Missing, Presumed Dead

by Emma Berquist

  “Hmm,” she says, pressing her lips together to make the sound. “Nicole didn’t tell me you were touched by death.”

  “What did she tell you?” I ask, crossing my arms, but Priscilla only smiles.

  I don’t like the way she’s looking at me, like I’m an insect waiting to be pinned and studied. Lexicus mortem. She glides forward and suddenly she’s in front of me, reaching for my hand. I stumble back.

  “Please,” she says, holding out her own hand like an offering.

  “I— That’s not a good idea,” I tell her. “For either of us.”

  “Lexi doesn’t like to be touched,” Nicole says.

  “Is that what she told you?” Priscilla’s lips tug up. “I already know what awaits me, my dear,” she says to me. “Can you say the same?”

  She lifts her hand a fraction higher and levels her gaze at me. Slowly, keeping my eyes locked with hers, I place my hand palm up in hers.

  Electricity shoots up my arm, leaving my fingers numb and my mind reeling. Her death twines around me like a cat, rubs against the inside of my skin. Priscilla glances up at me sharply, her eyes glittering.

  “Interesting,” she says, trailing her fingers lightly over the lines on my hand. “Not just touched by death. Beloved by him.”

  “Enough,” I say harshly, pulling my hand back before I do something I’ll regret. If death loves me, he has a fucked-up way of showing it. “That doesn’t help me any.”

  “I apologize,” Priscilla says, gracefully moving away. “Your gift is quite rare, and I admit I’m curious. Have you ever thought of selling your talents?”

  I rub my palm on my jeans, trying to make the tingling go away. “No. No one wants what I can do. And I wouldn’t tell them, anyway.”

  “Not that part,” Priscilla says, waving a hand. “But you can talk to them, can’t you? The dead? Mediums are always in demand.”

  My mouth twists. “My ghosts do a lot more than talk.”

  “But there are others,” she says. “Grandmothers who want to know the good china is being used. Husbands who still pine for their widows.”

  She says it like I could fit into this story, sitting over candles and comforting the bereaved with messages from their loved ones. As if I could offer any kind of comfort.

  “That’s not why I’m here,” I say.

  “Of course,” she says smoothly. “But should you ever change your mind, please consider this an offer.”

  The condescension sets my teeth on edge, and Nicole steps between us.

  “She has an object she needs you to read,” she says.

  Priscilla closes her eyes for a moment and makes a humming noise in her throat. “Yes,” she says softly. “You brought me something with a death imprinted on it.”

  “I did.”

  “It’s quite powerful,” Priscilla says, opening her eyes. “Come. This way.” She leads me over to the high-backed chairs in the center of the room. She sits down in one of them with a flourish, her small body folding into the chair with the slightest rustle of silk.

  I sit across from her, a small round table between us. I’m surprised there isn’t a crystal ball on it.

  “Now then,” Priscilla says, “give me the token.”

  She holds out her hands, and for a moment I have the strangest urge to hide the picture away, where no one but me can ever see it. I shake myself and take a deep breath before placing the sketch in her palms. She looks down at it and frowns; her face loses its dreamlike expression.

  “No,” she says. “This isn’t right.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “This one is almost empty. It’s lonely and shut away.”

  She drops the sketch on the table, pulling her hands away.

  “Aunt P?” Nicole asks tentatively.

  “This isn’t the right one,” Priscilla says. “This isn’t what I’m sensing.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, snatching up the sketch. “I need you to read this; it’s important.”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “There’s nothing for me to find in that one. There’s something else, something that’s yelling at me.”

  “I don’t have anything else.”

  Priscilla makes an angry, frustrated sound. “Stand up,” she orders, snapping her fingers at me.

  I do, but only because I like this bossy version of her better than the lofty, mystical one.

  “Nicole,” she says, “take the picture and move to the wall; it’s interfering.”

