The Cost of Living (ARC)

by Emilie Lucadamo

“All right,” he says. “You’ve all got some explaining to do.”

  THEY ONLY AGREE to allow Adam to call in reinforcements once he has made it extremely clear that he is not equipped to handle whatever they might be dealing with.

  “Sounds to me like you’ve got a demonic possession,” Adam says. (He doesn’t look fazed. Does anything ever faze Adam, or is this just an ordinary week for him?) “You’ll need an exorcism, and I don’t do exorcisms. Ideally you’d want an exorcist, but I’ve got someone just as good who I can give a call.”

  Beck is the most reluctant of all, especially after he finds out Adam wouldn’t be calling Sophie. James isn’t crazy about the idea of bringing strangers into their business in general, and Dana wants to know why they couldn’t do the exorcism themselves. Adam rebukes each of their concerns in a patient, albeit exhausted fashion: Sophie doesn’t perform exorcisms either, and an untrained person should never attempt an exorcism, because there’s a good chance of something going horribly wrong. This stranger is trustworthy, reliable, and experienced with possessions. He’s their best bet.

  Beck and Dane convene amongst themselves for a few moments, locked in debate. Bringing James to Adam was one thing, since Adam saved Beck’s ass, which automatically counted him as trustworthy. This is different. The last thing any of them want is some stranger coming in and hurting their friend, maybe even killing him (“I’ve seen those Exorcist movies, I know how this shit ends! I’m not about to watch my boyfriend try to fling himself outta windows or start spewing green shit.”) On the other hand, they have no choice. This stranger is their only option, and this is James—they have to do what’s best for him. Beck takes one look at the faces surrounding him and realizes that Dana and Dylan aren’t about to lose someone else they care about.

  Dana speaks for everyone when they turn back to Adam once again. “Does your buddy do night calls?”

  While Adam steps out into the stairwell to make the phone call, Beck helps tuck the still-unconscious James into bed. Being back in Adam’s room is different now that he’s no longer in bed himself. He feels almost like an intruder—as if he’s getting a glimpse into some private part of Adam’s life, even though he was here less than twenty-four hours ago.

  “Jesus, Beck,” Dana mutters, rolling James onto his back. “How hard did you hit ’im?”

  James has been out for hours. He’s got a hard head, and Beck knows his punch wasn’t nearly hard enough to knock him out for this long. All he can do is shrug helplessly, frowning as Dana pulls the covers up to her boyfriend’s chin. They peer down at his placid face for a moment before inhaling a collective breath. This tension is something they share, passed around like a bottle of bitter alcohol. They cannot escape it, no more than they can escape the reality of their friend lying in front of them.

  Beck sees something pained flash over Dana’s face—just for a split second, and then it’s gone. He knows what she’s thinking. He remembers how James was after his brother’s death; for so long, he forced himself to remain stolid, until the moment he couldn’t anymore. When he broke down, Beck and Dana were the ones who were there for him. After losing Beck…the thought that James had to suffer through that twice, and Beck wasn’t there to comfort him the last time twists something in his gut.

  Now it’s James who’s on the line, and Dana—who’s always been strong for all of them—is facing down the loss of another person she loves.

  Like hell is he going to let his friends go through that again.

  “Come on,” he says, jolting Dana out of her reverie. “Standin’ here’s not gonna help anything.”

  It’s a relief to be out of that room, and he feels guilty to admit it.

  CASSANDRA CARLYLE WALKS into Adam’s apartment a little after five in the morning, looking tired, expectant, and a little annoyed.

  “Lehexe,” she greets Adam, “you owe me a huge favor after this.”

  “Nah,” replies Adam, a tantalizing smirk decorating his lips, “you’ve owed me some favors for a while. Consider this you paying ’em off.”

  Whatever Beck had been expecting from Adam’s friendly neighborhood exorcist, Cassandra…isn’t it. She is small-figured and bony, but her fragile exterior is only highlighted by the brightly colored clothing she wears. Her sweater is oversized, hanging off her shoulder in a bright flower print; her jeans pool round her ankles. Cassandra has a thin face, sandy hair pulled into a messy ponytail on top of her head. The expression on her face is tolerant, as patient as possible for this time of night. Earthy brown eyes scan the room, falling on the cluster of people on Adam’s couch, before Cassandra offers a close-lipped smile. “Good morning.”

