by Anna Abner
“I died.”
Her eyes widened to the point of pain. Lord. That was not the answer she’d expected.
“You died?” She ran her eyes over Holden, inventorying all of his solid strength, unable to visualize him hurt that way.
“When the doctors brought me back, I could see and talk to spirits.”
“How? When?”
“It was a long time ago.” The light turned green, and he gassed it, ruining any chance of finishing the conversation.
Though she didn’t deny she was curious. A person didn’t just die and come back. There was more to the story. She was sure of it.
“Turn in here,” Becca shouted, pointing at the faux-stone gate. As Holden slowed the vehicle, she added, “Cross Wild Rose Street. It’s the third house on the right.”
He pulled over in front of her childhood home and shifted into neutral. “Have you told your parents about the possession?”
“God, no.” She laughed. “And it’s just my dad. My mom’s long gone.”
“She passed away?”
A twinge of decades-old pain hit Rebecca between the ribs. The same way Holden didn’t want to talk about his near death experience, she sure as hell didn’t want to talk about the woman who gave birth to her and then left. Not to a guy she’d met two hours ago in a parking lot.
She buried her pain, something years and years of practice at pretending nothing rattled her made easy. “No, more like ran away. Practically my whole life it’s just been me and my sister and my dad.” She studied her nails, staring at the French tips until they went fuzzy.
“Your dad hired Damian?”
Damian and at least two others. Daddy meant well, but he’d spend his last dollar on a pyramid scheme if she wasn’t paying attention.
“He knows a lot of weird stuff has been going on. I’ve moved twice in the last three months, so I had to tell him something. But please don’t say anything about what happened at The Repository today. He’s a true believer, and it would only terrify him.” And have him ordering exorcism kits off eBay.
The modest single-story home with the new silver Prius in the driveway and the overgrown lawn took on new depth when she imagined it through Holden’s eyes. The house she’d grown up in. The bedroom she’d said her prayers in. The pleas to God to bring her mother back. But Nancy Ann stayed gone.
It wasn’t fancy, for sure. A solid middle class, and sometimes lower, existence. Signs of financial struggle were everywhere. The porch needed repainting. The windows hadn’t been upgraded since they’d been installed in the fifties. And don’t get her started on the roof. All she could say was she’d have a hard time selling it for market value in its present condition.
Rebecca returned Holden’s hat and finger combed her hair.
“I’ll be here whenever you’re finished,” Holden said.
Before she’d even unbuckled her seatbelt, her dad emerged from the house, crossing the lawn with the help of two canes.
“Hello,” Doug Powell greeted.
“You’d better come on inside,” she said under her breath to Holden. “It’ll be easier than explaining why you won’t.”
They met her dad under the pine tree where her sister had once hung a tire swing. He pulled her into a hard hug. “Becca-baby, I’ve been worried sick. Damian Arasmus called and said he found a presence in your new apartment.”
“Oh. That.” Slipping her hand into the crook of her father’s arm, she kept pace with his slower, unbalanced gait. “Well, of course he did. He only gets paid when he finds a presence.”
Out of nowhere a breeze picked up. She faced upwind just as the mini storm gained speed, formed a funnel, and lifted a ton of dirt from the next-door neighbor’s yard into the air. It had been years since she’d seen a dust devil. North Carolina wasn’t famous for its heavy winds, save during the occasional tropical storm. She watched in awe as it danced across the lawn and, like a missile, zeroed in on her.
“Rebecca!” Holden shouted.
Buster yipped and jumped in front of Holden, shielding him.
She didn’t have time to do anything but cover her head and face with both arms. The whirlwind hit her with the force of a truck. She cried out as a billion dust particles pelted every millimeter of exposed flesh—her arms, her throat, even her toes.
Her dad put both hands on her arms and shoved her toward the house. “Get up on the porch!”
Under the protection of the eaves, Becca hugged a splintery post, half-afraid the dust devil would snatch her away like the tornado in The Wizard of Oz.
