by K A Jordan
There it was again. Deep and raspy, the voice sounded like the dead DEA agent from his flashback.
"Everybody knows that bike." The cop shook his head. "You shouldn't have brought it back here."
"Yeah, well, shit happens." Should he tell the cop who he was; or who he wasn't?
Don't be stupid, GI Joe, play along.
"Can you get word to the DEA?"
"No." Eric brought his coffee to his mouth and sipped. The strong harsh taste cleared his head. He was hearing a guy's voice – confessing that to a cop would get him a rubber room and an 'I love me' jacket.
"I'll talk to a buddy of mine on the state side."
The cop gave Eric a pat on the shoulder. He tossed a ten dollar bill on the counter, then got up.
"I haven't forgotten what I owe you." He walked away.
What the fuck was going on? Was he suffering from some kind of delayed PTSD where he was hearing voices? The waitress set the plate in front of him. Eric hung his aching head, his stomach twisted into knots. It was no wonder that Jake was dead, Eric thought savagely. The idiot killed someone in a drug bust, then kept a one-of-a-kind motorcycle.
Which you now own, bright boy – deal with it.
He'd deal, all right. He was going back to talk to June and this time he was going to get some answers.
~^~
June sat down on a cushion and lit a candle in the center of her protective pentagram. There wouldn't be any random spirits bothering her today. Relaxing into a lotus position, she breathed deep and slow until she had the right rhythm to tap the well-spring of energy, as pure and clear as moonlight. Deep in meditation, she floated in the center of a glowing bubble.
There were moving orbs around her, they cast shadows.
A drifting shadow took on a familiar form. Who did that remind her of – Aunt Lizzie or Grandma? It moved slowly away. There were more; some whizzed by, others drifted, all were on the move. June followed the one that reminded her of Aunt Lizzie. It faded away like a firefly, only to reappear just out of reach.
There was a faint humming – like music played far away. June no longer searched, she drifted. There was no sense of time or space…
She was brought back to her body with a painful snap. There was a hand on her face and a man calling her name.
"June?" Eric was crouched on the inside edge of the circle. He had his helmet under his arm and his leathers on. He smelled of wind, leather and cologne.
"What?" June was still half in the world of shadows. She could still see the shadow world overlaid on the real world. Some part of her wanted to go back to the other side.
"Hey, are you okay?" Eric's hand on her face kept her anchored.
"I'm fine." She smiled at him as her mind cleared. Cora was nearby, watching. June breathed out, expanding the sphere of white light to push the spirit out of her garage.
"What were you doing?" He stood up – held out his hand.
"I was meditating," June explained, taking his hand and rising in a smooth motion.
He gave her a funny look – skeptical and amused, not disdainful.
"Are you hungry?"
"Always," Eric laughed as he followed her into the house. "After two years in 'Stan, I'll eat anything."
"Tell me about that." June rummaged in the refrigerator for a big bowl of soup.
"What?"
"Afghanistan." June held out the bowl.
"It sucked." Eric took the bowl from her. Something flitted across his face, pain, guilt, shame? She wasn't sure. "I just nuke this, right?"
"Four minutes." She grabbed the rest of the meal. "What happened over there?"
"Shit happened." He was looking at the microwave as if it was going to do tricks. "A lot of ugly shit happened. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"
June leaned against the counter, watching him stare at the microwave. Like called to like; dark secrets were an invitation to dark energy – like Cora.
"You mention Afghanistan at the strangest times."
"I spent two and half years of my life in that frigging sand pit." He was tensed like a guitar string, his jaw clenched. "It's hardly a secret."
"It's not what you say." She tried to put the feeling into words. "It's what you aren't saying..."
"It was fucking Disneyland in the desert." Opening the microwave, stirring the soup required his complete concentration. "What else can I tell you?" The microwave door snapped shut.
"You went to war. Your world fell apart when you got back." She put all her compassion into her voice. "That had to leave scars."
"There's the understatement of the year." His hands were clenched on the counter, the knuckles white.
"I came here to apologize, not argue." Eric turned, leaned his back against the counter, with his arms crossed in front of his chest. She waited, not speaking, for him to collect his thoughts.
"You have no idea what it was like. Too cold, too hot, getting ambushed, shot at, or blown up." His eyes looked farther away. "My unit lost people every time a convoy was ambushed. It was a regular thing."
"You must have been scared." June wanted to say something that would heal his heart. Instead, she laid her cheek against his shoulder and slipped her hand around his arm. He stood, tension vibrating from every muscle for a long moment, then he let out a shuddering breath.
"It's not the same country," he spoke in a low voice, his head down. "I missed home so much. But this isn't home anymore."
"Maybe it's you that's changed," June squeezed his arm. "You survived, but you aren't the same person."
"Maybe." Eric straightened, looking at her with wounded eyes.
"You're here, now." June touched his face, running her fingertips over his bearded jaw. She felt his pain and bewilderment.
"That's something else that bugs me. I've been in firefights and ambushes. I can take an ass-whipping with the best of them. But I have never been as scared as I was in your garage the other night.
