Reaping Havoc

by AJ Rose

  That won’t raise any weird questions at all, Mitch thought meanly.

  “What he means is he’s here for a few days, probably going back to New York after the weekend.” They knew the date of the reap. Why was Morgan acting all confused?

  Charles entered the room from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Nate! Good to see you again. Can I get you something to drink? Water or tea? Something stronger?”

  “I’m fine,” Nate said, smoothing the front of his plum-colored shirt before shaking Charles’s hand.

  Mitch realized he was just standing there glaring at Morgan, not doing anything to make Nate feel comfortable. “Um, I think dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Would you like a tour?”

  Nate’s dimples popped, and he gave Mitch a grateful look. “Yeah, sure.” Mitch led him down the steps on one side of the living room and into what they all called the Great Room, where a hallway led to the bedrooms and the stairs up to the second floor.

  “This isn’t at all what I pictured the house of a haunted family to look like,” Nate quipped when they were alone. Well, alone was relative. Tate floated along after them, taking the tour with her brother. Now that Nate knew Mitch was aware of her, should he acknowledge her? She was a person, after all, just a see-through one. The most he did was shoot a smile at her when Nate wasn’t looking. He didn’t want to make anything more awkward than it already was.

  “Ha ha, very funny,” Mitch said, pulling Nate by the hand to the stairs. Once on the second floor, he dragged him into his father’s den, a comfortable room filled with wall-to-wall bookshelves and windows overlooking the mountain, though it was too dark to see more than the outline of it. He closed the door, then pushed Nate against it. “You look good enough to eat,” he said before closing his mouth over Nate’s.

  Nate returned the kiss for a moment but pushed him back. “Down boy. I don’t want to look all sexed up before meeting your mother.”

  Mitch smiled into the hollow beneath Nate’s jaw. “Sorry. It’s been a weird few days with Morgan back, and I’ll admit I’m nervous. I hope you like them.”

  “Are they homophobes?” Nate asked, scratching his blunt fingernails into the hair at the base of Mitch’s skull.

  “No.” Mitch shivered and rubbed his hands up and down Nate’s sides.

  “Are they super-rich and going to think I’m not good enough for you?”

  “No.”

  “Are they conspiracy theorists who think they’ve been abducted by aliens and have stories of probes and secret underground bunkers the government is hiding?”

  Mitch barked a surprised laugh. “Of course not.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. I’m sure I’ll like them just fine.”

  Unable to help himself, he kissed Nate again, but this time he kept his hands on Nate’s hips, being good. “We should keep going, or they’ll wonder where we went.”

  He finished the tour and returned Nate to the Great Room, where Charles had set out an assortment of finger foods for them to pick at while Sylvia finished up in the kitchen. “Does Mom need any help?”

  Charles shot a glance at the kitchen, his expression fond. “She kicked me out a minute ago with orders not to get in her way again, so I assume not. Nate, I hope you like stir-fry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call me Charles, son. How’ve you been? How’s the new job going?”

  Nate relaxed into the couch cushions, and Mitch sat beside him, not too close to be inappropriate, but not so far away to seem cold. “It’s going well. I love knowing my job involves skiing every day, so I’d probably be able to handle a lot of other shi—um, crap with that perk.” Behind Nate, Tate mimed smacking the back of his head.

  Morgan coughed.

  Nate’s face flushed with obvious embarrassment. “Sorry.”

  Charles waved a hand in dismissal. “Well, tourists bring a lot of shit with them when they visit,” he said, clearly trying to smooth over Nate’s faux pas.

  Mitch glared at his brother and took Nate’s hand, linking their fingers. What is wrong with you? he mouthed.

  Sorry, Morgan mouthed back when Nate was focused on Charles’s next question. But his eyes flickered over Nate’s shoulder, and it suddenly dawned on Mitch: Morgan was reacting to Tate.

  Fuck! I forgot to warn them about her! At least, he’d forgotten to warn Morgan. Their father was well aware of Tate, but now they were really seeing her in the flesh. Well, sort of. And she wasn’t just some spectral balloon. Mitch had forgotten how actively she would sometimes participate in her brother’s conversations. She knew they could see her, too.