As quickly as it had formed, the whirlwind evaporated, leaving debris falling like snow on Holden and Buster.
She released the porch column, feeling ridiculous, and listed to the side. Holden crossed the yard in three long strides to keep her on her feet.
“Easy,” he whispered in her ear. “You can do this.”
With the post out of reach, she clung to Holden for support. He was tall and strong and wouldn’t crumble. She laid her cheek upon his chest, and his pulse thrummed. Either he was more scared than he let on or she made him nervous.
“Weird weather we’re having,” Daddy said. “Who’s your friend?”
Crap. She’d forgotten her father, and there she was draped all over a strange man. Rebecca dropped her arms and stepped away, though Holden kept one hand on the small of her back.
“Daddy, this is Holden Clark and his dog Buster. We were on our way to the office when I harangued him into stopping here for a quick chat.”
“Well, come on in.” Daddy straightened with care. “I made a pitcher of sun tea this morning.”
He led them through the front door and left them in the dimly lit living room while he poured three glasses of iced tea sweetened with Splenda and set out a bowl of pretzels.
Holden politely sipped his drink and examined her and her sister’s baby pictures on the fireplace mantle. Buster flopped at her father’s feet and huffed a contented sigh.
“Excuse me for a minute,” Becca said, slipping into the bathroom. She turned on the light and closed the door to check her reflection in the mirror like she’d done a thousand times as a teenager. The reflection had changed over the years. Braces had come and gone. The acne curse was over. Thank God. Her hair had once been pink, and purple twice.
Today Becca looked like a hurricane survivor. She had pine needles poking out from under her collar and a thin coat of dust on her bare legs. Because the demon trying to possess her was gaining strength. She teared up and ran the water in the sink to distract herself from all this swelling self-pity. She washed her face, ruining her makeup, so she scrubbed the remains off with a hand towel. Then she straightened her hair, dusted her clothes, and pulled back her shoulders. She would not fall apart over a little wind.
She stared into the mirror image of her own warm brown eyes.
I am not rattled. I can do anything and do it with a smile on my face.
With a deep breath, she opened the door and rejoined the tea party. Her father stroked Buster’s neck and regaled Holden with a new, all-natural dog food he’d seen on an infomercial.
“Daddy,” she said, keeping an eye on Buster, though he seemed unimpressed with her after their therapy session in the Jeep. “I wanted to show you that I’m fine. I feel great. I think this new place is much better for me—”
“But Damian says—”
“And I don’t want you to hire any more psychics. In fact.” Rebecca glanced at Holden’s back, but he stayed out of the conversation, the coward. “You were right. Damian seems like a real professional. He’s coming to do a séance for me on Wednesday. I’m sure that will be the last of it.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that, Becca-baby.” He leaned back in his well-used armchair in front of the widescreen she’d bought him for Christmas. Buster laid his head in Daddy’s lap, a silent plea for more attention.
Doug was a lot different from the dad she remembered as a kid. He’d been sick a long time but only diag
nosed with diabetes about a year ago. He was still in denial, and he didn’t manage the disease the way he should. Which accounted for the canes and the weight gain and the white hair, though he was only fifty-one. The man who’d worked two jobs when she was a kid now lived off disability checks and her generosity.
“Also, don’t send him any money. Please. Let me take care of it.” Her dad barely had enough of a retirement check to pay for his pretzels, let alone Damian’s “services,” none of which cost less than $100.
Daddy grumbled something unintelligible, but he nodded. “It’s your business.”
No doubt as a distraction technique, he pinned his gaze on their quiet guest. “Holden, you’ve picked a real shining star in my daughter, here. Did you know she was Realtor of the Year last year?” Holden shook his head, and her daddy added, “Are you buying or selling?”
Turning back to the mantle, Holden sipped his tea. “Neither.”
Becca cut in. “Daddy, he’s more like a consultant. We’re working together on a project.”
