The Cloak's Shadow

by Elle Beauregard

  "Hey," Callum said as he drew near. "Don't you live across the river?"

  "I met a friend for brunch," Zander replied. "Don't you live across the river?"

  "Nah, my place is just up the street."

  "I thought you said you were walking my way last night," she replied.

  "To the foot ferry," he said.

  Oh.

  Wait, there was a foot ferry?

  Callum must have seen the question on her face because he smiled and ticked a nod up the block. “It’s that way. Cheaper than a cab or a ride share, as long as you don’t mind the walk.”

  Huh. How had she not seen anything about that when she looked up the route earlier? Then again, she supposed she hadn’t looked it up other than through the rideshare app...

  “Thanks,” she said. “You know your way around like a real local.” She smiled at Callum, lifting a hand to shield the sun from her eyes. He was backlit, his hair shining gold like a halo.

  Damn. How was he even better looking than her memory of him?

  “Yeah, I’ve been here a while,” he replied. “You met a friend for brunch, huh?”

  “Yeah. It was killer,” Zander said. “Are you meeting someone?”

  Callum tilted his head and ran his hand up the back of his hair, revealing the toned underside of his arm. "Not exactly. I’m picking up crepes for my brother.”

  "The crepes were legit," Zander remarked. "How’d he earn crepe delivery? Or did you lose a bet?”

  Callum’s laugh was easy and open. “He works long hours on Saturdays, so I take him crepes for lunch. You do okay last night after I split?”

  Zander felt her neck warm again. She hadn't expected him to, but it would have been nice if he'd just forgotten the whole falling-asleep-thing had ever happened.

  "You mean when I woke up?" She laughed as she hitched her purse up onto her shoulder. "Did you tuck me in?"

  Callum's smile was a little sheepish. "You looked so peaceful," he explained. "I wanted you to stay that way."

  Zander rolled her eyes and fought the smile that was trying like hell to spread across her lips. She almost won, so it showed up as a smirk instead of the full grin she was feeling.

  He was straight up adorable. First delivering crepes to his brother, then talking about not wanting to wake her up while he tucked her into bed. Who was this guy?

  "I swear I wasn't that drunk," she felt the need to say. "I was exhausted."

  "I figured as much," Callum replied. "You didn't seem pass-out drunk or I wouldn't have agreed to come up to you place."

  Good answer, dude, she thought to herself. Was it bad that made her want to extend the invitation all over again?

  What was with her lately?

  She needed to get out of here before she did something stupid. "Well, I should get going," she said. "There are boxes to unpack calling my name."

  Callum gave a laugh. "Fair. Have fun with that."

  "Good luck with your crepe delivery,” Zander added with a smile. “I hope your bother knows how lucky he is.” Too much? Ugh why did she sound so ridiculous? Before she could say something else ridiculous, her ride pulled up. “I’ll see you around?”

  Callum was smiling when he gave a nod. "For sure.”

  With a nod of her own, she checked her phone to confirm the license plate number of the car, then popped the door, fighting to keep her lips from asking him what he was doing later in the day.

  You need to unpack, she told herself. Focus on being productive.

  Not getting laid.

  "Would you want to get coffee tomorrow morning?"

  Zander turned back around to find Callum looking at her expectantly.

  "I saw the coffee cups in your trash can as I was leaving last night," he added. "Figured maybe you'd wanna try a new place?"

  "You were riffling through my trash?" she teased.

  His blue eyes narrowed, and his smile turned sarcastic in response. "Your trashcan was by the front door."

  Oh. Right.

  She'd meant to take that out this morning.

  Not that she was going to let him off that easy. He was fun to tease.

  "Yeah, uh huh," she responded with good natured ribbing. Then she grinned. "You nailed my coffee habit. And I'm always down to try a new spot. Especially a local joint."

  "Totally local," Callum confirmed. “They roast their own beans and everything.”

  She could have drooled he was so sexy, standing there talking about local craft coffee roasters. "Say, ten o'clock, then?"

