Guardian

by Natasha Deen

  “I’m not that fond of it, either.” I shuffled back to my stool and grabbed my mug.

  Dad scrubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “A house explodes, you’re dating, and Serge has disappeared into nothingness.”

  “He’s back,” I said. “I left him sleeping on the bed.”

  “Let him rest.” He dropped the knife and spun toward the coffeemaker. His steps were jerky, as though he was walking on pins and needles. “You have to drop this, Maggie, now.”

  Ugh. This was the same fight we had when he came home last night. “Not this again. You—”

  “I mean it, Magdalene.” He gave me a full-on dad stare. “Drop it.”

  “No! I won’t—I can’t—”

  “I’ve gone along with a lot of things when it comes to your gift,” he said. “I’ve trekked through bogs and swamps searching for lost bodies, I’ve stayed up late and gotten up early. I’ve put up with walking into the kitchen and seeing my plates flying through the air, and I didn’t bat an eye with that whole sausage thing—”

  “You said you’d never bring it up again—”

  “It’s not like this is even the first time you’ve been in an exploding building—” He bent his head and ran his hand through his hair. “What kind of father am I?”

  “A good one—”

  He kept his gaze pointed at the floor. “I can even deal with a disappearing boyfriend—”

  “Craig’s not invisible,” I said, exasperated. “But after Serge blipped out of existence I was a total mess. I’m sorry I didn’t ask my boyfriend to stay late and watch me sobbing, just so you could meet him but—”

  “It has to stop.”

  The way he spoke made me freeze. There was finality in the way the words flowed, like wet cement turning hard and cold.

  “I can’t stop—he’s tethered to me.”

  “Untether him.”

  “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

  He wrenched the coffeepot off its element. “Can’t you”—Dad swung his hand in a circular motion. A wave of black liquid arced out of its glass container—“break the bond or something?”

  “There’s only one way: I’m trying to guide him to the other side.”

  “Tell him to find someone else.”

  “In Dead Falls? Who’s he going to go to?”

  “Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me about the flexibility of the universe? Time and distance don’t matter—tell him to find someone else.”

  “I can’t,” I said quietly. “And we can’t keep arguing about this.”

  He pointed the pot like a gun. “We’re not arguing. He’s a murdered kid. Let him be—go—go find a hobby!” He scowled at the coffee and shoved it back on the warmer. Then he stalked back to the sandwich.

  My eyebrows went down. “I help murdered people all the time.”

  He lifted the knife. A dollop of mayo dropped to the counter. “Long dead people, honey. People who were killed thousands of miles away and in different countries. But the guy who killed Serge is still around and he’s not going to let you meddle in his plans.”

  I grimaced. “I’m not meddling in his plans. I’m trying to get a ghost off my bed and into the afterlife.”

  “The guy who murdered Serge doesn’t know you’re asking questions and digging into this kid’s past just so you can transition him to the other side. As far as he’s concerned, you’re some wannabe detective who’s getting in his way.”

  My breath burned its way down my throat and hit the acid churning in my stomach.

  “I’m putting my foot down, Maggie. Tell Serge to find someone else.”

  “Where?”

  He frowned.

  “Where are you putting your foot down? Over there?” I jerked my chin toward the floor. “Because that has Serge’s dried blood on it. Or are you going to put your foot down in my bedroom? The sheets on the floor are stained with him.” I stood. “When the night comes, the ghosts find me, not you, and I’m the one who deals with the fallout of their lives and their deaths. There’s blood everywhere—his blood—and I see it. I’m the one who saw his burned body, who saw his skin dropping like dough. I’m the one who”—my voice cracked—“saw this kid regressing into a baby, desperately trying to find a moment where he was happy and not finding anything. That’s me, Dad, not you. And until you’re the one cleaning charred flesh off the landing, don’t talk to me about putting your foot down.”

  The skin on his face tightened.

  “This is my life. This is what I live,” I said bitterly. “Don’t I count?”

  “Not if you’re dead.”

  “He’s right.”

  I spun around and saw Serge standing by the table.

  He pulled the sleeves of his grey sweater down his arms and rubbed his hands against his jean-clad thighs. “Tell me how to unbind myself from you and I will,” he said. “Your dad’s right. Whoever did this to me isn’t going to let you ask questions.” He paused. “I should have thought of that.”

  Dad followed my gaze. “Is he here?”

  I nodded. “By the table.”

  He set down the knife and walked around the counter. “How are you doing?”

  Serge jerked back. He blinked and shook his head. “I’m doing all right…” A frown creased his forehead. He looked at me, confusion clouding his eyes. “I feel weird—”

  “Like how?”

  “Dunno. I’m fine, but I’m weird.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “What did he say?” asked Dad.

  “He says he’s doing okay.”

  “Does he know why he’s bonded to you?” Dad folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the counter.

  “No,” I said.

