Revenant

by Phaedra Weldon

  But—it wasn’t there. Besides the creak of wood and TC’s muttering, there wasn’t a sound. The shadows that usually moved like liquid mercury along the periphery of my vision crept out from their hiding places. A sure sign that whatever that was—

  It was gone.

  I moved to the pile of gooey, gloppy toilet paper and pointed. “Ew.”

  TC righted himself, his shades gone from his face. He looked like he wanted to wrap a tree around someone. As he stomped closer, still muttering, I pointed to the floor. “Uh . . . Fetches don’t usually do that when you kill them.”

  He was looking back at the pile of cheap pressboard and bent over to retrieve his glasses. Finding them, he plucked them from a pile and turned to me, wiping them on the edge of his black silk shirt. “I’ve told you already—you can’t kill anything Abysmal or Ethereal, you just sort of pop it out of the form it—”

  TC stopped when he stood next to me and looked down at the pile. His eyebrows arched, and he hooked his shades on the back collar of his coat. In silence, he knelt beside what was once the Fetch and rubbed at his chin. I knelt beside him, looking at him, then looking at the pile, then looking at him.

  “Well?”

  He continued rubbing his chin. “Well—” He looked at me. “This is bad.”

  “Bad as in ‘wow, whatever that is kicked this shit’s ass,’ or bad as in ‘uh-oh, we’re all gonna die’?”

  He pursed his lips and gestured with the index finger of his left hand. “The last one.”

  That wasn’t what I’d expected. “Wha’?”

  TC looked up at the air, his expression serious. Now, let me really drill home how odd that was to see a serious expression on the Symbiont’s face. Normally, TC’s expression rests between mildly annoyed to annoyingly smarmy. Angry—he does angry well. And pissed off. Smirking too. The king of smirking.

  Though Dags had a nice smirk.

  Phhhtt . . .

  Watching this lack of anything definable on his face made those hairs on the back of my neck rise. “TC . . .”

  “I—” He was shaking his head as he looked at me. “I don’t know what that was.” He shrugged, the leather shushing. “I’ve never felt or seen anything like it. The closest in smell is . . .” And he looked at the pile. “I don’t know. It’s like it had the darkness of the Phantasm’s soul, but it had the strength of an Ethereal.”

  I searched his face. “Like a Horror?”

  “No . . . not a Horror. This was something . . .” TC sighed. “I need to find out what it was. Because this . . .” He nodded to the pile in front of us next to my killer bunny slippers. “This ain’t right.”

  “Did it kill it?”

  “Yeah. It did kinda kill this Fetch. It mutated it. It’s all but dead. It won’t ever corporeally form again. I’m not even sure there’s much of a sense of being left in it.” He raised his left hand, and a red light sparkled from his palm. Within seconds, the thing pulled and twisted into that light until the only thing left was damp toilet paper. And by the time TC lowered his hand, even the paper was dry.

  “Won’t that give you like . . . indigestion?” I asked.

  He shook his head and stood. I stood beside. And no matter how big being a Wraith made me feel, he always managed to make me feel small. “I don’t think it will. I’ll give it back to the Styx when I leave.”

  At that moment, my watch went off. I cussed and lifted my left wrist, looking at my Harry Potter watch—the only watch of its kind that could move with me through the planes and still keep on ticking. My best friend and magical MacGyver, Rhonda Orly, had fashioned it for me. In the beginning of my Wraithdom, I’d used it to warn me when I’d been out of my body long enough so I wouldn’t experience the lethargy and illness that always seemed to accompany staying out after curfew.

  “When’re you gonna tell ’em?” TC said as he moved to the office window. The moon was waxing, close to full, its glow making an ethereal halo behind him, casting his face in slight shadow. He looked . . . impressive.

  I pushed the alarm button. “Soon.”

  “You said that last week.”

  “So this is this week.”

  He shook his head. “You sure they have no idea you’re sneaking out at night moonlighting with me?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “And you’re sure they don’t know you can go Wraith—without slipping your mortal coil?”

  “No.” Which was the truth. I really didn’t know. But I doubted it.