  "Perfect," Callum agreed. "Text me your number and I’ll text you back the name. Deal? It's walking distance from your place."

  Very smooth. "Yeah, okay. That works.”

  Zander got into the car after another set of see-you-laters with a grin on her face and her heart in her throat.

  She needed to reign it in. She was twenty-six, not sixteen.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Wren jogged up the stairs to her apartment, she was thinking about how glad she was to have reconnected with Zander.

  Zander was a cool chick, and the two of them had been close friends in undergrad, but that had been years ago. Not long after they’d graduated, Wren had cast off from her life in Washington. She'd needed space, new adventures, new scenery and new people. She'd needed independence and the freedom to be herself—no matter what that meant, or who she wanted to be with.

  She'd dated plenty of dudes in college, which was fine. She'd liked every one of them. But with every man she'd been with, an itch under her skin had grown stronger. And she'd known what it was—it had been there since she was a teenager.

  She was attracted to men.

  She was more attracted to women.

  And denying that made her skin tight.

  She'd thought about dating women back then—she'd even known a couple of women who wouldn’t have said no if she'd asked. Women she liked and was attracted to.

  But she couldn't. Not in Seattle.

  How do you go on a date when being seen in public by your family would be the same as sentencing yourself to a living hell? How was she supposed to enjoy herself while she was constantly looking over her shoulder?

  “Just tell your grandma,” the few friends who knew her secret had said. But they didn’t understand how unreasonable an idea that was.

  Her grandmother would disown her.

  Her aunt, uncle, and cousins would follow suit.

  And then she'd have no family.

  So yeah, she'd launched herself away from Seattle as soon as she'd had the chance. Now she rarely saw any of them, but at least she still had a family. And she could date whoever the hell she wanted.

  She could also invest in friendships with people who didn’t bat an eye when they found out she had a girlfriend, like Zander. Which felt pretty fucking great.

  The sound of music from behind her apartment door had Wren pausing and smiling as she turned the key in the lock. She pushed the door open to reveal her fairy-thin girlfriend standing in the kitchen, pouring milk into a bowl of cereal, moving gently to the hipster rock song blaring through the Bluetooth speaker while she did it.

  Wren paused, then slowly eased the door closed behind her so she wouldn't disturb Bridgette's musical enjoyment. She watched her long, blond waves dance against her shoulders, and her thin, yoga pants-covered hips sway in rhythm with the music as she turned toward the fridge with the carton of milk in-hand.

  Shaking herself out of her lurking, Wren smiled. She slowly moved into Bridgette's line of sight so she didn't startle her.

  Bridgette paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth. Her green eyes lit and her blush-colored lips stretched into a smile, "Hey! How was the rest of your brunch?"

  "It was good," Wren replied, pulling her purse off her shoulder and setting it on the bar top that separated the kitchen from the rest of the studio apartment. "I thought you were having breakfast with your parents this morning."

  Bridgette nodded as she crunched on the bite of cerea
l she'd just shoved into her mouth. "I did," she said after she swallowed. "They're old. We ate breakfast at eight. I hung-out there for a while, but they had shit to do and I wanted an excuse to leave so I told them you'd be home soon and you have to work tomorrow."

  Wren smiled. She loved watching Bridgette do mundane things like eat a bowl of cereal. "You know I don't. Have to work, I mean."

  Bridgette shrugged. “Well if I hadn’t ducked out after breakfast, I would still have been with my parents when whatever the hell that was happened.” Then she shoved another spoonful of cereal into her mouth.

  That was definitely true. “What the hell was that?” Wren asked with no expectation that Bridgette had an answer.

  “No clue,” Bridge replied, “but it felt like every hair on my body stood on end.”

  “Like my fucking internal organs were being pulled up to attention,” Wren added. “It was intense.” She’d never felt anything like it.

  Bridgette’s brows furrowed. “You said you were okay on the phone.”

