The Cost of Living (ARC)

by Emilie Lucadamo

  James forces himself to focus on Dylan’s calm eyes. “O-okay,” he says, nodding his head.

  “We’re not going anywhere, and everything’s okay now. Don’t freak out on us, okay? You know we’ve got your back.”

  James huffs what is almost a laugh, and his lips twitch. “Yeah…” he breathes. “You guys better…”

  Footsteps behind them tell the group that Adam has returned to the room, and Dylan waves him over with his free arm. “Here, Adam’s just gonna give you something to help you relax,” he says, keeping his voice low and reassuring. “It’s gonna make you feel better.”

  “Sure…” The last of the fear ebbs from James’s face, and he accepts Dylan’s help to push himself upright as Adam holds out the tea. The cup is in his hands within seconds, and the room holds its breath as he takes a sip.

  Almost immediately, his shoulders relax. Dylan has to help guide the next mouthful to his lips. By the time the cup is empty, James’s eyelids are drooping, and he is ready to melt back into the pillows once more.

  Dylan waits until his friend’s grip grows slack before pulling his hand away. When he turns to the rest of the group, who have fallen back to the sidelines, he looks solemn but relieved.

  Adam and Dana wear unreadable expressions, but Beck is sure his own shock shines clearly on his face. This Dylan is completely different from the boy he remembers. That Dylan is still a kid, with the empathy to match. He’s never witnessed anything like that from his little brother. Never before has he seen Dylan so soothing, so serious. Ten minutes ago he would have called it impossible.

  Maybe it was, for the Dylan who Beck left behind sevem months ago. Not the one he’s come back to.

  “Nice job, Dyl,” he says, for lack of anything better to say. Dylan just ducks his head, accepting Dana’s hug of gratitude without a word. He doesn’t acknowledge Beck’s praise, but Beck didn’t expect anything else.

  Beck’s friends just keep surprising him. How many other ways has everything changed since he’s been gone?

  “POSSESSION CASES HAVE been cropping up all over since last week. We think it has something to do with the failed necromantic spell, but we aren’t sure.” Cassandra leans forward, elbows on her knees, and regards the group. Her tone reminds Beck of a teenage girl sharing a secret, but her expression is more reminiscent of a concerned parent. “If that’s the case, it could mean the people coming back to life and the demons running around are related, which would be a bad thing for a whole number of reasons.”

  Something in Beck’s stomach drops out as more than one set of eyes turns to him. He opens his mouth, but Cassandra hears his words before they can leave his lips. “Don’t worry, Beck. You’re not a demon at all, and you’re not possessed. If you were, we’d know. More importantly, you’d know.”

  “Possession is when a demon takes control of your body,” Adam cuts in. “You got no free will, no sense of yourself. The you who is you is gone, and the demon’s in its place. Usually, these cases are rare. We don’t know what causes possessions, but the good thing used to be that most demons weren’t on earth to try it.”

  “But now there are more demons around,” says Dana, “like the one that just hijacked our friend. Why’s that?”

  “That’s why we think the spell did something bad,” Adam says, sighing. “Suddenly demonic activity ’round here is through the roof—and, if we’re right, it could be because the barrier between the human and demon world’s damaged. Not only would that let demons through to us, it could send all of Hell into war.”

  Wars? Barriers? Spells? Beck’s head is spinning, and his friends aren’t faring much better. Dana looks nauseated, and Dylan holds his head in his hands. “This is crazy,” he keeps muttering to himself. “This is all crazy.”

  “The thing is,” continues Cassandra, “we don’t know what’s going on in Hell. From what I can sense, which isn’t much, feels like there’s a lot of unrest down there, but we can’t know what’s happening for sure.”

  “All we know is what’s going on up here,” Adam adds. “And all of a sudden this town’s become a hotbed for demonic activity. Seems like there’s a demon everywhere you look. They’re running around possessing people everywhere, and it’s driving folks to do awful things. The world is getting dangerous, and whatever’s happening up here is all tied to what’s going on down there.”

  “Which we don’t know,” chimes in Cassandra. “So essentially—”

  “We’re fumbling ’round in the dark,” Adam finishes, heaving a sigh. “Just trying not to end up dead.”