  “Tell him I said he’s right.” Serge walked to me. “Ask him if he knows how to break our tie.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “What?” asked Dad. “What did he ask?”

  My eyes squeezed shut. “This is going to be the world’s longest conversation, and I’m not in the mood to play otherworldly translator.”

  “I want to talk to him,” said Dad. “Ask him if he understands the dangers he’s putting you in.”

  “I do.” Serge walked over to me. He didn’t smell like bacon anymore.

  “And I don’t want to do this…not to you.”

  “What’s he saying?” Dad straightened.

  “Bloody—fine. Everyone come with me.” I led them to my bedroom, to my laptop. “Turn it on,” I said to Serge.

  His eyebrows formed a line. “How?”

  “You’re energy. This works on electricity. Just try.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “You’re doing it with the television. Just turn it on.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Serge!”

  “Okay!” He closed his eyes, raised his hand like he was in school and wanted the teacher to call on him.

  I waited.

  Nothing.

  He raised his hand higher and started to wiggle his fingers.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to turn it on,” he whispered. “Shut up, I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “You look like a holy roller trying to summon Jesus.”

  His eyes snapped open, and his hand flopped to his side. “Nice.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s not about whatever that was you were trying to do. Just imagine the computer being on.”

  “Imagine.” He said it like I’d suffered oxygen deprivation.

  “Yeah. Thought is energy. Energy is electricity—just trust me. Imagine.”

  He stared at me.

  Dad rolled the office chair from under the desk and sat down. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m just supposed to close
my eyes—”

  “You don’t have to close your eyes—”

  “Why’s he closing his eyes?” Dad leaned forward.

  I looked heavenward. This was a bad Abbott and Costello routine. A Three Stooges skit without the blunt weapons. “Serge.”

  “Fine.” He closed his eyes.

  I sighed.

  “It’s not working,” he said. He pried open one eyelid. “Is it?”

  “Turn on the television,” I told him.

  His head swivelled in its direction and a second later, it blipped on.

  “Just like that,” I said. “Turn on the computer.”

  He swung toward the laptop.

  It flared on.

  “Whoa. I didn’t know it could transfer.” Serge strode to the desk, stood beside Dad.

  “Open Word,” I said.

  Serge did. “If I could have done this in life, I would have been a better student.”

  I hopped up on the desk. “Go ahead,” I told my dad. “Have your conversation.”

  “Can I surf the internet, too?”

  “No!” I grabbed Serge’s shoulder. The wool of his sweater tickled my skin. “No porno on my computer.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Serge—” Dad adjusted his spectacles and faced the computer. “How are you doing, really?”

  “What do I do?” asked Serge.

  “Imagine the words on the screen.”

  I’m okay.

  “Really?”

  No.

  Dad’s shoulders dropped, and a soft light went into his eyes. “How do you feel?”

  I couldn’t speak for Serge, but I felt weird. Dad had asked the question in the same tone he’d ask me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about my father caring about the guy who bullied me. Then again, I wasn’t sure how I felt about the guy who bullied me. There was pity and sympathy…and in a twisted way, I think there was some respect. Which made me feel super weird. All I know was that if I had been him that night, unable to remember a single moment of happiness and living a life devoid of compassion and mercy, I probably would have off’d myself by the time I was thirteen.

  Free and chained. Serge opened his eyes and stared at me. I’m sorry, Maggie. I didn’t hate you.

  Invisible fingers gripped my stomach. “I know—I mean, I get that, now.”

  His eyes glistened. Tears left twin tracks down his cheeks. I’m really sorry.

  “I know.”

  I screwed it all up. He choked on a sob and more tears fell, and dropped to his sweater. I wish I could do it again—I’d do better this time.

  Dad took my hand. “No one knows what really happens when you cross over, Serge. You may get another chance.”

  Not with you. Not with her. I could—He buried his face in his hands.

  Instinct made me move to him, put my arms on his shoulders.

  He gripped me on either side of my waist, hard, and threw himself into my arms.

  So weird—so weird­—to hold onto this guy, this guy who’d made my life such a living hell, to hug him and whisper comfort…and to really feel the need to make it all okay for him. I heard my dad hiss, like he’d taken a body blow. “You okay?” I turned to look at him.

  His glasses were off and he swiped the tears from his eyes.

  “Dad?”

  He shook his head but didn’t say anything.

  Serge pulled away. Sorry.

  “It’s okay.” I stumbled back, putting space and air between us.

  Dad blew out a breath and put his glasses on. “What did that feel like?”

  I frowned. “What? Are you talking to me or him?”

  “Both of you.”

  I cocked my head.

  Serge wiped his eyes and looking at me, shrugged.

  “Maggie—” Dad spoke slowly, seeming to choose every word with hyper care. “Just now, when you touched…did you feel anything?”

  I shook my head. “No—just…just that I wanted to make it right.”

  “Serge?”

