Awakened with a Touch (Gifted Affinities Book 2)

by Kessily Lewel

  He had to be careful with the servants. Their quarters were so close to his secret place that it was necessary to be discrete. Ironically, he'd originally intended to have his room built in the basement, but when it became necessary to dispose of his partner, plans had changed. He avoided the basement now and pretended it wasn't out of fear, but always there was that creeping chill when he went near.

  He believed that John's spirit lingered in his house because he felt it there, always waiting and judging. Over time, he became more and more paranoid. He knew, sometimes, that he was no longer acting rationally, but as he got closer to the edge, he cared less. He began to have nightmares and a feeling of absolute certainty came over him that John's angry spirit would come for him while he was asleep.

  As he stocked his secret room with food, drink, and everything he'd need to be comfortable, he also piled in giant sacks of salt. He'd been told that salt warded off spirits, so he'd be protected from the ghost of his dead partner. But nothing could protect him from his dreams, and locked in a small room with nothing but time to think, he began to fray mentally and physically.

  He crammed small bags of salt into his pockets whenever he crept out of the room, but inside, the floor was strewn with a layer of white. Thick lines had been poured across the window ledges and in front of the door, but it didn't stop the nightmares. The lack of sleep and stress were too much, and one day, his heart just gave out and he crumpled to the floor, surrounded by the small white crystals.

  She had to pull out of the memory, gasping at the almost painful wrenching sensation as she disengaged, but there was relief to be out. Being in his thoughts, tasting the bitterness that clung to his memories was disgusting. She'd seen enough now; she had the whole story or all of it that mattered, and she laughed. It was a harsh barking sound that caught the attention of both men and was more from shock than amusement.

  "You trapped yourself!" she said. "You were so paranoid about John that you surrounded yourself with salt and when you died in the middle of it, you were stuck!" she crowed.

  Harold snarled and lunged for her, attempting to go through John's spectral form. He must have thought John would be intangible, like a proper ghost, but John hadn't been trapped in a room ringed with salt to disrupt psychic energy. He'd learned how to use the power he drew from the house, and now from her, and he was as solid as he chose to be.

  Instead of reaching April, he rebounded off John, falling back against the wall again and, this time, his head smacked into it with a loud thunking sound. His eyes rolled back in his head as his body slid to the floor, unconscious.

  April moved around John, crouching down next to the Harold carefully to check, but he really was out. She moved back, anyway; she'd seen enough horror movies not to want to take any chances. "He was stuck in here all these years because of the salt, but when the lawyer—the real one, Charles—came here—" She stopped, frowning, as she tried to organize the memories she'd connected. There was something dangling just out of her reach and it took her a second.

  "Oh!" she exclaimed.

  "Are you all right?" John asked, turning his attention to her with concern.

  "I'm fine. Well, not fine, but I'll survive. I get it now, but we've got a big problem," she said. She'd explain everything to him later, but for now, they needed to deal with the unconscious man on the floor. "I can call the cops and maybe they'll arrest him for breaking and entering, but I can't really prove assault and there's no way to hang the rest on him," she said, waving an arm at the tools of torture. "So, he won't be in jail long and then—"

  It didn't need to be said that there would always be the chance he'd come back again. From the short dip into his mind, she'd learned just how deep his obsession with her went and she doubted he'd give up on her so easily. It wasn't her, specifically, though he was attracted to her type. It was that she wanted John and not him and that it would hurt John to lose her.

  At some point, Harold had grown to loathe his partner. He'd hidden it well, but underneath the smiling exterior had been a seething pit of jealousy and rage, and all of it was directed at John. What John wanted, Harold would take, and if it came in a pretty package that he could lust after, so much the better.

  "Killing him would be better," John said.

  "And have to deal with hiding the body? No, thanks. Besides, he can't be killed here or we'll end up with his spirit and this will start all over again!" She snorted and shook her head. "No, what we need is—"

  "What you need is an exorcism. And isn't it lucky for you that I have that skill, Chepota?" a voice said from behind them.