  What really interests Beck is Adam—and how he plays a role in this drama. The man seems to know something about everything, and one glance at the papers littering his coffee table tells Beck that he’s no ignorant human. There are meticulous notes on everything here, from witchcraft to demons. If Adam isn’t a witch himself, then he must be someone like Cassandra.

  He can’t resist asking. “Where do you play into all this, Adam? What’s your job?”

  Adams shoulders go stiff. He pauses for a beat too long before replying, voice steely. “I run a bookstore; that’s my job. I’m not a witch, and I’m not a psychic. I just know too much for my own good.”

  The expression on Cassandra’s face makes it clear she’s heard this explanation before and doesn’t quite agree. “Adam is an asset to this town. He’s our most knowledgeable source on everything magical,” she interjects, an undercurrent of pride in her voice. “He knows all there is to know about magic. More than most witches. More than I do. He’s a valuable asset.”

  Adam ducks his head, uncomfortable with the praise. Beck can’t help the way his eyes linger on him. He already respected Adam, but this new revelation casts Adam in a new light—the papers everywhere, the wealth of knowledge of so many things, and the calm in the face of chaos. It makes a lot more sense now, and Beck finds himself in awe of him.

  Adam’s eyes suddenly flicker up, catching Beck’s gaze. Instead of looking away, Beck stares back head-on. Adam holds his eyes, unflinching, and one of his eyebrows quirks in a silent question. Beck feels heat rush to his cheeks.

  Cassandra is still talking, but Beck can’t hear her. All of his focus is on the dark pools of Adam’s eyes. Are they brown? Black? Some impossible shade of midnight that he cannot put words to? He doesn’t know, but Adam has a stare that could stop armies in their tracks. Beck finds himself hypnotized, frozen in their sway.

  The sudden desire to reach out and touch Adam seizes him. To caress his jaw, to trace the bridge of his nose, to press into the hollow of his throat—just to feel him. It’s crazy, but he wants to—

  The television flickers on with a burst of static, startling Beck into giving a small shout. It only blares for a few seconds before flickering off again. When it does, he finds the rest of the room smirking at him.

  “Jumpy, kid,” Dana quips. “You’re sure gonna scare demons with that yowl of yours. They’ll think they’re fightin’ a little girl.”

  “Tell your ghost to keep his paws off my TV,” Adam says to Cassandra, sounding tired. Cassandra nods, a small smile on her lips. Beck could almost smack himself for forgetting there was a ghost in the room. (Did the ghost notice him staring at Adam?)

  “Aren’t ghosts supposed to haunt places?” Dylan asks, uncertain.

  “They do, generally. Ghosts can haunt what or whoever they like, but usually choose places to get attached to. Don’t tell George that, though,” Cassandra says, and laughs softly. Not two seconds later, an empty glass slides off of the coffee table and onto the carpeted floor at Cassandra’s feet. The beleaguered hauntee rolls her eyes. “Watch it, show-off. You use up all your energy and you’re not getting any more from me.” Looking up at the group again, she offers them a half-sheepish smile. “He likes being around people.”

  “A real social butterfly, huh,” Dylan murmurs, and freezes in place as if waiting for something to fly at his head. A few seconds pass, filled with nothing; his eyes dart around the room, sh
arp with anticipation. His expression is funnier than if something had flown at him, and Beck snorts into his palm as Dana reaches over and smacks him.

  “Don’t antagonize the ghost. You just met him; he doesn’t need to know what a dumbass you are already.”

  Dylan rolls his eyes and looks ready to shoot back something sharp, but Beck clears his throat loudly. “So,” he says, raising his eyebrows at Cassandra. “I guess not everyone gets to make friends with ghosts?”

  Cassandra gives that same close-lipped smile and taps her temple with one finger. “Psychic,” she replies. “I can see, hear, and feel spirits. It extends to demons too, but I’ve been lucky enough not to have to deal with them.”

  A psychic—meaning she has to be in tune with the living and the dead. Beck can’t help the way he perks up. “Can you see, like…living people’s spirits? I mean, if they’ve…got them.”