  He reached behind him and retrieved his shades. Sliding them on, he turned his face to me. “I wouldn’t be so sure, lover.” He smiled, but I could tell he was thinking about that hairy thing he’d just fought.

  “So sure about what? Mom’s and Rhonda’s reactions?” I made a noise. “Oh, I’m sure they’d be pissed and try to exorcise me.”

  “No.” He shook his head. I couldn’t see through those shades. “Don’t get comfortable, Wraith. Palling around with me isn’t safe. You’re still a threat to the Phantasm, which makes you a threat to me. You shouldn’t trust anyone—especially me.” He gestured to the window, and the glass shattered outward—freezing in midair just outside. He didn’t have to do that to leave—he just wanted to make an impression. “And you won’t find the answers to your future on that old society’s books.”

  “Will you tell me what you find out—about what that was?”

  He looked back at me and faded away. The glass fell straight down to the asphalt below.

  Don’t trust me, Wraith. Don’t trust anyone.

  2

  I felt like I was twelve again—sneaking back into my room while Mom slept. And I knew she was still sleeping ’cause I nearly jumped out of my body when I heard her snore.

  Yes—I live with my mom. And it’s not what you think. I did have a condo a few months ago—but after Archer took Mom’s soul when her body was hijacked by a rogue spirit whose body was destroyed (Charolette and Bertram—otherwise known as Bonnie and Clyde), I had to tuck her body into a long-term-care facility.

  Not cheap.

  So I sold the condo and moved into the Botanica and Tea Shop. The shop itself was a converted house on Euclid—with two stories, a basement, and a wraparound porch. I forget the name of the style of house. Ask Tim and Steve, Mom’s resident ghosts and the former owners of the house. They could tell right down to the exact type of paint you need.

  Since Mom’s return—and all the other disasters that’ve cropped up—I haven’t spent a lot of time looking for a new place. I need one. This being in one’s twenties and living with Mom sucks. Especially because—well—I’ve gone through a few more changes since the last time we spoke about my being a Wraith.

  There are three bedrooms upstairs. Mom’s master is to the left of the steps if you come into the house in the more traditional manner. It has its own bathroom tucked inside. The other two rooms share a bath to the right. Sometimes Rhonda stays over—but having seen her new palatial digs with her uncle’s group, the Society of Ishmael, I can’t understand why she’d want to. I mean, she’s got a tub the size of my bed!

  Sieving through my bedroom window was simple, and I landed silently beside the bed. I felt like some creepy vampire entering a maiden’s room, ready to bite her neck.

  Heh.

  I can think of a neck I could bite.

  Shaking my head to clear the sex visual out—’cause for some reason sex just sets off the Wraith-dar, then I’m like off the charts in oogy—I did the mental shrug I’d started using to shift my body back to the physical plane. I watched as my hands and arms became their plain slightly olive shade—though I had been darker in my younger days. I felt the weight of being physical pull me into the carpet as my bunny slippers took on a more normal look—not all toothy and Tim-Burton-looking.

  I used to dress in black—black pants, turtleneck, and slippers. I’d recently started using a black catsuit I’d found at Throb—one of Atlanta’s kinkier stores—which oddly enough I found comfortab
le. I still braided my hair and decided after seeing the split ends it was time to pay Jameal a visit.

  Sighing, I started pulling off the suit as I made my way to the bathroom. Stripping down, I tossed the suit in a small bag I kept under the sink, then stood up—

  Directly into the path of Tim and Steve.

  Squeaking, I jumped back, and of course did that modified Eve pose to cover my now bare who-who and hee-hees. Not that these two would care either way.

  “This has got to stop,” Steve said as he crossed his arms over his chest. Of the couple, Steve was the more mature one—not so much in age before he died, but in personality and responsibility. He had that sort of take-charge persona that I think Mom liked. In fact, Mom thought he was hawt.

  Tsk.

  Getting a little irritated—since this was the third time these two had greeted me after a night’s work—I stopped trying to cover myself and set my hands on my hips. “Oh? Why, Steve? Wait . . . I know the answer.” I held up my right hand, index finger in the air. “Because I shouldn’t trust the Archer.”