  I hand the sketch to Nicole, and she scuttles off to lean near the twinkling lights on the wall.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “Stand still,” Priscilla says. She draws herself up to her full height, which barely clears my chin, and raises her hands. She doesn’t touch me, just lets her fingers hover by my face before moving them down near my neck and then shoulders. She circles me, keeping her hands moving, like she’s stroking the air around my body. She makes a full turn, checking my chest and stomach, then hunching down when she reaches my legs. That’s where she stops, halting right in front of me, her hands going still in front of my right hip.

  “There,” she says with satisfaction as she straightens. “There’s something in there.”

  Frowning, I reach into the pocket of the dirty jeans I pulled off my floor earlier. My fingers dig into the fabric and close around something small and sharp. As soon as I feel it I remember, and then I pull a dead girl’s nail out of my pocket.

  Priscilla sucks in a breath. “Can you hear it?” she asks, but I don’t think she’s really talking to me. “It sounds like drums. Like a heartbeat.”

  She holds out her hand, and this time I don’t hesitate. The nail falls into her open palm and she shudders, stepping back and collapsing into the chair.

  “Priscilla?” I ask, but she holds up her empty hand.

  “Wait,” she says, her voice strained.

  “It’s okay,” Nicole says, coming to stand by her aunt’s side. “She always needs a moment at the beginning. Let her work.”

  A wave of cool air washes over me, like a pocket of cold in the ocean. This magic is different, as unlike mine as oil is from water. It’s smoother, thinner, and smells like salt and bleach. My eyes start to water as Priscilla’s hand twitches.

  “There she is,” she whispers, her mouth barely parting.

  “What do you see?” I ask, leaning forward.

  “Poor girl,” she says. “So scared. She couldn’t move.”

  “She was spelled,” I tell her. “They all were. Can you see who killed her?”

  Priscilla shakes her head. “I can’t see what’s outside her. Only what’s within.”

  “What else?” I insist. “There has to be more.”

  “It’s muddled.” Priscilla frowns. “Everything’s dark.”

  “You need to give me more,” I say. “I need to know who.”

  “She never saw his face,” Priscilla says. “No, that’s not right. She couldn’t see his face.”

  I swallow hard. “Was he wearing a hat? A ball cap?”

  She presses her lips together. “I can’t tell. His face . . . it’s like a smudge. Like it’s been erased.”

  My hands curl into fists, anger thrumming in my veins. I want to run, want to scream, want to smash something.

  “She felt it,” Priscilla says, but I don’t want to hear this part. I’ve already seen it, dreamed of it too many times. I stand up, try to shut my ears.

  “She felt the life leave her body, being taken away,” Priscilla says. “There wasn’t much left. There should have been more. Before the sickness took hold, she was so full of life.”

  I pause, turn back to her.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “That’s what everyone always told her,” Priscilla breathes. “Veronica. She was full of life. And he took it.” She opens her eyes and they look fevered, far too bright for the light of the room. “Or he tried to.”

  There’s a flash of pain in my
arms, and I look down and realize I’m digging my nails into my own skin.

  “Lexi, what is it?” Nicole asks.

  I don’t answer, slips of voices running together in my mind. She had her whole life ahead of her, Jane’s mother says in my head. She was the life of the party, Macy tells me. Spark plug, Isaac whispers.

  “I have to go,” I say, not understanding what I need to understand.

  I move toward the door, needing to get away from this place and the chlorine smell that’s burned into my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Nicole. “I can’t explain.”

  “Wait,” Priscilla says, standing up. She holds up her hand, the nail still resting in her palm.

  I shake my head. “Keep it.”

  Her fingers snap around it and she smiles at me, her teeth showing.

  “Thanks for your help,” I say, my hand on the door.

  “Come see me anytime, my girl,” Priscilla calls after me. “And think about my offer.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “Sure.”

  The bell sounds like a laugh as I leave.