  How do you tell a ghost to behave?

  Should he introduce her, too? She was there after all. They could see her. Nate knew Mitch could, and possibly his father, so would it be rude not to? Would it make Nate uncomfortable?

  Goddammit! Why hadn’t he thought of this? See, this is why reapers shouldn’t date.

  “Mitch,” his father said, clearly not for the first time.

  “Yeah?”

  “Nate was just asking how old Sadie is now, and I can’t remember.” Sadie lifted her head from her massive inner tube-shaped pillow, close enough to the fireplace to feel the heat, but not so close her fur would singe if the wood popped an ember past the safety screen. Then she went back to watching them while dozing off and on.

  “Oh, uh, five.” He made a point of paying more attention then, and Morgan, to his credit, carried on a normal conversation after that.

  Tate, however, was another matter. Any time Nate mentioned Mitch by name, she mimed silly things about her brother, batting her eyelashes at Mitch and flouncing around in the air above him in the way any sister, stowing away on a meet-the-family date, would. Mitch’s dad and brother, to their credit, gave very little sign they saw anything.

  “Nate,” Sylvia Seeker said, entering the room with a big smile. “It’s so good to finally meet you!”

  Nate stood as Sylvia stepped close and ignored his hand in favor of giving him a hug, which he returned with a surprised laugh. “You have a lovely home,” he said when she backed up. Sylvia couldn’t see Tate sink to her phantom knees and bow repeatedly, as though she were worshipping Sylvia as a deity.

  Morgan snorted, then tried to play it off as a sneeze.

  “Is it dusty in here, Morgan? You can’t be getting sick,” Sylvia said, frowning at her oldest. Reapers didn’t get the common cold or any other illnesses until their aging period.

  “I think I just got a stray piece of fuzz from my sweater, Mom,” Morgan said.

  Mitch glared at him as hard as he could, then turned his focus on Tate. She was, after all, the cause of all the torment the last half hour. She merely looked at Mitch with an enormous smile and drew an imaginary halo over her head. He shot daggers at her, but Sylvia snagged everyone’s attention.

  “Dinner is ready. What can I get everybody to drink?”

  She led them all to the dining room, including the dog, who lay in the corner without bothering to beg for table scraps. While the food was fairly simple, since Mitch had told them of Nate’s penchant for healthy eating, the place settings were fancier. Sylvia had brought out the good china and cloth napkins.

  “Nate, dear, I wasn’t sure if you like wine, so we have beer if you prefer, or something non-alcoholic.”

  “Water’s fine, Ma’am,” Nate said, holding back until Mitch pulled his chair out for him. Then Mitch sat once Nate was comfortable.

  Tate practically fell over herself to fawn all over Mitch for being so chivalrous to her brother.

  Morgan couldn’t contain or disguise it that time: he flat-out burst into laughter.

  Sylvia and Nate shared bewildered looks, and Charles dropped his chin to his chest to hide his amusement. Mitch, however, buried his face in his hands. Debating briefly if he should say anything, the confusion on Nate’s face decided him. He couldn’t let the guy remain oblivious while his otherworldly barnacle played to the crowd at his expense.


  “Dad, Morgan, I should probably introduce Tate, Nate’s twin sister. She’s apparently feeling… very theatrical tonight. Mom, be glad you can’t see her.”

  Tate took an enormous bow, then rose, beaming at those who were now looking right at her, all pretense falling away.

  Nate went very still, eyes wide, looking at those around the room. “Oh my God,” he muttered, then said more loudly, “She’s been mocking me since I got here, hasn’t she?”

  Voice filled with humor and little self-control, Morgan answered, “Pretty much. Which is exactly what I’d do to Mitch if I were in her position.”

  “I’ll kill her,” Nate said flatly. “Again.”

  Tate kissed his cheek, and he swatted at his face like an annoying fly buzzed his ear.

  “Nah,” Morgan said, taking his seat and shaking out his napkin. “You’ll go down in family history as the most interesting introduction Mitch has ever made. I’d call that a win.”

  Charles rounded the table, pouring them all water from a chilled glass pitcher. “Now, Morgan. Let’s not make our guest any more uncomfortable than he already is.”