  No. The words stood out, black etchings against the white background of the computer screen. He frowned. Relief, maybe, but that’s it.

  Dad looked at both of us. “You changed.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  What?

  “There was—Maggie, you glowed.”

  “I what?”

  “Glowed,” he said, “You glowed. There was an aura around you—pale green, then purple, then white. It was bright, luminous and—” He took a breath. “I saw Serge. Transparent.” He frowned. “Foggy but transparent and he glowed white, too.”

  What does that mean?

  My lungs burned from holding my breath, but I couldn’t release the air. “I have no idea.”

  Dad stood, rubbed the whiskers on his face, and walked toward the bed. He turned and looked back. “I’ve never seen that happen with any spirit you’ve helped.”

  I sank into the chair.

  What?

  “I don’t know.” I looked at Serge. “But this goes beyond a tether or bond.”

  Whatever Serge was to me, it was more than a simple transition.

  But you don’t know?

  “No.”

  Crap.

  I finally took a breath. “You said it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I took a few days off school. Ignored all the texts from everyone but Craig and Nell. Somehow, math and biology didn’t seem half important as finding out why I glowed when touching Serge.

  Serge and I sat on my bed. Our legs dangled over the side. The scent of clean sheets filled the air with the aroma of wildflowers and baby powder. Ebony and Buddha lay in a criss-cross pattern on the duvet. Whatever was going on, it didn’t freak out the animals, and I took that as a good sign.

  “You’re sure this has never happened to you?”

  “Positive.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “What do you think it means?”

  I stared at him. “Seriously? Having never experienced this before, you think I suddenly have all kinds of theories in the five minutes I’ve realized that I glow around you?”

  “It’s been a few days.”

  “It’s called exaggeration. I don’t have the answer. I don’t have any answers.”

  He rubbed at his chest. “Don’t snap. You have more experience with the dead than I do.”

  “Not like this.”

  “What do you really know about the other side?”

  “Not much. I’ve never been.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  I sighed. “Look, all I know is death. Technically, all I know is what holds souls back from crossing over. That’s my area of expertise. And it’s pretty easy, once you get over some of the gross ways people have died. You talk to them about their life, the things that made them sad. They let it go, and poof, soul transitioned. You”—I eyed him—“are a whole new world of WTF for me.”

  He pushed back, rested on the lavender pillows, and crossing his legs yoga-style, asked, “Why did I come back burned? The night of the explosion? I’m dead. Why would I have burned?”

  I hesitated.

  “Maggie, c’mon.”

  My gaze moved around the room in a zigzag pattern. I wanted to look everywhere but him. Taking a breath, I said, “You may not like—this may make your current state worse…” I winced. “Maybe. Or maybe it’ll—”

  “Holy crap. You’re killing me and I’m already dead. Just say it.”

  “Spirits tend to come back as they were in life.” The words rushed out.

  He gave a “have you lost your mind” look. “What?”

  “When a spirit freaks out, goes all poltergeist, then comes back—they come back as they were in life.”

  “I’ve never been burned in life.” />
  I didn’t say anything, just watched him.

  After a moment, comprehension lit his eyes. “My whole life was one burn after another.”

  “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘living hell.’” Reaching out, I touched his kneecap. “I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know how bad it was for you.”

  He shrugged, but the muscles at the side of his jaw ticked a rapid rhythm.

  “I thought”—I shifted sideways—“it seemed like you and Amber—”

  He snorted.

  “Weren’t you ever—” I stopped because there was no point in asking if he was ever happy with her or if he’d felt loved by her.

  “She—we weren’t anything.” He took a rasping breath. “You’re saying the reason I didn’t feel anything the night I blew up the house was because I’d stopped feeling, a long time ago.”

  I nodded. “Basically.”

  Pain contorted his face. “I screwed it up, didn’t I? One day after another.”

  I kept silent—what could I possibly say?

  A tear slid down his cheek. “I gave him all the power. I destroyed myself and everything that was good around me, thinking I was torturing him, but it did nothing.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “So I’m still here because…” He shook his head. “Why am I still here?”

  “Something happened in your life and it’s chained you to this existence,” I said, then immediately felt lame. Of course he knew that.

  He looked at me from glassy eyes. “Do you believe in reincarnation? Do you think I’ll get another chance if I cross over?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know what happens after you transition. No one’s ever come back to tell me.”

  “I might go to hell,” he said quietly. “For everything I did to you and everyone else—”

  My heart lurched. “You don’t know that.”

  He snorted.

  I made eye contact. “Fine. Maybe, but I doubt it. Haven’t you ever read the bible? Doesn’t it say something about forgiveness and redemption?”

  “I tried to stay away from the reverend’s favourite book,” he said dryly.

  “Come on. In Holy Popov’s House of Prayer and Pain? No way you didn’t read it. You must know how holy a person has to be to get into heaven.”