  “I can see energy. Auras, for example.” Cassandra fixes him with a stare that quickly turns knowing. “Are you asking for yourself?”

  Beck hesitates for a moment, feeling sheepish at being found out. Not that he’d been being very subtle; but Cassandra saw through him so easily that he feels as obvious as a kid looking for a new toy. He can feel a blush creep up to his face as he nods. “Just…do I look normal, ya know? Do I look the same as everybody else?”

  Cassandra leans forward and settles her eyes on him. By all rights, Beck knows he should feel uncomfortable. Cassandra’s gaze, however, is nonintrusive. Instead of peering into Beck’s soul, it’s more as if she’s reading a book, skimming a cursory glance through the pages and picking out what’s notable. The psychic’s thoughtful expression doesn’t change at all. When she breaks her concentration a moment later, she has a smile ready for Beck.

  “You’ve got a solid aura—bright blue. Your energy is very strong, and very alive. Beck, I’d say you’re as alive as the person sitting next to you. There’s nothing wrong with your energy in any way.”

  He can’t help the grin that breaks out over his face. A weight he hadn’t known he was carrying has suddenly vanished, leaving his chest feeling lighter. “That’s a relief.”

  It’s stupid, probably—to worry that he’s not really alive, even though he can feel his heart in his chest. He wouldn’t call himself dead, but the realization that he has died rears its head just when he is almost able to forget it. He still doesn’t know how he died, or how he came back—Beck thinks he’s justified in being self-conscious.

  When Dana clears her throat, all eyes turn towards her.

  “So there are demons runnin’ around, possessing people—just like Jimmy.” She waits for Adam to nod before she goes on. “And this is happening to people all over the city. Why are we not hearing about it?”

  “You know all the stuff in the news lately? About people killing themselves, killing others, destroying things?” Cassandra waits for the realization to set in. “That’s basically it.”

  Dana exhales and drags a hand through her mess of curls. “Jesus.”

  Beck bites the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tastes blood, but that still doesn’t stop him from speaking. “So who’s doing anything about it?”

  “There are professional exorcists,” Adam says after a second of reluctance. “Psychics can exorcise too. So can witches. Anyone who knows how can do it.”

  “Anyone…like us?” Dana suddenly looks very attentive. She is sitting up straight, shoulders stiff and back straight as a rod. There is a spark in her eyes, the same one she gets whenever she talks about project management or corporate domination. It makes her look a little frightening, like she could easily kill someone with a well-placed glare and an overdose of ambition.

  Now Adam looks really reluctant. He casts a wary glance at Cassandra before giving a halting nod. “Yeah,” he agrees, frowning. “You could, but that doesn’t mean you should—”

  “I want to learn,” Dana says promptly.

  Beck gapes at his friend, startled but not really surprised. He expected something like this—Dana is just crazy enough to have seen whatever the hell was in her boyfriend and want more of it. She’s probably mad she didn’t get a real hit on it. After what the demon did, Dana would be out for her own revenge.

  Then, unexpectedly, Dylan pipes up with a low “Me too.” Beck’s head whips around so fast that he feels something pop.

  His jaw drops at the determined look on his brother’s face. Dylan is resolute in not meeting anyone else’s eyes. His gaze is trained on Adam, and his jaw is set in a way that makes him look older than he is. It’s a startling expression to see on his usually mischievous face.

  Jesus, thinks Beck. My kid brother went and grew up without me being around to see it.

  He can feel Dana’s elbow digging into his ribs, and Dylan’s eyes boring into the side of his skull. He knows when people are waiting for him, and damn him if he’s going to let himself get left behind again. “Well, don’t count me out,” he finally sighs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He offers the two people across from him a smirk. “So, which one of you’s gonna teach us how to fight demons?”

  Adam heaves a bone-rattling sigh, a look of exhaustion overcoming his face. “You people are gonna be more trouble than you’re worth,” he mutters.

  If Adam is just realizing that now, Beck thinks, he’s got a lot of catching up to do.