  Sylvia left and returned with bowls full of both fried and steamed rice, and then retreated to bring out the main event, cashew chicken stir-fry. Charles followed her with a carefully balanced tureen of egg-drop soup. Sylvia whipped a fist full of paper-wrapped chopsticks from her pocket and offered one to Nate before the rest of them, then finally sat down.

  “Thank you, Mom,” Mitch said, grateful for her normality in the midst of such a weird evening.

  “Of course, Mitch. Eat up.”

  Beyond the murmurs of “please” and “thank you” for passed dishes and the careful scraping of serving utensils against fine china, there was little talking until everyone had full plates. Mitch took up his chopsticks and began to eat, ignoring the soup he’d never liked.

  “So.” Nate cleared his throat. “You can see her. Tate, I mean.”

  Well, that’s one way to deal with the elephant in the room, Mitch thought. Though if this were out in the open, perhaps building a relationship on truth rather than secrecy was the better idea, despite the embarrassing beginning.

  “My dad and brother can,” Mitch said for them. “My mom can’t, but she’s used to hearing about stuff like this.”

  “So you’re… um,” Nate paused, casting about for the right word. “Psychic, then? Like Mitch?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Charles answered pleasantly. “Please don’t let it bother you. It rarely has anything to do with people we are acquainted with. We cannot read your mind or invade your privacy.”

  “Do you mind me asking a question, then?” Nate said.

  Mitch’s spine stiffened. It’s not like this was a surprise, nor was it a risk his family would let slip the secret Seeker legacy.

  “I can’t guarantee an answer,” Charles said with care. “But you can certainly ask.”

  “What kind of psychics are you? It runs in the family?”

  Charles chose to answer the second question only. “It does tend to run along the male genetic line on my side of the family, yes.”

  “The reason I ask is because I have things I’d really like to say to Tate right now.” His tone took on a sharp edge, and Mitch couldn’t help it. When his dad and brother laughed, and even his mother smiled with enjoyment, Mitch snickered and found himself joining in. Nate took it all in stride, his shoulders settling when he realized they weren’t laughing at him. He continued. “I mean, I was just wondering if you can see her, can you speak to her, too?”

  Mitch shook his head. “Ghosts can’t be heard by the living. At least, not their voices.”

  “Why?” Nate asked, finally dropping the mask and letting his fascination show.

  “We don’t really know,” Morgan said, shoveling chicken in his mouth. Sylvia shot him a look at his slipping manners. He had the good sense to swallow before he resumed talking. “My guess is they speak on a different frequency than people still alive hear. Kind of how dogs can hear higher pitches than we can. We can talk to souls, and they seem to understand us, but not the other way around.”

  “How often do you communicate with them?” Nate asked, eating enough to be polite but clearly engrossed in the conversation.

  “It varies,” Charles said. “Sometimes we go weeks without seeing any souls, and other times, we can see two or three in a day.”

  Or eighteen. The thought sobered Mitch.

  “How do you know they understand you?”

  “We read their body language,” Mitch said simply, hoping to shut the subject down before it got into more uncomfortable territory.

  “So if I told her to knock it off, you could see her reaction.”

  Tate stuck her tongue out at the back of Nate’s head. Morgan grinned and answered. “Yes.”

  “And what was it?” Nate said, narrowing his eyes at Morgan.

  “She stuck her tongue out at you.”

  Nate shook his head. “Real mature, Tate. Could you, maybe, perhaps, act your age now? Please?”

  Tate patted the top of Nate’s head, and he stiffened as if he felt it. Then she floated to the empty end of the table and sat lotus style, as though she were done being a nuisance. She gave Mitch an acquiescent nod and an OK sign with her hand.

  “I think she’s going to leave you alone now,” Mitch said, reaching beneath the tablecloth and squeezing Nate’s knee reassuringly.

  “Morgan was right, though,” Charles said, swallowing a sip of his white wine. “This is a most memorable introduction. Nate, tell us a little about yourself.”

  And the subject of Nate’s mischievous brat of a sister was behind them.