  The scream trapped in my lungs is building. My throat is hot and tight, my breath coming in short pants, like the scream is taking all the air in my body. The sun is just rising, turning the palm trees black against the red light. I roll down the windows and speed, trying to let the wind soothe the ragged noise inside me.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Jane yells at me when I finally get home.

  “Long story,” I say, slamming the door behind me, still feeling raw and wild.

  “So start talking,” Trevor says.

  “Ilia was hurt,” I say, stripping off my sweatshirt. “And things got complicated.” I glance around the apartment, kick over a pile of laundry. “Where are the files Ilia gave me?”

  “What do you mean, ‘complicated’?” Trevor asks.

  I spot some papers sticking out from the bookshelf and tug them free.

  “Lexi, you’re freaking me out,” Jane says. “Would you just tell us what’s going on? What are you looking for?”

  I sink to the floor, spreading out the files on the missing people and Veronica’s autopsy. “I don’t know yet. But there’s something here, something we missed.”

  I start at the beginning, tell them about Ilia, about Priscilla and the reading.

  “She was like you,” I say, looking at the autopsy. “The way people describe you. Bright, full of life. That has to be the connection. The other missing people, they’re young. Vibrant. Look at this kid.”

  I hold out the paper to Jane, who blinks at me. “Seriously? Ghost, Lexi, remember?” she says, waving her hands at me.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I say, and slap down the file with a picture of a boy holding a skateboard. “His mom said he was spirited. He had ‘carpe diem’ painted on his skateboard.”

  “I . . . I don’t know, Lexi,” Jane says. “It seems like a reach.”

  “Trevor?” I ask, looking up at him. “You see it.”

  “I’m not sure,” Trevor says, frowning. “Lots of people are described that way.”

  “So it’s just a coincidence?” I crush the papers in my hand. “Nicole said Marcus was outgoing. That he never stopped talking.”

  “How would he know?” Jane says, sitting next to me. “I’d never seen the guy before that night; how could he know what I’m like? What any of us were like?”

  “I know it doesn’t make sense,” I say. “But he knew. He must have known something about you, somehow. That’s why he didn’t want Veronica, because she had cancer. She had the right spirit, but she was dying.”

  “Lexi, you’ve been awake all night,” Jane says gently. “I think maybe you should get some rest.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Trevor says. “Why don’t you lie down for a while? We’ll be quiet.”

  I shake my head in frustration. The answer is close, but I can’t see it yet. It’s like a word on the tip of my tongue, like a song I can almost place. I study the file in my hand, Veronica staring back at me, looking different from the ghost that kept blinking in and out. Like she didn’t have the energy to stay in one place.

  “Lexi? Bed?” Jane prompts.

  She felt the life being taken from her, Priscilla whispers in my head. I swear I hear mocking laughter follow. I swallow hard, not sure what to do next. I’m afraid I might be wrong. I’m more afraid I might be right.

  Veronica’s ghost kept flickering. Jane should be stronger than she is. And Marcus never materialized at all.

  “He took it.” I stop and clear my throat. “He took your lives. But not because he wanted to kill you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jane says.

  “He took something from you when he killed you. Your life force. Energy can never be destroyed, only transferred. That’s why you can’t hold your form, why Trevor was able to stop you.”

  “Oh, god.” Jane shakes her head, steps away from me. “No, that—no.”

  We don’t do that anymore, Jordan said. Not even the old-timers. But maybe he’s wrong.

  “I need to talk to a witch,” I say, looking down at my phone.

  “Uh, okay,” Trevor says. “So call your friend.”

  “No,” I say. “I need an old witch. Someone with access to much older spells.”

  The problem is I don’t know many witches my age, let alone older ones. In fact, the only person I can even think of—

  “Shit,” I say.

  “Now what?” Jane asks.

  “I have to go.”

  She’s already shaking her head. “No way,” she says. “Not without me.”

  “Or me,” Trevor says.

  “Okay,” I say simply.

  “Okay?” he repeats, blinking. “Really?”