  Chapter Four

  THE UNFORTUNATE THING about pulling an all-nighter with a bunch of college students on a Sunday night is that college students will inevitably have things to do the next day.

  Well, Beck doesn’t. He’s actually no longer a college student anymore, thanks to the technicality of being legally dead. He’s going to have to sort that out real soon, because he has one year left before he gets his degree and he did not suffer through political science lectures all these years for nothing.

  The school issue doesn’t occur to him until around ten o’clock that morning, well after Cassandra’s gone home (taking her ghost friend with her), and the entire group has passed out on Adam’s couch to get some well-needed rest. Beck is woken up by the sound of Dana’s phone alarm blaring, and groggily rolls off of the couch in his flailing to turn off what he can’t see.

  By the time he’s sat up, Dana is already stumbling into her shoes, fighting to drag her fingers through her mess of curls. “Operations lecture,” she huffs, wobbling as she comes close to losing her balance. “I’ve got just enough time to run back home and change—Dylan, get up! You’ve got class too, move it!”

  Dylan mutters something incoherent, curled up like a hedgehog on the floor with his ass in the air. This makes it an easy target for the kick Dana aims at him. Dylan lets out a yelp as her foot knocks him flat.

  Beck watches on, in a state of groggy bemusement, as his friends rouse themselves and bustle off to their respective classes. James has three classes and a paper due today, but Dana promises to collect what he needs to give her boyfriend time to recover.

  With no one else able to stick around, and James still in no shape to go anywhere, it naturally falls to Beck to keep an eye on him. He accepts this task with the solemnity expected of someone still half asleep, waits for the rest of his group to leave, and wastes no time passing out on Adam’s couch once more.

  The next time he wakes up, it’s to the heady scent of bacon frying on a stove.

  “Did I wake you?” Adam asks, sounding apologetic. “Sorry. I tried to keep it down as much as possible.”

  “Let me have some of that food and you can keep me from ever sleeping again.” The bacon glistens in the pan, and the eggs beside it look light and fluffy as clouds. Adam’s got a plate of freshly cut fruit set on the kitchen counter, and he even poured orange juice into tiny crystal cups. Cutlery is laid out on the table; there are a few books stacked to the side (as is Adam’s routine, Beck is starting to realize), but Adam went through the trouble of clearing up.

  Beck grins around the rim of his glass as he watches Adam serve the breakfas
t onto two plates. He’s still wearing his reading glasses, and his brow is furrowed in intense focus—like he’s tackling long division instead of using a stove. It shouldn’t be as funny as it is; it also shouldn’t be as attractive. Hey, Beck isn’t picky.

  “Two mornings now I’ve woken up here to breakfast,” Beck proclaims as Adam slides the plate in front of him. “Be careful. I might never want to leave.”

  “Not sure how well two people would fit up here. It’s a small apartment.”

  “Don’t worry. I’d never think of subjecting your nice place to me for too long. I’m a walking hurricane.”

  Adam’s lips twitch. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” exclaims Beck, letting out a peal of laughter. Adam does a poor job hiding the smile that tugs at his lips. It makes him look younger, more carefree—and yes, handsome. His grin lights up his face like a dawning sun, and if Beck were a weaker man he’d probably be blinded by it.

  (Who’s he kidding? He’s the weakest man in the world. Adam is giving him tunnel vision.)

  “No offense intended,” Adam hastens to add. Beck rests his chin in his palm. He takes a slice of strawberry and pops it into his mouth, pursing his lips around the fruit.

  “With all the trouble I’ve been for you, I’m glad you can still joke around.” Adam’s taking the whole “not-dead guy in his apartment” thing in stride. To be fair, so is Beck, but he doesn’t know how else to deal with it. Adam has every right to declare the situation not his problem, but he’s been more than willing to help out Beck in every way he’s asked. Adam has gone above and beyond. That sort of generosity is unprecedented. “Be honest, are you always this nice to people who barge into your house in the middle of the night?”

  “I get those sorts of visitors all the time, obviously.” Adam purses his lips. For a moment, he looks so serious that Beck can’t help but laugh again. That makes Adam’s eyes spark. “But I’m only nice to the ones that interest me.”