"I'm sorry that I yelled at you and called you a freak." He covered her hand with his.
June savored being right for a moment before she touched his face.
"I forgive you." It wrung her heart to see him so humble.
Then he brought her closer, kissing her tenderly.
There was no sense of being over-run by another entity. June felt only the reassuring touch of Eric's hands. This was good and right for both of them. She wrapped her arms around his neck, giving herself up to the moment, to his kiss.
The microwave chimed. Eric released her slowly.
"Apology accepted." June smiled up at him.
They sat at the bar, the mood lighter as they ate. She noticed Tasha was glued to the floor at Eric's feet. When he thought she wasn't looking, he slipped Tasha bits of bread. June turned her head to hide her smile.
She needed to figure out something for them to do – otherwise she might end up in bed with him. He was wounded to the heart; she was foolish enough to use sex to try to heal him. It wouldn't work.
"Do you want to help me make soap?" she asked when they were finished eating. She gathered the dishes, thinking she would leave them for later.
"Soap?" He took the dishes from her, washing them as if from habit.
While she wiped off the countertop, June told him about the bar of soap that had cost her nine dollars and her idea of making soap made from her own store of herbs.
"Making soap is easy enough." Eric stacked the dishes in the drying rack.
"Well, I messed it up, somehow."
"Did you read the directions?"
"I read them twice."
Done with the dishes, he turned to her, giving her a fond smile.
"But did you follow them?"
"I did."
"Why do I doubt that?" His eyes laughed at her. "This time you have a chemist to help you."
"Oh. Get out of my kitchen, you jerk." June snapped him with the dishtowel. They wrestled for control of the towel – which set the dogs to barking. June ducked away, heading out to the g
arage, the dogs followed.
"Since you know so much – here." She handed him the directions.
"Works for me. Give me a minute to get my bearings."
As June set up the workspace, Eric scanned the directions. He poked the ruined batch with his finger. The tan soap was still soft; his finger dented it. He started rummaging around the table, picking things up and moving them. He was confident again, taking a lot of pleasure in teasing her.
"This looks like Appalachian Engineering to me."
"You want to explain that term to me?" June slanted a look at him.
"Are you serious about this or just messing around?"
"I'm serious." June crossed her arms. "I want to use my herbs to make soap and lotions. Then I want to sell what I make at shops and over the internet."
"If you want this to turn out right, you're going to have to change some things." Eric tossed the plastic measuring cups into the chipped graniteware pot and put it all under the counter. "You need a stainless steel pot and glass or stainless steel measuring cups."
"Why can't we use those?"
"The enamel is chipped. The exposed metal turned your soap brown." He grinned at her. "That's not what you want is it?"
"What do you know about soap?"
"Chemistry is chemistry, honey-child," he teased her. "If you want first rate results, you need the right equipment. A stainless steel pot is your top priority. Measuring the chemicals precisely will give you the results you want."
June shot a look at her first attempt.
"This stuff costs money." Eric rubbed it in. "Can't see how you can afford to waste it."
"Fine." June walked into the house, grabbing her best stainless steel pot and glass measuring-cup and metal spoons. She returned to the garage, then set the items on the counter.
"Now, let me show you the way to make perfect soap." He insisted they wear gloves and safety glasses. Then he started setting up for the new batch of soap.
"I'm surprised you called me. I thought you would be as far from here as you could get."
"I found Van Man Go."
"Where did you find him?"
"He has a shop in the Harbor."
"That figures." June snickered. "The Harbor is a weird place."
"It's not just the Harbor," Eric said with a grimace. "Van Man Go is the King of Weird. He's pierced and tatted up like a freak show." He told her about the collage and the photos of Cora. How Cora was a stripper and Van appeared to be her number one fan.
"When I was in his studio, I couldn't think straight. The paint fumes or the music made my head ache – things seemed to move – it was surreal in a bad way.
"I rented a room over one of the bars. So I've got a place to stay while Van restores the bike." He smiled. "The beach is incredible. I ran four miles this morning, it cleared my head."
He set the spoon in the measuring cup, turning to look directly at her. All the teasing was gone.
"This afternoon I was – I heard a voice. I felt – like someone else was talking to me then through me." He pushed his hair away from his face. "I'm more afraid of going crazy than I am of dying."
"You're not crazy."
Eric cocked his head, one eyebrow raised, waiting for her to answer.
"You're dealing with – something most people never experience. It's real, very rare, but real." June gestured with her hands. "The world isn't – it isn't just what we see. There is another world – a world of pure energy, layered on top of ours."
"Can you see that world?"
"Yes, I can." June felt herself blush. She never talked about it, not even to Aunt Lizzie.
"What happened Sunday?"
The level, intent way he looked at her made her blush all the more. How much could she tell him before she scared him away for good? She certainly wasn't going to tell him that she'd swallowed the moon or why.
"I – I called a positive energy to contain the bike and the spirits. You got trapped on the wrong side. I didn't mean to scare you. I am sorry."
Eric's expression was unreadable.
"I don't expect you to believe me." June stood straight, daring him to make fun of her.