  Wren shook her head. “I was. I am. It only lasted a second or two. One second I was talking with Zander, the next I was standing beside the table. I think I freaked her out.” She couldn’t have stayed sitting if she’d tried, the sensation was so strong.

  “Shit, that sucks,” Bridgette replied before stuffing another bite of cereal into her mouth.

  Wren laughed appreciatively under her breath at Bridgette’s response and kicked off her shoes. Zander had looked like she wanted to bolt and it had taken effort to relight the conversation but they’d managed it.

  Wren could still feel a shadow of the chill that had come on in the aftermath as her eyes fell on her unmade bed. Sometimes she longed for the privacy of a bedroom she could close off from the rest of her apartment, but the money she saved renting a studio meant she and Bridgette would get to travel like they wanted to—as soon as Bridgette was healthy enough to do it. She crossed the room and drew the mandala-embroidered comforter back up to cover her teal sheets. Next she started plucking the jewel-toned throw pillows from the floor and tossing them onto the mattress, arranging them until they made a makeshift sofa.

  The sound of crunching faded. "I’ll do some research and see if I can figure out what it was all about,” Bridgette offered. “But other than the unidentified weirdness, how did it go catching up with your college friend?"

  “It was great, to be honest," Wren replied, making her way back over to the bar. She perched on one of the stools so it was easier to talk. "Better than I expected, even," she went on. "Zander was always great. She seems different now, somehow, but not in a bad way."

  Bridgette's brows furrowed with question as she took what looked to be the final bite of her cereal. The crunching wasn't as loud now as it had been minutes earlier.

  "There's a heaviness to her," Wren explained. "But then, I think there always was. I just never picked up on it before. Plus I think I heard some serious shit went down with her family after undergrad—that’ll make anybody heavy."

  Wren was different, too, now, she reminded herself. Different than she'd been when she'd first met Zander.

  "Heavy how?" Bridgette asked.

  Wren shrugged. "Sort of dark, I guess. Not dark, like negative. Just... serious. Though I suppose she was always kind of serious."

  "So maybe she's the same," Bridgette replied. "Maybe you're the one who's different."

  Wren smiled. "Maybe. Hard to know."

  "So, did you tell her you're a witch?"

  Wren nearly choked on her own laughter. "No.”

  "Did you tell her your girlfriend is spiritually sensitive?"

  "I told her I have a girlfriend," Wren replied. "That's enough for one conversation, don't you think?"

  Bridgette laughed, but it cut off with a hitch. Her brows furrowed and her breath caught as her shoulders bowed forward. Then she was smiling again like nothing had just happened.

  "Defib?" Wren asked. She didn't need to ask. She knew.

  Bridgette just rolled her eyes and waved her hand, dismissive. "It's fine."

  She was right. It was fine. Every time that implanted defibrillator activated, it kept Bridgette alright.

  She'd said once it felt a little like being kicked in the chest when her defibrillator fired. Not painful, per se, but not painless either.

  Every time she saw it happen, Wren wasn't sure whether to rejoice because the thing was working and keeping Bridgette safe and healthy—or to sob because she needed it at all and every time it went off was proof of it.

  "Stop looking at me like that," Bridgette remarked. "I'm fine." She was smiling, but her voice had lost some of its teasing and flirtation.

  ⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸

  Wren watched her fingers slide up Bridgette's thighs. Her skin was so fair, Wren thought, inspecting the way her own brown skin contrasted against the pale pinky-peach of Bridgette's. She looked up to see Bridgette push her head back into the pillow, her back arching and her barely-there breasts straining upward.

  Somewhere in the back of Wren's mind was a sound like a faint record scratch, but she pushed the sensation away as she prowled up her girlfriend's body, bringing her lips to her thigh, her hip, her flat stomach, her sternum where the scar from her last surgery wasn't nearly as pronounced as she expected it to be. No longer red, but a pale, shiny pink.

  She kissed the scar and smiled with the sensation of Bridgette's long, thin fingers scoring into her hair. Then she brought her hand to one of Bridgette's perky breasts and leaned in so she could draw a lazy circle around the taut, pink nipple with her tongue.