“Oh, I see. I see.”
The light from the lamp in the corner flickered ever so slightly. Maybe no one else noticed, but she did. Rebecca put herself between the lamp and the two men. “We should go, actually.” They’d had enough supernatural pranks for one day. She looked to Holden to agree.
“Before we do,” he said, clearly awful at reading unspoken cues, “Who is this woman in the picture?”
Becca didn’t like where this was going. She could no longer see the lamp behind her, but the last thing she needed was to delve into her twisted family history while the demon played tricks.
Daddy answered, “My ex-wife.”
“Does she live around here?”
Becca wanted to nip this conversation in the bud. Now. “That woman hasn’t been seen or heard from in twenty years.” She glanced at her father for back-up, but he looked away. Uh-oh. Her stomach tightened. “Right? Daddy?” He scratched Buster’s head with a renewed vigor. “Daddy, are you in contact with that woman?”
His chin snapped up. “That woman is your mother, young lady. And I had to ask her if there is a history of… of… this sort of thing—” He flushed pink. “—on her side of the family.”
“Daddy!” All the rage she thought she’d outgrown surged to the surface. She’d never forgive that awful woman for leaving her husband, her daughter, and her brand new baby like so much garbage on the side of the road. Never.
Because of her, Becca’d had to be substitute mother to her sister and substitute housekeeper to her dad. She’d missed out on a lot working to help pay the utilities and the grocery bills.
“She sent a Christmas card a few years ago,” her father said.
Rebecca’s heart cracked like dry plaster. Her mother had written to Dad, but not once to her.
“She’s worried about you, too, darling.”
That was the last straw. “She has no right to—” Rational thought flew right out the window. “She made her choice.” Becca stomped toward the front door, so angry she could have ripped it straight off the frame.
By some miracle she kept her composure and crossed the yard without kicking anything. Or anyone. But she’d learned long ago how to fake her mood, her body language, her emotions, everything. So Becca pretended the fact that her mother was gossiping about her personal problems after twenty years of soul-wrenching silence wasn’t killing her.
Holden didn’t try to hug her or pet her hair or anything else that would have pissed her off. She got the feeling he understood pain. And thank God he did.
He and Buster climbed in the Jeep, and Holden started the engine. After a brief hesitation, Becca got in beside him and slapped his cap on her head.
Holden pulled slowly onto the street. “What was all that about?”
“Nothing.” Bury it. Cover the pain with piles and piles of dirt and stone. “It’s not important.”
“What are the chances it’s your mother casting the spell?”
She laughed too loudly. “Zero.” She was sick to death of feeling this way, so she changed the subject fast. “I’ll look through my business files tomorrow to see if any of my deals ended badly for a client or two.”
“Hold on.” The Jeep veered to the right and stuttered to a stop in front of a neighbor’s house. “Why can’t you be honest with me?”
Blindsided, Rebecca opened her mouth, but nothing came out. No one ever spoke to her like that.
“What?”
“I feel like you’re hiding things from me,” Holden said. “Or glossing over them, anyway.”
“That’s ridiculous.” But he was so right. Scary right. Her job, hell her whole life, was about spinning the slightest ugliness, whether it was an emotion or a burn on a kitchen countertop, into a positive. Spin, spin, spin. “I could ask the same of you.” His near-death experience came to mind.
Holden didn’t fall for her deflection. “Have you been having headaches?”
“Yes,” she growled. What the hell? He seemed to know the answer anyway.
“Extreme fatigue?”
“Yes.”
“Nightmares?”
“Every time I close my eyes.”
“You and I are going to make a pact.”
“Really?” Rebecca grunted in a very unladylike way. “About what?”
“You have to be honest with me,” Holden said. “All the time. About everything. Do you understand?”
“I am honest—”
“Don’t mess with me. No spin, no BS, no faking. 100% honesty. I’ll do the same.”
