Guardian

by Natasha Deen

  I looked down at the item.

  “He bought it for her on their honeymoon. It was a gift of his love, so she says. She’s never taken it off. He wouldn’t let her. It’s proof of their commitment—he says,” Serge finished with a contemptuous twist of his mouth.

  So, why would she?

  “She wouldn’t.” His face slackened. “He made her. He made her take it off. She wasn’t going to be his wife anymore.”

  You think he was going to divorce your mom?

  “Maybe not legally, but if he gave Amber the bracelet…”

  I frowned and glared at the linoleum floor. Her baby’s daddy wanted her…so why had she tried to kill herself? Guilt over Mrs. Popov? Amber seemed too self-serving for that.

  “Do you see that?”

  I lifted my gaze and turned it to the bed.

  “That fuzz.”

  Fuzz?

  “There’s fuzz.” He cocked his head. “Like poplar fluff. It’s floating.”

  I looked through the window in the door, into the hallway, but saw nothing. My eyebrows pulled together. That sounded familiar. Where had I heard that? A ghost. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember.

  “Maggie?”

  My eyes snapped open.

  Mrs. Sinclair was staring at me. “Honey, are you okay?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Can you remember?” asked Serge. “About the fuzz.”

  Then I realized my mistake. I’d come to the hospital believing what I’d been told about Amber. Psychic gifts—mine, anyway—work a lot like electricity. If I don’t flip the switch and concentrate, I don’t sense anything. I took a breath and tuned in. Oh, man.

  Fuzz.

  “Maggie?” Mrs. Sinclair rose. “Honey, what’s with that look on your face? You’ve seen a ghost?”

  Nope. Just remembered one. My eyes slid to Serge.

  “What’s the fluff?”

  Leftovers.

  He frowned. “What?”

  She didn’t try to kill herself. Someone tried to kill her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “What do you mean someone tried to kill her?”

  Dad hissed the question as we walked away from the main doors. Nancy stood in the entranceway, her arms folded across her chest.

  “There was cottony fluff floating around her.” I looked over at my shoulder at the cop. “Uh, listen, I may have bartered the visit with the understanding you’d spill your guts to her.”

  Dad jittered to a stop, the skin on his face tightening. He glared at me. “You did not.”

  “I did.”

  “Maggie!”

  “Look, it’s either you spill our family secret or the formless voice on the radio kills me! Take your pick.”

  “What a choice.” He sighed. “Why fluff?”

  I shrugged. “Why not fluff? I don’t understand why certain things appear, but if there’s fluff, someone tried to kill her.”

  “Come on.” Dad threw his arm around my shoulder. “Let’s go home. We’ll eat and figure out how to spend our lonely, boring nights once word of your gift spreads and we’re ostracized from the town.”

  “Oh, our nights’ll be busy. I’m going to sell my story to a cable network and get a reality show where I read cards and explain why psychics can’t win the lottery.”

  He gave me a half grin.

  “Nancy will be fine. After a good night’s sleep, you’ll see. It’ll get better in the morning.”

  But it didn’t get better.

  Three days later, it got infinitely worse.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Something’s wrong,” said Serge.

  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  He paced from one end of my room to the other. “Bad. Something bad will happen.”

  “That’s not more specific. It’s just more words.”

  “Don’t you feel it?” He turned worried eyes to me.

  “What does it feel like?”

  “Like there’s a monster in my closet and the door’s creaking open.”

  “Crap.” I flipped off the TV. “Let’s go see what’s going on.” I crawled off the bed and pulled my hoodie over my head.

  “How?”

  “We’re going for a drive.” Dad was sleeping, so I left a note on the table for him. After making sure Ebony and Buddha had enough water and treats for the night, we got in the car and I started the engine.

  “How will this help?” Serge reached for his seatbelt.

  I didn’t bother to point out the futility of his action. “You’ll feel a strong pull to go in one direction. If we drive around long enough, you’ll take us where we need to go.”

  He nodded.

  I backed the car out of the garage and headed east. We drove in silence. I looped around our neighbourhood, branching out farther and farther, but Serge said nothing.

  “Aren’t you feeling anything?” I asked.

  “Miserable.” He hunched in the seat. “I feel miserable.”

  “Stop thinking about how you feel and start thinking about how the feeling feels.”

  “What?”

  “You’re thinking about how the feeling makes you feel. Stop it.”

  “Being dead is very confusing.”

  “So’s being alive. Just concentrate on the feeling, okay?”

  In the dark, he nodded.

  I figured it would take a while for him to figure out the difference between the two emotions, so I headed to the Tin Shack to grab a shake. There was a short lineup of cars and two lengths in front of me, I saw Craig’s vehicle.

  “You really love him, don’t you?”

  I started. “What?”

  “Captain Polo.”

  “Oh. You saw the car, too?”

  He nodded. “That and your aura went pink.”

  “What colour was it before?”

  He shrugged. “I couldn’t see it before.”

  “Oh.”

  “So. Do you?”