  She chuckled low and satisfied when Bridgette gasped her name.

  This was too good.

  Next thing she knew, Bridgette's hands were firm on her shoulders and Wren was being pushed up and turned until it was her back on the mattress and Bridgette was above her. Her pale green eyes locked onto Wren's and her fingers slid down, down, to the place Wren wanted her so badly—

  The first touch was like electricity, sending her skin buzzing and her heart pounding.

  "Oh fuck." Wren reached down between them until her fingers grazed the impossible softness between Bridgette's legs.

  Then it was all hands and mouths, gasps and sighs and moans.

  And that record scratch feeling again.

  It was too good.

  Pressure began to build, low in Wren's belly. The same pressure that was making Bridgette's core squeeze her fingers.

  No. This was too good.

  Wren's consciousness split: the part of her that was riding Bridgette's barreling climax—and the part of her that was screaming at her to stop.

  They couldn't do this.

  Bridgette couldn't do this.

  Wake up!

  Wren, WAKE UP!

  Wren gasped awake like a drowning person pulled from the water.

  Her lower belly was aching; her thighs were burning, and her panties were wet. She was breathing hard and sweat was beading between her breasts.

  Beside her, Bridgette was snoring lightly, smiling gently while she slept in her favorite t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, her hair pulled into a messy knot on the top of her head.

  Wren reached up to her own hair, wrapped in the silk scarf she always slept in. Not loose. Not with Bridgette's fingers tangled in it.

  With a breath she wasn't certain was from relief or desperation, Wren pushed herself up out of bed. Dampness welled between her legs as she crossed the tiny apartment to her bathroom where she closed herself inside and locked the door before closing the toilet lid and plopping herself down onto it.

  She hated dreaming about Bridgette like that.

  And she loved it.

  Loved it because she loved her. And because making love to her made all the sense in the world.

  Hated it because those dreams were the closest to making love the two of them could share. At least until Bridgette finally got the transplant she'd been waiting for longer than Wren liked to think about.

&nbs
p; CHAPTER FOUR

  "Who are you?"

  Callum closed his eyes and drew a breath. Besides him, Rhia lifted her head and snuffled—something she did every time a peaceful, means-no-harm spirit was close by.

  Sometimes she snuffled all damn day.

  "Wait, can you see me?"

  The spirit's energy felt young. As Callum opened his eyes, he hoped he wasn't about to be talked at by a kid. Visitations from children were always so heartbreaking. But the boy who stepped into his line of sight wasn't a child—though he wasn't an adult either. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, but at least he wasn't six. Or three.

  Callum wasn't sure how he knew, but he could tell this kid hadn't passed away very long ago. It was easy to know his death had been tragic—no young person's death isn't tragic, no matter the cause—but his energy didn't feel like the chaotic scramble of someone who'd passed unexpectedly, like in an accident. He'd known it was coming.

  Probably cancer.

  God, Callum hated this.

  "You can really see me." The boy rushed forward, elation on his semi-opaque face. His baseball cap was too big, but his matching baseball shirt fit like it should. He tried to grab Callum's arm, but all that happened was goosebumps rising where the boy's fingers slid through his skin, followed by the electric water feeling Callum wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to. The boy was momentarily flummoxed—which wasn't an unusual response, especially for one newly passed—but he was undeterred.

  "My parents are sitting right over there," the boy said, pointing to a table nearby.

  Callum surreptitiously let his gaze follow the boy's gesture to where a man and woman sat, eating without any of the markers of enjoyment: no smiles, no conversation. It was easy to know they were this boy's mother and father, even if he hadn't told him so.

  "My name is Mitchell," the boy pressed on. "Can you tell them I'm okay? I keep trying to tell them, but I don't think they can hear me."

  Why did it have to be a kid? Callum could usually play it all off like nothing was happening, but when it was a kid—well, he often found himself breaking his own rules. Which is what he was going to do today as well.