"You're pretty strong," he said with an amused glint in his eyes. "I couldn't force my way through it." He picked up the spoon to stir the mix again.
"Since I bought the bike, things have been – weird. I have these really weird dreams about Cora." He took a deep breath.
If the kiss had been fueled by Cora, June could guess what he dreamed about. Cora didn't act like an ordinary ghost; more like a succubus. She didn't comment – this was TMI territory.
"I've been hearing – I don't know – maybe it is Cora." Eric shrugged.
"But today it wasn't just Cora," he dropped his voice again. "I ran into a cop during lunch. He called me Jake. It got worse – Jake told me what to say."
June didn't believe in demons. Wicca didn't deal with demons; they were creatures of the Christian religion. She believed in the rhythm of the seasons, energy in all of nature's forms. Nature was stronger than the pitiful spirits hanging around Eric. They were an annoyance – like mice in a house.
"Both those spirits are part of your motorcycle." June chose her words carefully. "They died with a lot of unfinished business. They are trying to get some kind of closure before they pass on."
"So what do I do about them?"
"They can't do any damage." June thought about Cora – a jealous spirit – and her companion the friendly ghost. Irritating didn't mean dangerous.
"Maybe fate brought us together so I can get rid of them."
June flinched at the word 'fate.' Eric wasn't the kind of guy she wanted 'fate' to bring into her life. Eric was a nice guy, but unemployed, divorced and in deep trouble. He'd crashed into her life – and would likely ride out of it in a couple of weeks.
"Sell the bike. Make them someone else's problem."
"That's not an option." Eric gave her a pained look.
"Get the bike blessed." June shrugged. "It's worth a try."
"Right – bless my bike, Father, for it has sinned." He snickered. "I'd be the one locked up."
"Suit yourself."
"This is ready to pour." Eric tapped the pot.
"I'll get the molds."
"Can you see them?" Eric's voice dropped from amused to serious.
"Who?"
"The ghosts."
"I saw Cora." June rummaged through the molds, taking more time than she needed.
"What about the other one?"
"Not clearly. She's stronger."
He snorted – giving her a look that said he didn't want to believe her – but he didn't want to argue about it. June smiled, giving him brownie points for the effort.
"They aren't anything to worry about," June assured him. "Ignore them. They're just trying to get your attention." She briefly considered telling Eric about the ghostly kiss and the rose petals she hid in her desk. Likely he would tease her to death. If a spirit had a crush on her, it didn't concern him.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." June put the molds on the scarred wooden bench. "I've lived with spirits all my life. They can't hurt you. They are just – annoying."
The look he gave her was speculative as he carefully filled the molds.
"So I learn to live with a dead stripper who has the hots for me?" His smile was quirky; he was teasing.
June frowned – the thought of Cora hanging all over him put her hackles up.
"Terrible, isn't it?" She gave as good as she got. "How many guys can say their motorcycle loves them back?"
Eric laughed, shaking his head as he lounged against the work table.
"A story like this will keep me in free beer for life."
"A worthy ambition." June rolled her eyes. "Some of us have to pay for our beer."
They kept up the banter during the clean up. Eric made her laugh, so when she shooed him out the door, she gave him a fond hug.
She locked the doors behind her – grinning
all the way up the stairs. There was a light on in her room. The door was partially closed. June frowned before she pushed it open.
Had she left a light on?
"Oh, what happened here?" she said out loud as she crossed the threshold.
The light came from the scented candles on her dresser – her bed was turned down and rose petals were scattered across her pillow and the bed spread. A breeze lifted her hair – she felt the soft touch of a lover's lips against just under her ear.
Goodnight.
Wide-eyed, she rubbed her neck, all thought of Eric gone.
How utterly romantic – who was this spirit? She chuckled to herself. He was a hopeless romantic, her kind of guy – er – ghost.
~^~
Chapter Eight
It felt good to wake up without a hangover. Eric liked running on the hard sand in the cold pre-dawn air better than the finest tequila. The gulls and the waves, the smell of the water was enough to make him high. He ran four miles, coming back to the Iroquois with a clear head.
Nothing stirred as he let himself in the back door. Even through the closed connecting doors, he could tell the building was absolutely silent. The silence intensified the feeling of age as he mounted the worn stairs. As he showered and changed the only sounds were guys snoring in their rooms. It had been this way for over a hundred years, he thought as he dressed. It was enough to make the hair on his arms stand up.
Some imagination – Eric made no effort to be quiet as he trotted down the stairs. He was hungry and wanted a big breakfast, not just a couple of doughnuts and coffee. He threw his leg over the bike, bouncing to check the tires. The front tire was spongy.
Swearing, he got off the bike, digging for a tire gauge. It was ten pounds off from yesterday.
The rim must be bent – it didn't take much of a ding to give him a slow leak. He needed a new wheel. He kicked a beer can into the wall. The clatter echoed as the beer can bounced off the wall.
Damnation! He was trapped in this crazy town. His head throbbed, his throat closed and it was hard to breathe. The walls closed in, the hard brick threatened to crush the life from him.
Not trapped, he told himself. Not trapped as long as there were bus-stations and Greyhounds.