  Beck takes in the newcomer, expression giving nothing away. “You the exorcist who’s gonna take care of our friend?”

  “I’m going to do my best,” replies Cassandra, looking like she’s just remembered a joke and is finding it funny all over again. Then her eyes flicker towards the bedroom. There is a sudden shift in her demeanor. She becomes more alert, holds herself a little straighter, looks more intense.

  Adam doesn’t miss it either. His eyes are sharp as he studies Cassandra. Beck is able to catch his gaze for one second and feels burned by the intensity there. Adam, he supposes, really is that way around everyone.

  “Well, you’ve got something,” mutters Cassandra, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Thanks for calling me, Adam.”

  Adam accepts this remark with a nod of his head, looking solemn. He breezes through cursory introductions more out of convention than anything else. “Cassie, this is Beck and Dana. Dylan’s passed out next to ’em, but he’s fine, just hungover.”

  “Yes! You mentioned that earlier!” Cassandra digs deep into the patchwork bag slung over her shoulder. It only takes a few seconds of rummaging around before she emerges with a water bottle, half-filled with bright orange liquid. The sight of it is enough to give Beck a headache. No drink outside of soda should ever be that color, and he has a feeling Cassandra isn’t carting around Gatorade.

  She sets the bottle on top of the mess of papers that is Adam’s coffee table and nods to herself. “If he wants to spare himself some suffering, he’ll drink that as soon as he wakes up.”

  Beck eyes the drink dubiously. It looks toxic. Dylan is far from a picky eater, but he’s sure his brother would rather spend the morning burying his head in the toilet than put that in his body.

  As if nature itself is in agreement with him, the bottle suddenly begins to wobble. It vibrates in place for a few seconds before tipping over. Nothing spills thanks to a tightly sealed cap, but the bottle rolls onto the carpeted floor.

  “What the hell was that?” exclaims Beck, gaping at the overturned water bottle. Cassandra, rather than appearing startled, just sighs.

  “That’s a human spirit, but he’ll act like a poltergeist any chance he gets. He’s harmless, so don’t be afraid of him. The worst he’ll do is prank you or knock your stuff over.” At Adam’s questioning look, Cassandra shrugs. “He’s been following me around for about a week now. He won’t tell me much about himself, but he sure likes to talk.”

  “He got a name?” asks Adam, eyes flickering around the room. “You know I don’t like spirits in my house.”

  “You need to refresh your wards, then,” Cassandra replies gamely. She claps her hands together, drawing herself up after placing the bottle back on the table. It remains still—as if it had never moved at all, and certainly not on its own. Appeased, Cassandra turns towards the bedroom again. “Especially if you’ve got a demon in your bed. George, stay out here and don’t cause trouble. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Cassandra trails Adam into the room, leaving the rest of the group staring after them. Beck half rises, ready to follow, but Dana puts a hand on his arm to stop him.

  “Give them a minute,” she says, sounding like she doesn’t like it any more than Beck does. “We’re trusting them. Might as well go all the way.”

  “Adam says she knows what she’s doin
g,” Beck mutters as he returns to his seat again. “I wanna believe he’s right.”

  They wait in silence, ears straining for any noise coming from the room. The room seems muted, as if someone has plugged their ears with cotton. In a small apartment, it shouldn’t be possible for anything said in one room not to drift out to the next, but Beck can’t make out a single noise from behind Adam’s closed door. His bitten nails dig into his palms, and he can’t help bouncing his leg. Dana shoots him a sharp look, but Beck can see she’s grinding her teeth again, so she has no room to talk.

  The silence is finally shattered by a low groan that has them both jumping several feet into the air. It takes a second of panic for Beck to identify the noise’s source, and his heart sinks.

  “Christ, Dyl,” he hisses. “Don’t do that, huh?”

  Dylan shoots Beck a glare, which quickly melts into an expression of horrified disbelief. It’s the exact same expression he wore when he first saw Beck. They all give him a few seconds for the events of the past day to catch up with him. Dylan’s gaze swivels from Beck to the unfamiliar apartment to Dana hanging behind him.