  “Not just that,” Tim said from his more distant position by the shower. He was smaller than Steve. Slighter build, with dark eyes and dark hair. I’d always felt closer to Tim and his more gentle mannerisms. He moved forward, becoming almost totally corporeal in the bathroom light. I watched him as he grabbed my robe from a hook and handed it to me. No repulsion. No hesitation. Just purpose. “The fact you’re not moving out of your body anymore. You need to tell Nona, Rhonda, and Joe.”

  “Why?” I took the robe and pulled it on before moving to the mirror and turning on the water. I needed to wash my face before I slept. I wanted to take a shower—but the sound of the water running would wake Mom, then she’d be all up in my Kool-Aid about why I was up at six in the morning taking a shower before going back to bed and sleeping all day.

  I splashed water on my face and looked at them in the mirror. It always amazed me they had reflections. At least when they were corporeal. Pumping soap in my hand, I scrubbed at my face, hoping to get rid of any lingering piece of that Fetch’s gooed-up remains. I reeeeally wanted a shower.

  “Oh, let’s say,” Steve said, “because even though you’ve been a bitch now and then, they’ve always stuck by you. Rhonda’s your best friend, Nona’s your mom, and Joe’s hopelessly in love with you.”

  Och . . . here we go again. I rinsed my face and grabbed a towel off the nearby hanger. It smelled of Downy and my mom’s herbs. “Steve, this is really getting old.”

  “I’ll say,” Tim said. “Your sleeping till three in the afternoon is driving everyone nuts. And then you spend the nights over at Rhonda’s reading over those old Dioscuri notes.”

  “No, not that,” I said, and tossed the towel on the sink. “I mean about Joe. Just stop that already. Joe is a friend. He’s dating Rhonda. End of argument.”

  “No,” Steve said. “Joe is in love with you. Dags is in love with you. Rhonda is in love with Dags. You’re in love with a crazy person. You are an idiot.”

  Giving him my righteous bird finger, I turned and exited stage left into my room.

  One thing about ghosts—they tend to do whatever they want.

  Damn them.

  The two were already in my room before I could cross the threshold. I made a shooing gesture at them, dropped my robe, and changed into my Danny Phantom tee shirt and a pair of old cotton loungers I’d snatched from Daniel.

  Daniel.

  Thinking of him always sobered me. And not in a good way. More of a self-involved guilt trip. I’d tried to see him since he’d been shipped out of state into Maryland. But he’d refused. Screamed in his now-volatile state of crazy.

  A crazy I’d given him. And I couldn’t take back.

  “I’m sorry,” Tim said, quietly. I knew he realized where my mind had wandered.

  Looking at him, I smiled and moved to the bed, plopping down and turning on my headless-Mary lamp. My old dry-erase board lay at the foot of the bed, my last scribbled FUCK YOU still visible in red ink. “You know I have to know everything my great-uncle did. I wanted to know what it was he did to my dad. I wanna know what else is out there. The man was a bona fide nut job.” I paused. “But he kept good notes on everything he’d seen in the Abysmal. Categorizing them. Labeling them. Listing their abilities. The hierarchy of things.”

  “Have you read the notes on the Ethereal?” Tim said quietly. “Those are just as important, if not more so. You’re so focused on the Abysmal, you’re missing the bigger picture. The Ethereals—especially the Seraphim—those are the ones you can’t trust. More so than anything the Abysmal can cook up.”

  I rubbed at my face. I understood what Tim was getting at—my dad was an Ethereal being now—had been when he’d conceived me with Mom. What I didn’t want to tell them was that I had read a bit on the other plane—my great-uncle took copious and detailed notes—and it scared me more than Daemons, Symbionts, Fetches, and Phantasms.

  A lot more.

  I chose not to answer his question. You know, I’d noticed a lot of that lately—me actually not talking. I mean . . . I had my voice back. My voice. And I was choosing not to use it.

  What was up with that?

  “Zoë.” Tim sat on the edge of my bed, not making any sort of dent in the comforter. That told me he was simply solid but not corporeal. Ah . . . didn’t know there was a difference, did ya? Neither did I. I had learned a lot during my time as a Wraith.