  April spun around and, there, standing in the doorway, was her grandmother. "Appo? What? How? I don't…" she stumbled off to silence, staring wide-eyed.

  "I'd be a pretty lousy psychic if I couldn't tell my own granddaughter needed me, wouldn't I? Though the least you could have done was managed to have your trouble on the first floor," she grumbled as she pushed firmly past the girl, moving towards Harold. "Honestly, three flights of stairs are too much at my age," she continued as she leaned down to touch the man. Her ankle-length denim skirt showed flashes of a pair of snake hide cowboy boots and the long black braid that hung thick and heavy down her back was streaked with white.

  April felt such a rush of love and gratitude that it rendered her speechless. John nudged her and cleared his throat significantly. "April, who is this?" he asked quietly.

  April flushed and hurried to introduce them. "Oh! Appo, this is John. Uh, John, this is my grandmother—"

  "Call me Mary, and we don't have time to be social right now. Not if you want to take care of this before that one wakes up," her grandmother interrupted firmly. "Let's see what can be done about this," she said in a low voice, frowning. She closed her eyes and took a series of slow deep breaths, muttering softly in a voice too low to be heard, and then she opened them, staring intently at the unconscious man.

  After several minutes of silence, April tried to ask a question, but she was quickly hushed and the quiet lengthened as she tried not to shift or make a sound. Finally, her grandmother straightened, with a wince, and turned to them. Her eyes skirted over John, making a swift assessment and then focused on April as though he wasn't there.

  "Your ghost is strong, drawing power from the house, yes?" she asked. April shot a side glance at John and then nodded.

  "He is able to move things? Lift and carry them?" Mary asked.

  "Y-yes, he—" She stopped and again looked at John. She wasn't sure why her grandmother was ignoring him, but it was awkward to talk about him.

  "I can do most things a living man can do, Mary," John replied. His tone was bordering on irritated and April cringed. The last thing she wanted was for them to get in a fight.

  But to her surprise, it was a different problem entirely. Her grandmother followed April's glance to John and was watching as he spoke. She shook her head regretfully. "Sorry. I should have said. I can't hear you, John. Not all the women in our line have been gifted equally and April is the only one I've known who can see and hear ghosts clearly. I thought, perhaps, when she told me, that it was your strength that allowed her to hear, but apparently not."

  "Oh." The younger woman looked confused, glancing from one to the other. "I guess I'll translate," she said, uncertain what to think about this new information. "He said he can do almost anything a living man can do."

  "That's what I needed. If you can pick up this creature and carry him to the first floor, that would be helpful," Mary said, as she nudged Harold with her foot.

  "Why—"

  Before John could even finish the question, April took over. "Why the first floor?"

  "Because Foshi couldn't climb stairs with her injuries, and if we don't show up presently, she'll come looking for us. Besides, we'll need her help," Mary said. She pointed at Harold. "Get a move on, ghost, this will be harder if he fights us," she said.

  John took a step towards his former partner and then stopped, surprised. "I can't get any
closer," he said. He looked confused as he tried again, looking like a mime trying to walk against the wind.

  April was just as confused. She had no trouble getting closer to Harold. "Can you just use your ghostly stuff to float him down?" she asked, uncertain if that was possible. He had thrown Harold but that wasn't exactly the same.

  He shook his head. "I can't float things. I can carry or push them. If I tried, well, he probably wouldn't survive it," he said.

  She looked helplessly at her grandmother. "He says he can't get any closer to him."

  "What? Damn it, why?" Mary frowned and appeared to be thinking hard, her eyes were like chips of obsidian, flashing as she examined the man on the floor. She leaned down and swiped a finger through the white specks surrounding him and touched them to her tongue. "Salt. Of course, we'll need a broom," she said.

  The very salt that had trapped Harold in his torture room was now keeping John from moving closer. What April had seen in the shared memory explained the man's escape. The lawyer had opened the door, sending a draft through the room, breaking up the coating of salt enough that Harold was able to attack. Already years of mice and insects had given the banker the freedom to move around a limited area, but he'd been unable to leave the prison he'd created until then.