  That’s the moment he finally registers his hangover. He sinks back into the couch cushions, squeezing his eyes shut. “Holy hell,” he groans, “where am I?”

  “You’re in Oz, and I’m the freakin’ tin man,” Dana says, pressing Cassandra’s bottle of radioactive Fanta into Dylan’s hands. “Drink that. It’ll either kill you or keep you from puking all over us.”

  “Unless he pukes before he can finish,” quips Beck.

  Dylan slowly pushes himself up, eyes still screwed shut. “I have an iron stomach.” He uncaps the bottle, takes a sniff, and downs it with zero hesitation. To Dylan’s credit, he doesn’t recoil in horror at the taste; a slight gag gives him away, but he manages to stone-face it all the way down to the dregs of the bottle. He’s certainly improved since the days of daring each other to drink whatever horrific concoction the other could throw together in the kitchen. Beck smirks as Dylan slams the empty bottle back down on the table.

  “Fuck you,” he declares, then grimaces. “Jesus, what was that stuff?”

  “Who knows?” Dana says. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I just drank vinegar. I’ve been worse, I guess.”

  Beck feels his eyebrows shoot up. Dylan’s the type to stone-face any injury, but when it comes to hangovers he whines hard. For as long as his brother has been able to drink, he’s fished for sympathy when caught on the wrong end of a bottle. He doubts that’s changed since he’s been gone, if the expression on Dana’s face is anything to go by. Dylan ought to have a roaring hangover, but he looks bright-eyed and is growing more alert by the minute.

  Leaning over to Dana, he finds his friend looking just as baffled as he feels. “You wanna tell me that stuff didn’t just work?”

  Dana’s eyes flutter shut for one moment as she draws in a heavy breath. “Beck, I’ll be damned if I have a clue what’s goin’ on here.”

  When the door opens again, they’re no less taken by surprise. Hastily regaining his cool, Beck straightens himself out from where he’d leapt into Dana’s lap (he’s not jumpy, the last thing he needs is Adam thinking he’s jumpy) and stares at the two figures who emerge from the darkened room.

  Adam’s eyes are shadowed with exhaustion; his face is pinched, brow knit and tense. Cassandra’s worn down as well, if her heavy steps and tousled hair say anything, but she also looks pleased with herself. She greets the group with a smile, and Beck feels a knot of tension ease out of his chest.

  “Everything went well,” she says. “Your friend is just fine.”

  Dana straightens her shoulders, rising to her feet. “And what’s that mean?” she demands. “Is he still two seconds from tryin’ to snap our necks like twigs, or is he himself again?”

  Beck looks over at Dana, eyes flashing in warning. When Adam clears his throat, even Dylan (who has no idea what’s going on) snaps to attention.

  “Your friend was possessed by a demon, but with my help Cassandra performed an exorcism and cast it out. It’s gone now, so your friend’s back to himself and is in good shape. His body is exhausted, and his brain’s spent. He’s gonna have to rest and take it easy for a while. It’s gonna feel a little bit like he got run over by a truck for a bit, so I can give him something to help him sleep, but he’s gonna be fine. Don’t believe me, you can see him for yourselves. He’s awake right now, and askin’ for you.”

  For a few moments, no one moves. Beck could almost laugh out loud from relief; his chest feels like it’s been filled with balloons, trying to lift him right off the couch. Dana is locked in her own thoughts, gaze boring into Adam’s placid expression. At the end of the couch, Dylan has his dark brows furrowed, trying to piece together what little he knows with what he remembers from last night.

  He is unable to wait a second longer. Beck jumps to his feet, followed promptly by Dana, and then Dylan. Adam nods at him as they pass each other, and Beck has to resist the urge to hug him. Too much, he knows, and way too soon. He’s been pushy enough.

  Adam’s room is dark, but the figure in the bed is clearly awake. James has himself propped up on the pillows, head lolling against his shoulder, shadowed eyes staring at the doorway. His chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm. When he catches sight of his friends, he tries to sit up, but Beck moves forward before he can exhaust himself.

  “Hey Jimmy, how you feeling?”