  * * *

  Hours later, well after dinner concluded and the family and their guest had retired to the Great Room in front of the fireplace with coffee, Nate sat in the corner of a deep couch, one ankle kicked up on the opposite leg, and Mitch leaning ever more into his side until they were downright cuddled up. It would normally have made Nate nervous, but after the embarrassment his sister had dealt out at the beginning of the evening, there was little point in worrying about it. The Seekers seemed quite comfortable with Mitch’s proximity to him, so he went with it. His full belly, as well as the warmth from the fire, served to loosen his tongue despite not having had any alcohol to lower his guard.

  “What do you know about the souls of people passing on from this world?” he asked, not really thinking about the words until after he said them. Maybe Mitch’s family would give him more than Mitch ever would.

  Morgan appraised him from the other end of the couch, Charles from a deep armchair. Sylvia sat comfortably, if regally, in a wingback chair beside her husband’s, sipping from a large mug of coffee she held in two hands, only her fingers sticking out of her sweater sleeves.

  “Why do you ask?” Charles said.

  Nate was grateful the room was lit only by firelight, so maybe the heat in his cheeks wouldn’t be obvious or at least could be easily explained. “I went to see a psychic in Durango this week, and he said some stuff about Tate being stuck here that I’m a little concerned about.”

  Mitch stirred against him to grip his hand and thread their fingers together. “What’d he say?”

  Nate heard no judgment in his question and relaxed, letting go of his embarrassment. “That Tate chose to stay with me when her afterlife began, and because of that, maybe her ability to move on is in jeopardy.”

  A crease appeared in Charles’s brow. “That’s possible. Frankly, I don’t know a lot about what happens to ghosts attached to loved ones. Do you want me to look into it?”

  “No, that’s okay,” Nate said, ducking his head. These people were fantastic, taking his situation in stride and not making him feel freakish for having his dead sister tagging along with him wherever he went. Granted, they were the only ones he knew who could see her, but most people confronted with a ghost would run from the room screaming. The Seekers treated him like he belo
nged.

  Maybe I do belong. Finally. The thought had him squeezing Mitch closer.

  “It’s no trouble, son,” Charles offered. “There might be information I could glean from old texts in my family library. Or I might be able to speak to someone knowledgeable on the subject.”

  Did that mean they weren’t reapers? Wouldn’t a reaper know what happens to ghosts who miss their chance to move on? “Okay,” he agreed aloud. It really did bother him, not knowing Tate’s fate. The last thing he wanted was for her to be stuck here. But Tate had said Mitch had the same aura as her failed reaper, albeit a different color, so why wouldn’t they already know? Maybe all people who could see spirits had an aura. He hadn’t thought to ask Tate if Figueroa had one, but the man hadn’t been able to see her, either. That much had been clear.

  Nate was at a loss about Mitch. All he knew was the Seekers were different, sure, but they were also kind and caring, funny and warm, and had welcomed him into their home even in his haunted state. They were clearly a close-knit family, something he’d only ever felt with Tate, and to a lesser degree, his mother when she hadn’t been pushing him to do his father’s bidding.

  He’d almost called Mitch back after the day they’d reconciled to say it was probably a mistake, trying a relationship again. The hours after Mitch left had been pretty agonizing, not the least of which was because Wes seemed to have done a total one-eighty in his opinion on Nate dating a Seeker. When he’d filled his neighbor in, Wes had congratulated him and told him to watch his back but enjoy himself.

  “It’s clear you have feelings for the guy,” Wes had said, popping the tab on a can of Coke. “Just see where it goes.” When Nate voiced his reservations, Wes cut him off. “If he’d never come back, you’d always wonder, right?” Nate conceded the point. “If it doesn’t work out, you’ll know it’s because you’re incompatible in some way, and you won’t wonder about it forever like you would have if you hadn’t tried again.”

  Nate protested, “Hey, I thought I was doing pretty well, trying to let it go.”

  Wes shrugged. “You were, except you kept looking for Mitch everywhere you went, like you were hoping to run into him so he could see you weren’t that upset. That ain’t healthy, going out with other people, hoping to rub it in your ex’s face. Now you can stop that shit.”