  Poor Charles hadn't even known what was happening and—but she didn't have time to rehash that story now. They were on a deadline. She spun around and raced from the room, clattering down the back stairs to the first floor so she could grab a broom from the kitchen. She started back up the stairs and then froze, remembering Foshi.

  She took the long way, running down the hallway to see an empty wheelchair at the bottom of the main stairs. As Appo had feared, Foshi was making every attempt to crawl up the stairs. Both of her legs were still in casts from her accident. "Mom! What are you doing?" April demanded. "You're going to kill yourself," she scolded as she dropped the broom and ran to her mother's side.

  "Well, what does it look like I'm doing? Not sitting down here waiting when you're in…why do you have a broom?" Foshi demanded in an irritated voice.

  "Trying to clear a…never mind, I don't have time. Let me help you," she said. She grabbed her mother's arm and began to help her back into her chair, while Foshi berated her the whole time. "Would it have killed you to have your emergency on the first floor?" she muttered, an eerie echo of Mary's words.

  "I'll try to plan better next time," April said, rolling her eyes. "Now, stay put! We're bringing the problem to you!" she said, hurrying to grab the fallen broom and sprint up the stairs, holding it like a lance. She was panting and out of breath when she reached the third floor, shoving it at her grandmother as she bent over, hands on her knees, to catch her breath.

  Mary efficiently swept the salt out of the way, piling it against the dead body, which she'd noticed and then dismissed with no emotion. "The salt dried him out like a mummy," she commented. "Good thing or it would stink in here."

  April looked over at Harold. "If we covered him in salt, would that get rid of the ghost inside of him?" she wondered.

  "No, too late for that. Salt disrupts psychic energy, but he's tucked into that meat suit good and tight now. Even a dip in the ocean wouldn't boot his butt out of there. No, we'll do this the old-fashioned way," her grandmother said. "Luckily, I had a feeling I was going to need some things and I packed."

  April found herself feeling grateful for the gifts that ran in their line, something that had been happening a lot lately. She followed behind John as he carried the limp body of the lawyer down the stairs and settled him on the floor in the foyer. It was more than large enough for their needs, being bigger than most rooms in a normal house.

  Foshi's eyes widened when she saw John sweeping down the stairs carrying the lawyer's body, but she'd obviously been warned and didn't comment on it. Instead, she watched as he set the body down. "What's wrong with him?" Foshi said, leaning forward in her chair, eying the unconscious man and frowning. "His aura is disgusting."

  "He's dead, and a ghost is using his body like a cheap motel," Mary said as she dug through the large duffle bag she'd left on the floor. She tossed a handful of smaller bags into Foshi's lap.

  Unlike April, Foshi had been taught how to deal with her gift when she was young, and she knew what would need to be done. She began opening and sorting the bags immediately Without looking up from her task, she addressed her daughter, "Going to introduce me to your friend?"

  April sighed; she had planned for none of this. She knew her family would want to come and check things out, eventually, but not now. She thought she'd have time. "Mom, this is John. John, this is my mother, Foshi. I don't…w-we're in love. I'm going to be staying here with him," she said, licking her lips nervously as her eyes darted from one to the other.

  Foshi snorted, "Falling in love with a ghost isn't the smartest idea you've had. Nice house, though. You, ghost," she said sharply, eyeing John with narrowed black eyes. "If you hurt my daughter, I will evict you from this world so fast your ectoplasm will spin. Are we clear?"

  John looked awkward, one hand going up to rub the back of his neck. Maybe all men felt off balance around their in-laws, but it was funny to see him looking so uncertain. "Yes, ma'am. I swear on my honor to keep her safe," he said finally.

  April wasn't sure if Foshi could hear him, but her mother examined him intently and seemed to approve of his response. She nodded firmly and then pulled out a long coil of braided grass, tossing it to her daughter. "Bind his hands and feet tight," she instructed.