“Fine. No problem.” But Becca was insulted at the insinuation. Who did Holden think he was, telling her how to act? When he was much less trustworthy than her. So far, he’d made a whole lot of claims with nothing to back them up. “But I have one request of my own.”
“What is it?”
“I want to see you do magic.”
Chapter Five
Do a spell. Sure. Easy.
While Rebecca slipped upstairs to open her apartment, Holden lingered in the Jeep with his cell phone in his lap, preparing himself for what was about to go down. He clicked into his email app and opened Cole’s message about casting with spell marks. Holden studied the images, scrolling up and down the file at least eight times.
“You can do this,” Grams said from the passenger seat. “You’ve got me. You’ve got Cole’s research. All you have to do is stay calm and focus.”
Right. No problem. He got out of the Jeep leading Buster on the leash. Foot dragger that he was, Holden walked his dog to a patch of grass across the street instead of going directly upstairs. Standing still in the warm spring air he inventoried the different colored shutters on the windows across the street. Salmon. Rust. Tan. Because he was in no hurry to prove what a screw up he was to Rebecca.
Holden had never cast a spell before. Not one. He had the ability, but he’d been a little too distracted by seeing the spirit of his dead grandmother to worry about magic. Spell casting had never interested him. Now he didn’t have a choice.
His self-pitying groan disturbed Buster mid-stream. “Sorry, buddy.”
Grams appeared on the other side of the lawn. Buster yipped.
“You’ll need something to draw with,” she reminded him.
He was so unprepared for this. For the thousandth time he wished Cole would take over and spare him not only the upcoming epic failure but the related humiliation as well.
Then Rebecca, trailing a filthy, demonic veil, came down the stairs and crossed the street in his direction. Holden couldn’t give up. He couldn’t fail her. That summoning spell, and whoever was casting it, wanted to destroy her. He may be the only person standing in its way.
“Everything ready?” she called.
“Just about.” He passed Buster’s leash to Rebecca, who almost didn’t take it, and then he snatched a forgotten chunk of sidewalk chalk off her neighbor’s driveway. “Hope they don’t mind.”
Buster dragged a breathless Rebecc
a across the street, his tail wagging wildly behind him. At least someone was happy.
“I’ll replace it!” Rebecca shouted over her shoulder. “Please help me!”
Chuckling, Holden jogged over and took the leash. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
She inspected the pink flesh of her palms, shaking her head. “No.”
“Good.”
He followed her upstairs to her apartment, and she closed the front door behind him.
“What do you need?” She turned around and, upon seeing Buster loose and smelling her sofa cushions, grimaced.
“He’s very well behaved. Usually.”
“It’s fine. It’s all rented junk anyway.”
Holden hung Buster’s leash on the front doorknob and scanned the room. “A mending spell is pretty basic.” Spotting a small framed photo of Rebecca’s dad and a young woman in front of green and white helium balloons, he snatched it off the end table and promptly smashed it against the table’s corner.
Rebecca gasped. “That’s my sister’s graduation! What are you doing?”
“I’m going to mend it.” The glass was shattered, and some shards had scratched the photo beneath. Perfect. He looked up into a pair of furious brown eyes. “Where do you want to do this?”
Brow furrowed, Rebecca pointed to the slider in the kitchen. “Balcony. And this better be worth it.”
A six-by-twelve-foot slab of concrete opened from both the kitchen and the master bedroom. Rebecca hadn’t decorated it with anything but a patio table and one plastic green chair. Or maybe those had come with the apartment, too.
He shoved the furniture to the far side of the space, pulled out his phone, and re-opened Cole’s email. Holden scanned the notes for the umpteenth time and then squatted with his pilfered pink chalk in hand.
First step, draw a circle. Easy. Holden drew a lopsided oval with about a three foot diameter. Second step, draw spell marks specific to the spell being attempted. He scanned the page again.
Rebecca stepped right into his circle, scuffing it, and snatched the phone out of his hand. She frowned at Cole’s scribblings.
“You really haven’t done this before, have you?”