  “I dunno…I guess.” I glanced at Serge then pulled the car forward. “He’s the first guy who actually paid attention to me.”

  Serge grunted.

  “Why don’t you like him?”

  “There’s something wrong with the guy. I know it. I feel it.”

  “Like that ‘something bad’ feeling?”

  “He’s not…” His eyebrows pulled together in frustration. “He’s not what he seems. I just know it. And he’s creepy. Always watching me.”

  I snorted. “No kidding, Sherlock. Everyone was always watching you—who wanted to be in your way when your firsts started flying?”

  The dashboard light lit up his wince. “Still…he’s no good, Maggie. Trust me.”

  We both froze and looked at each other.

  “Never thought I’d say that to you,” he said.

  “Never thought I’d consider it.”

  “Are you, really?”

  I pursed my lips. “I can’t discount it. You’re on the other side, which means you’ve got information I don’t. But I don’t think you’re right. You and Craig hated each other.”

  “He watched Amber,” Serge said quietly. “Always subtle, always out of the corner of his eye, but she was always in his sights.”

  My heart clenched. “He doesn’t care about her. Not that way.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The clench became a full-fisted twist. The truck in front of me pulled ahead. I moved to the order window and asked for a chocolate shake. “I don’t want to talk about this,” I said when the window closed and the cashier moved away. “You don’t have any right to tell me anything.” The words and my tone came out harsher than I intended and I expected him to push back.

  Instead, he softly said, “I know.”

&
nbsp; Two silent minutes later, we were back on the road and driving.

  “Feel anything, now?”

  “No.”

  “Are you trying to concentrate?”

  “I’m going to implode if I try any harder. It’s a weird feeling, okay? And it makes me feel like vomiting.”

  “Ghosts can’t vomit.”

  “They’re not supposed to put off heat, either.”

  I couldn’t argue that. “This isn’t going to work unless you start being objective. Whatever it is, it can’t hurt you. Trust me, you’re dead.”

  He laughed softly.

  I realized I’d never heard him laugh. It was a nice sound, deep and lovely, and it made me sad to think it had taken us so many years to get to this moment.

  “I’m trying, promise.”

  But ten minutes of driving, we were still in the psychic boonies. So, I followed a hunch.

  I drove toward his home.

  “Whoa.” His eyes widened and he gripped the dashboard. “Maggie, turn around.”

  “Why? Is the feeling getting fainter?”

  He shook his head. “I’m going to hurl. Turn around.”

  “Can’t. This is the right direction.”

  He squirmed in his seat and whimpered.

  “It’ll be okay. I promise.” I glanced at him, waited for him to meet my eyes. Then I said, “Trust me” and turned back to the road.

  His breathing slowed—a little—and I continued to drive. As we got closer, though, his panic increased. Serge gripped the door handle with one hand and with the other, began rapping his knuckles against the console.

  “I’m okay,” he said in answer to my unspoken question. “I am. I’m okay.”

  It sounded more like a mantra than an assurance.

  I reached out to grab his hand. His fingers were stiff and ice cold and his palm was clammy, sweating.

  We drove another two blocks before he suddenly yelled, “Pull over!” His head snapped back. “Maggie, please.”

  “Okay, okay. I will.” I moved the car to the side.

  “No! No! Go into a driveway. Now!”

  The hysteria in his voice made panic spike in my body. I swerved into the first driveway I saw.

  “Douse the lights.”

  I did.

  We sat in silence. My heart pounded and his breath came out in rapid, shallow pants. “Why are we sitting here?”

  “Something’s coming.”

  A few seconds later, I heard the hum of a car coming down the road. Both Serge and I turned and watched out the back window. The car drove by.

  My lungs froze. “Craig’s car.”

  I looked at Serge.

  “I don’t know why, but he’s dangerous,” he said tightly, his gaze still on the street.

  I put my hand to his cheek. “You did good. I won’t make you go any further.” Twisting back into my seat, I put the car into reverse and parked it on the side street. I unbuckled my seat belt. “Stay here.”

  There was a momentary pause then he gave a soft chuckle.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “No. Let’s go home. Something’s wrong with this whole thing.”

  The ulcer forming in my stomach confirmed his words but I still said, “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Why’s he driving to my house? Did Craig ever act like he liked you until after the murder?”

  “No, but—”

  “Your dad’s dating the town cop—you’re ground zero for information about Amber. Don’t you find it weird?”

  “You think it was Craig and not your dad who killed you?”

  He shook his head. “No, but something’s weird and he’s suddenly all over you? It’s not right.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I pushed out of the car.

  “Maggie, I didn’t mean it like—”

  “Just stay here. I’ll be back.” I slammed the door and took off down the street. There was a full moon and, coupled with the streetlights, the path before me was illuminated. I jogged. My breath came out in foggy puffs that curled into the air and disappeared into the black sky.

  I tried to stay focused on the task. Whatever was going on, the psychic side couldn’t hurt me. After all, I was doing what The Voice wanted. I had some protection, but I still needed to stay on guard. Easier said than done. Serge had pissed me off.