  "Grass?" April asked, confused, but already, she was kneeling next to the prone form and wrapping it around his ankles.

  "Sweetgrass," Foshi corrected. "It's used for purifying the spirit. In this case, it will make the spirit want to jump ship."

  There were so many questions April wanted to ask, but there wasn't time for that, not right now. She wrapped the braided rope tightly around his ankles and looped it around his wrists, leaving him hogtied on his side. He'd shown no sign of waking yet.

  Her grandmother had unpacked a small copper kettle and set it next to the man's head. "Tobacco," she said, extending her hand and catching the bag that Foshi tossed her without even looking up. Her mother and grandmother were working as a team, all their usual sniping and banter put away for the moment.

  Mary opened the bag and upended it, filling the bottom of the kettle with chunks of pungent tobacco, which she lit. The heavy sweet smoke rose in lazy spirals and she blew at the column so it wafted into Harold's face. He choked, coming awake suddenly and drawing in large gulps of air that sucked more of the smoke into his lungs. His eyes were wide and round as he took in what was happening, and he began to struggle.

  Things moved quickly after that. He thrashed against the braids of grass, howling, and April stumbled back in surprise at his violent reaction. She fell into John, who caught her, arms wrapping protectively around her chest. Foshi was sorting ingredients and tossing them to Mary, who added them to the kettle. The scent changed with each new addition. The last one, April recognized as cedar, but she had no idea the purpose of any of them, and the other women didn't have time to explain.

  "April, surround him with salt," Mary said, in a distracted voice.

  April frowned as she picked up the bag of rock salt. "I thought you said it wouldn't do anything to get him out of the body?" she asked. She was already moving to obey, pouring a thick line out on the wood floor.

  "It won't, but once he's out, we want to send him across quickly, and it will be easier if we don't have to search the house for him," Mary explained. She went back to chanting in a low monotone voice. It was too low for April to hear, but she wouldn't have understood most of it, anyway. She only knew a few words of the Chickasaw language. She'd known more when she was younger but, over the years, she'd forgotten much of it, since even in her grandmother's house, they alternated with English.

  She finished the circle, making it wide enough that the man's thrashing wouldn't disturb it, jus
t as her grandmother switched to a low, hoarse singing. Her mother joined in, but April could only listen and try to decipher the occasional word. As the song got louder, Harold's struggles grew more violent, desperate to escape. His eyes rolled back in his head and an inhuman sound poured out of him, making her shudder. It had the effect of fingernails on a chalkboard and it went on and on.

  She wanted to scream, and clasping her hands over her ears did nothing to block the sound; it was something more than audible and it penetrated her brain like a spike. She wondered how her mother and grandmother were able to continue what they were doing. She could barely think and even John's arms wrapping tightly around her weren't enough to shield her from the pain.

  Finally, it all seemed to come to a head. The lawyer's body arched. His back curved off the floor so hard, she was afraid his spine would break. The grass braids binding him did break, but he was no longer trying to escape. He froze like that, eyes showing nothing but white, mouth open so wide, it was as though his jaws had come unhinged. The pungent smoke that coiled above him suddenly formed the shape of a spear. It hovered there for a second before plunging down his throat.

  She could see his neck bulging and rippling as it expanded, though how something as intangible as smoke could do that, she didn't understand. She was out of her league and looked to her grandmother desperately for answers.

  The elderly woman was making motions with her hands, using a long feather to control the rising tobacco smoke. Like a snake-charmer with a cobra, it followed her movements, filling his mouth until his body was bursting. The singing that had been getting increasingly louder as the women's voices merged stopped—everything stopped. There was a sense of something about to happen and the pregnant pause dragged on in silence. No one moved but April felt something building, escalating; it made the hair on her arms stand up.

  When the silence was broken, it was almost anticlimactic. His body collapsed back to the ground, one arm smudged, but didn't break the line of salt surrounding him. His hands, trailing the frayed grass, flew up to clutch at his throat in a panic. It sounded like he was trying to inhale, but there was no room left in his body for air and, finally, his hands dropped away.