  “Really. I’m going to need help. We’re going to see a witch with a ghost problem.”

  19

  THE HOUSE LOOKS EXACTLY AS I REMEMBER IT, THE bars over the windows in need of repainting, the tiled roof pale from the sun. I don’t know that I expected it to change, but it’s hard to reconcile the unassuming exterior with what’s waiting inside. Nothing ever looks the way it should—not possible killers, not houses with darkness living in the walls.

  “Is this it?” Jane asks, looking out the window.

  “Yeah,” I say, but I don’t get out of the car.

  “Well?” Trevor says. “What are we waiting for?”

  I take the keys out and turn toward the back. “Just . . . prepare yourselves. She doesn’t want to go, and it could get ugly.”

  “Uglier than what I did to you?” Jane asks.

  I tuck my bandaged arms to my chest without meaning to. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?” Trevor asks.

  “I would never do this to the two of you, okay?” I say, rubbing my face tiredly. “Remember that.”

  “We know, Lexi,” Jane says.

  “Okay, then.” I open the car door and step out into the heat of the morning. “Try to stay close to me.”

  The walk to the door takes too long, each step reluctant. There’s silence when I knock; maybe she’s not home, and we came all the way here for nothing. Then I hear soft footsteps and I square my shoulders as the door creaks open.

  “Oh. You,” she says, blinking pale, squinting eyes behind her thick glasses.

  “Hello, Mrs. Hallas,” I say.

  “What do you want?” she asks curiously.

  “I need your help. And in return, I can help you.”

  She’s quiet then, her face a shrewd mix of caution and hope.

  “Come in,” she says finally, opening the door all the way.

  I glance at Jane beside me and then follow Mrs. Hallas inside.

  It smells even worse than last time, the scent of bitter herbs overlaid with damp earth and mold. There’s no warding spell that can keep a determined ghost out, but it smells like she’s been trying. Underneath the stench is the bright copper of death, and over it all the cloying presence of despai
r.

  “God, this place is grim,” Jane says to me, her voice a whisper even though it doesn’t need to be.

  “I don’t know; it could be okay,” Trevor says. “If you got rid of the smell and the ghost, maybe a coat of paint?”

  I trudge after Mrs. Hallas into her gloomy living room. The candles can’t keep the darkness at bay, the lights burning dim and feeble. The television is still busted, the screen black and charred.

  “Why is this time different?” Mrs. Hallas asks, turning to face me without offering a seat. “You couldn’t manage last time. You said she was too strong.”

  There’s desperation in her voice, almost enough to make me feel sympathy.

  “I have help,” I say, Trevor and Jane a solid warmth at my side. “But I want your word. I help you; you answer all my questions. No half-truths, no evasions, no excuses.”

  Mrs. Hallas rises up to her full height.

  “You have my word. If you rid my house of unrest, then by my blood and bones, I will aid you in any way I can.”

  I nod, but she’s not finished.

  “And if you attempt to cross me,” she says, voice dropping, “then I vow there is nowhere you can hide that my curses will not find you and end you.”

  “Understood,” I say. “I don’t want you for an enemy, Mrs. Hallas. I’m not that stupid.”

  She gives me a thin smile. “Then do what you claim you can do.”

  I plant my feet in the middle of the room, then glance at Mrs. Hallas.

  “When I tell you, release the wards,” I say. “And you might want to back up.”

  She nods and retreats until she’s watching from the hallway.

  “Ready?” I ask quietly.

  “Ready,” Trevor’s voice comes from my shoulder, and Jane nods.

  I let my magic spin out, splaying my hands as black wisps of darkness envelop the room.

  “Lexi?” Jane’s voice is hesitant, unsure.

  “It’s okay,” I murmur. “It’s just me.”

  I reach through the darkness, hot and electric, let it dive into my pores and spin out with my breath. When I brush against something large and sentient, I curl my hand into a fist.