  He was wrong.

  So why had his words hit the bull’s eye?

  Because part of what he’d said had merit, said a small voice inside me. Because Craig really hadn’t done much to start a relationship until Serge’s death. Because all we seemed to talk about was the murder.

  Man. Someone please tell me I hadn’t hooked up with some guy who only wanted me ’cause he got off on murder and disaster and was living out some bloodlust fantasy through me.

  I turned down the street. Serge’s house was four doors on the left. I took a few steps then hit a wall. Or maybe it hit me. All I know was something hard and solid slammed my body. I hurtled backwards. My head smacked the grass of someone’s lawn, the rest of my body caught the cement driveway.

  I groaned, coughed, and rolled over. Every part of my body hurt, my ears were ringing, and my head throbbed. I pushed my hands against the grass and winced as the cuts and abrasions mixed with dirt. Stumbling to my feet, I checked out the area, but saw nothing.

  Okay, what was going on?

  I crossed the street, shuffling because I was too sore to walk and because I wanted to go slow in case I hit any other invisible walls. Hanging a left as I stepped onto the curb, I moved to Serge’s house.

  And bounced off an invisible shield.

  I heard a boom, like the burst of a sonic jet. Then a high-pitched keening rose into the air.

  My heart jerked, every hair follicle on my body rose. Instinct pushed me behind a parked car and my freaked-out body, in survival mode, didn’t register any pain.

  The wail grew in intensity, volume. Then its tone changed.

  From despair, I heard anger. Rage. A high undertone of violence throbbed in the scream. I slapped my hands over my ears and cowered under the minivan’s bumper.

  “Maggie.”

  My eyes snapped open. Serge crouched in front of me, but he looked terrible. Sweat poured off his face, and he clutched his stomach.

  “We gotta get out of here.” He wheezed the words. Serge dropped to all fours, groaning.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I—I don’t know.” His body went surfboard straight, rigid and tight. The skin on his face went leathery. His mouth pulled back in a rictus grin. His eyes, wide and frightened, stared into mine.

  My skin crawled as though I was being swarmed by a billion insects. “Come on, I’ve got to get you up.” I grabbed at him, but he couldn’t bend. My sweat-slicked hands slid on his clothing. I started crying. Come on, Come on, Maggie. Man up and help him. I slid my hands under his armpits, locked my fingers across his chest and heaved.

  Man, he was heavy.

  Serge made a snuffling sound, and I knew he was crying.

  “It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay.” I was almost straight upright; I glanced over at his house. The walls and roof bowed, the edges blurring like a painting with too much water poured on it. It stretched and warped, and the colours changed, like reverse negative. Bright purple, too-lime green.

  And black smoke.

  It spewed from the windows, exploded out of the chimney.

  The front door opened.

  Fear locked me into place.

  A figure stepped out. The night was dark, too dark to make out faces, but I knew that frame. Had worshipped that walk.

  Craig.

  His head snapped in my direction, like he was honing in on me.

  I dropped to my knees, cushioned Serge’s head
on my thighs. “This is bad. This is so bad.”

  “Leave me. I’m dead. What could happen?” He wheezed the words.

  “Can you try to bend? Move?”

  “No.”

  “Can you handle the pain? Try to stand?”

  He winced. “Yeah. Sure.”

  The tears streamed down my face. I knew he was lying.

  Either way we were dead.

  “Go! Go!” He tried to push me away but I wouldn’t move. He was sobbing, now. “Just go. Don’t be killed because of me.”

  I went to all fours, peered around the wheel of the vehicle. Craig was gone. “It’s fine. I think I can drag you.”

  “I always knew you were an idiot. Totally stupid. Deadhead.”

  “Nice try.” I hooked my arms under his armpits. “I’m not going to get huffy and stomp away.”

  He clutched my hands. “You should. I’m already dead. This is a second death and it’s killing me.”

  I swallowed the boulder-sized stone of fear. “Let’s go.”

  The wailing suddenly stopped. I looked at the house.

  “It stopped,” said Serge. “Why did it stop?”

  “I don’t know but it doesn’t make me feel good.”

  He took a breath. “The pain, I mean, it stopped.” Serge twisted to his feet.

  I let go. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I turned and found Craig standing behind me.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Are you totally insane?” asked Craig.

  “Uh—”

  “Kick him in the balls,” said Serge. “Kick him and run.”

  Craig’s eyes slid to Serge. “I wouldn’t suggest that.”

  The hair on my arms rose. I gulped for air.

  “Whoa.” Serge stepped back.

  My thoughts exactly.

  “Both of you,” said Craig. “We’re going now.”

  Serge’s chest puffed out. “I’m not—”

  The wailing began again.

  “Go! Now!” Craig pushed me and at the same time, spun and ran in the opposite direction of the house.

  I sprinted down the street.

  Serge kept up, but when the keening increased in volume, he stumbled and fell.

  Craig doubled back.

  So did I.

  I grabbed one arm, Craig grabbed the other, and we dragged Serge down the street.