  If he feels anything like he looks, the answer is a resounding awful. Beck won’t lie—his friend looks more than worse for wear. James’s olive skin is pallid, glistening with sweat. There is a welt on the side of his jaw from where Beck decked him, and scrapes on his bare chest courtesy of his friends dragging him out of the pool. Most striking, however, is the heavy bruising around his eyes. Instead of the shadows Beck had taken them for, he finds that his friend sports two black eyes, swollen and painful looking. However sore the skin looks, James’s actual eyes are as clear as ever—warm russet brown, with solid pupils. Utterly human, and utterly James.

  His friend huffs a breath and tries to smile. “Mmm—like I died ’n came back,” he mutters. His words are slurred. Beck notices Dana’s lips press into a terse line. “Wanna tell me…what the hell happened?”

  Dana steps towards the bed. As soon as her gaze lands on James, a hard tension in her face smooths over. She exhales; all at once, it seems like a great weight has been lifted off her shoulders. The knowledge that her boyfriend tried to kill her was bad enough—but that he wasn’t in control of his body or mind at the time, and might not be okay, must have been killing her. Now that her Jimmy is back, she looks as if she’s just crossed the finish line of a marathon.

  Her manicured hand reaches out to run over her boyfriend’s forehead, brushing away the sweat and tension there. “It’s okay, honey,” she says in a low, sweet voice. “You’re fine now.”

  Instead of being reassured, James just furrows his brow. “Nothing good ever happens when you sound that nice.” The (reasonable) wariness draws a chuckle from both Dana and himself; this must hurt something, because he screws his eyes up and sinks back into the pillows. “Uhh… I feel…like I got hit by a bus.” he mutters. “Whas’ goin’ on?”

  Contrary to the relief he felt earlier, the anxious ball in Beck’s stomach has returned and is growing into something he can’t digest. Sure, he might be wisecracking and bantering, but he’s still not himself—not the same sharp-minded friend Beck is used to. He hasn’t seen James this out of it since the time he caught the world’s worst flu and was knocked out of commission for a week. His friend looks small and vulnerable in that bed. It’s utterly unsuited to James, and Beck can’t suffocate the fear gnawing at him.

  A sudden touch on his shoulder jars him from his anxiety. He turns, knowing before he even looks that it will be Adam standing there. He looks unruffled, gaze boring intensely into Beck’s own. Somehow, that reassures Beck even more than the humanity in James’s eyes. �
��He’ll be fine,” Adam says in a low voice. “I’ve got tea ready, to help him get to sleep.”

  “While he’s out, I can cleanse his energy,” adds Cassandra from the doorway. “It’s no good to have all of that demonic ickiness clinging to him. He’ll feel a lot better after that.”

  Beck inhales a breath, forcing himself to relax. If Adam can be this calm, so can he. “Sure… Just, uh, hang on a minute with that tea, huh?”

  “Still have to let it cool,” Adam replies. He takes a step back, releasing Beck’s shoulder. “Take your time.”

  In bed, James is still conscious, but his confusion hasn’t gone away. His gaze swivels around his bedside, taking in the worried faces of his friends. This can’t help calm him down. “Beck? D-Dani? Come on, what’s…what’s…”

  As his gaze settles back on Dana, something in James’s face changes. His eyes widen, and his pallid skin seems to go even whiter. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, before a hand lifts in the direction of Dana. “Hey. Baby doll. Did I—did I do something? Dani, are you—I don’t remember what—”

  “Shhh. It’s okay, baby,” Dana hastens to reassure him, leaning over the bed. “You didn’t mean it. It’s all right.”

  The thought of having hurt his girlfriend only upsets James even more. His breathing is starting to grow ragged, and a sense of helplessness is locked around Beck like a vice. He doesn’t know how to reassure James after what he’s been through. He’s not sure any of them do. “I—I don’t know… I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  No one expects Dylan to push his way to the forefront. Having held himself back until now, the fact that Dylan was even there almost slipped Beck’s mind. Dylan didn’t see James’s attack; he never got a glimpse of his black eyes, and he was barely awake for the midnight ride to Adam’s place. He doesn’t really know what’s going on, but there is no uncertainty on his face as he kneels by James’s bedside.

  Dylan clasps his friend’s hand, twining his fingers through James’s own and squeezing. “Don’t worry, man. All of us are right here.”