My pointy-toothed friends are sleeping, and Isk’s out following a cheating spouse.”

  “Exciting.”

  “We know how to live. You want a coffee?”

  “Love one.”

  I got up to fiddle with the one-cup coffeemaker while Kat removed her jacket and gloves. By the time the coffeemaker was hissing out some brew, Kat had made her way into the office, a tablet in hand.

  “Can I get your opinion on something?”

  “Let me guess—the pedestrian who was killed on Yonge Street last night.”

  She froze. “How did you—”

  I tapped my temple. “Psychic.”

  “Really?”

  “No.” I handed over her coffee and quickly explained how Evan and I had been quasi-witnesses. Our names were probably buried on the last page of the report, since we really hadn’t had anything worthwhile to share.

  Kat held up the tablet.

  “There’s video?” I asked.

  “There’s video,” she confirmed, then started the playback.

  The footage was in color and provided a decent image despite the low-light nighttime setting. It was from a dashcam—the cube van’s, I assumed. It rambled down Yonge Street, flashes of streetlights and headlights from oncoming cars providing enough illumination to pick out pedestrians on the sidewalk here and there. The truck approached a green light with two men waiting on the corner for the light to change. Just before it reached the intersection, one of the figures at the corner lurched forward. The driver yelled, but I didn’t need that to know what the sudden jerking and shaking of the camera meant.