  Too much.

  I looked at Tim, raising my eyebrows and stifling a yawn. I was soooo tired. “I’m gonna fade out if you don’t speed up the question, dude.”

  “You need to at least tell Nona about your new condition.”

  I shook my head.

  “Have you even tried to slip out of your body?”

  To demonstrate, I released my physical self. It plopped back on the pillow, eyes half-open, while me the astral self continued sitting up. My lower half was still in my body, so it kinda looked like I’d half taken off my Zoë suit.

  Actually—it was kinda creepy.

  “Stop that,” Steve said, joining in the conversation and no longer hovering in the far corner. “Doesn’t it worry you that it’s that easy to just slip out?”

  I leaned back into my body, felt the connections resume, and sat back up. I’ll admit there was a more pronounced feeling of “ick” every time I did that. But—why should I care?

  Really?

  “What am I supposed to do about it? Every time I had the opportunity to be normal—something always managed to step in and screw it up.”

  Tim pointed at me. “There it is again.”

  “What?”

  “That not-caring attitude. Zoë, you’ve always cared.” He lowered his hand. “It’s Archer. Hanging around with that Symbiont—his evilness is rubbing off on you.”

  I snorted. “Hardly. And we’re not really hanging around. He’s teaching me.”

  “He’s teaching you?” Steve spoke up. “To what?”

  I wasn’t liking this. Getting the third degree in my own home was unacceptable. Well . . . Mom’s home. I turned and pushed my feet under the covers, yanking up my pillow. Glancing at the window, I could see the outside getting lighter. Argh. Maybe I should just, like, limit my outings at night to twice a week. Sleep was something I was sorely missing.

  “Fine. But if you don’t take care of your physical body, Zoë, your astral self will suffer.”

  Ah, foreshadowing. Too bad I already knew that.

  I knew Steve had left. There was always a lot less pressure in a room when he left. Overbearing came to mind. “Tim?”

  “Hrm?”

  I turned then and saw he was still sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me with those huge brown eyes. “Do you know all the different kinds of things there are in the Abysmal plane?”

  He shook his head. “I only know what I’ve learned from you, Nona, and Rhonda. Steve and I didn’t even realize there was an Abysmal plane until Nona moved in, and
we met you.” He moved his head to the side, his dark eyebrows flattening. “What is it?”

  “Well.” I sat up, wrapping my fingers together like I used to do when I was little and had to tell Mom about something I saw. “We were chasing a Fetch tonight—”

  “A Fetch?” Tim leaned forward. “Who was it after?”

  I shrugged. “We didn’t know. Archer spotted if first hanging about in a shrub while we were talking. I supposed it was after one of us.”

  “I don’t think so.” Tim shook his head slowly. “From what Nona and Rhonda have said, those things are pretty much used for long-distance hit-and-run against physical-plane beings—so—it doesn’t make sense that it’d be after one of you.” He frowned. “Is that what’s got you spooked?”

  “No—” I opened my mouth, then shut it. “It’s what showed up while we were chasing it. I can’t—I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

  “What?”

  I pursed my lips and frowned at him. “Hair.”

  His reaction was what I’d pretty much thought it’d be. “Hah?”

  “Yeah . . . hair. Big red hair. Or that’s all TC and I could see. Whatever it was—it demolished that Fetch into ectoplasmic goo and was able to hold TC off in a fight. It was strong.”

  “Did it destroy the Symbiont?”

  I heard that bit of hopefulness in my little buddy’s voice. TC wasn’t exactly his favorite person. In fact, he wasn’t anybody’s. Not even mine. “No—but I could tell it unnerved him. And then it was gone. Just—vanished. TC said he’d never felt or seen anything like it—though he did compare its strength to that of the Phantasm.”

  “You think it was another Horror?”

  “No.” I chewed on my lower lip. “I don’t know what it was. TC told me to scream at it—you know, use that voice. And when I started to—that’s when it left. As if it knew what I was about to do.”

  “Maybe it did.”