Ghost of a Summoning

by J E McDonald

  “When I was nineteen, I received some bad news and decided the best thing for it was to spend a chunk of my savings on an airplane ticket out of the country.”

  He didn’t want to go into what that bad news was, that it was the day Jude had returned to Wickwood with the slash marks on his face and told him Aym still believed he had some claim on Roman after all those years. Jude had given Roman his dad’s backpack with the hopes they could partner up, that he would fill the space his father had left behind.

  Instead of voicing any of that, Roman said, “The first available flight out of town landed in Paris twelve hours later. All I had with me was a backpack.”

  His dad’s journal had been inside. Roman read the thing front to back three times on the journey to Europe, learning everything his father had known about demons.

  “I wandered around the city for the first day without any direction, ended up in a seedy part of town and took refuge in a bar. I think I might have been intending to drink myself stupid, but didn’t get the chance. This group of guys, mostly foreigners like me, wanted to start some shit the moment I walked through the doors.”

  A car turned the corner ahead of them, and they waited a moment until they could cross the street. “I remember wanting to be left alone, but that wasn’t going to happen, not with those guys all the way drunk and looking for a scapegoat for their anger. Because of my size, I’d always had to deal with people like that, guys who thought they were tough wanting to take down someone bigger than them.”

  Aubrey’s hand flexed around his in sympathy, and it warmed him. He went on. “There was a brawl. All of us ended up arrested. The police put us all in the same cell and didn’t release us until morning. Over that night, I learned those assholes were planning on heading south the next day to enlist in the Foreign Legion. They barely knew each other, and I’m pretty sure most of them were running from the law already.”

  “Why would you join, then?”

  “Because I was young and stupid.” But it ended up being the training he needed for when he returned to Wickwood and took Father Robertson up on his offer of employment, of taking over where his father had left off. “They’d laughed when I told them I wouldn’t have any problems making it through basic training. They delighted in telling me that Americans usually all quit before the end. They ‘run away,’ they said.” But he’d already been running away, and by the time he’d arrived in Paris, he’d realized what a coward he’d been.

  He’d wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t a coward.

  “So I took it as a challenge to see if I could do it. I hadn’t had any plans at that point, hadn’t any future to look forward to, and these guys seemed to be put in my path for a reason.” One of the few times he’d believed in fate.

  “Did they all make it through?” She tipped her head back to ask the question, the streetlights illuminating her features.

  Roman shook his head. “Two were denied before basic training. People think the Legion will take anyone, but even they have their standards. Their background checks probably revealed crimes too big for even the legionnaires to forgive.” During their fist fight, he’d seen those two’s souls. They’d been…dim.

  “Out of the other three, one ended up running away during basic training. So, of the six of us, only three completed the five-year contracts.”

  While enlisted, he’d realized how disposable his life really was. If his commanding officer chose to send him into a burning building, then that’s where he had to go. He’d been part of the infantry, working in tandem with snipers. He’d had to trust they’d see the enemy he didn’t. Death had come close a few times. Eventually he stopped caring whether he lived or died, and the traces of his panic attacks disappeared—until today.

  “And then?” she asked, meeting his gaze for the first time since they’d started the walk, her eyes mostly clear.

  “As soon as I was done with my service, I headed back to the states.” There was more to it than that. Father Robertson had found him somehow, probably through Mrs. Klassen when he’d checked in with her. And Robertson had made stepping into his father’s footsteps appealing. More appealing than Jude had, at least, and the archaeologist had been in Turkey for years at that point. Roman had grown in the five years of service, shed a lot of the shit he’d been carrying around since his father’s death.

  “And you started to work for the Church after that?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you know demons existed before then?”

  He nodded again. “I’ve known they existed since I was a kid.” Even before his father died, he’d known of them. Grant Milone hadn’t wanted his son to be ignorant of the evils of the world.

  Her fingers had loosened their grip on his, and he gave them a squeeze. “Any more questions?”

  “Only if you want to answer them.”

  He nodded that she could continue.

  “You said your father died, and you lived with someone, a Mrs. Klassen. What happened to your parents?”

  “My mom died a couple months after I was born. She had a bad heart, and there were complications.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, brushing her thumb over his knuckle. “And your dad?”

  “He died when I was six.” He hesitated, then said, “There was an incident at work. I have no other family. And Mrs. Klassen was elderly. She’d died of old age the year after I finished my stint with the legionnaires.”

  Aubrey remained silent for a while, her questions all tapped out. When he glanced at her, she wore a contemplative expression. The farther they walked, the slower her pace became until it slowed to a reasonable gait. Her breaths became longer, more regular.

  “How are you feeling?” He changed the position of their fingers until they were interlaced.

  “Better. Hungry. Which is a good sign.” She rubbed her arm with her free hand.

  They stopped under the lit circle of one of the streetlights, moths dancing far above their heads. “Did you want to head back or walk some more?”

  Her eyes clear, she gave him a tentative smile. “Head back.”

  They turned around and walked the way they’d come. Their aimless journey had taken them well away from her neighborhood, and darkness had completely fallen. Her hand felt warm and solid in his, and he had the urge to take off his glove and feel her bare skin.

  “I guess I do have a brother,” Aubrey said, making his hand twitch in hers. “Yesterday, I called the social worker who handled my case when I was younger and asked if she knew anything about siblings. She did some digging and found out we’d been separated because he’d been suspected of hurting me. I guess the first social worker I had was cautious enough to separate our files.”

  That explained a little of what happened, but not all. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Not really, no,” she replied shaking her head. “I guess I should have asked more questions.”

  “It’s okay.” He brushed his thumb along the inside of her palm. It would be a good idea for him to track down that first social worker and find out more.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, the nighttime sounds quieting around them. There were fewer children playing, fewer birds chirping, and more houses with the blue lights of television glowing inside. The air turned crisp.

  “Thanks for thinking of this,” she said after a time. “I don’t ever take long walks at night. I never feel like it’s safe. But it’s beautiful out.” She looked up to the sky, some stars visible through the bright of the city lights this far away from the city center. “And I feel safe with you.”

  His chest warmed. “Anytime.” The word came out rough, but he meant it. If Aubrey needed a brisk walk and conversation, then he’d gladly do it again. Especially if it helped her navigate whatever she was going through. Talking about his past helped him too. He hadn’t thought of those first few days in France in a long time.

  As for feeling safe, right now it was better for her to be cautious. With Aym a
nd her brother on the loose, nowhere was safe. But since she had just calmed down, he wasn’t about to tell her that. It was best that he alone worry about her safety for now. The scar on his wrist remained quiet for their entire walk. If Aym was close, it would have burned like never before. And Moe would let them know if someone else, like her brother, followed them.

  They turned the last corner to her house, the streetlights illuminating pockets of the sidewalk as they walked underneath. Leading her up the steps, he unlocked the front door, noticed her neighbor’s curtains twitch, and waited until she and a camouflaged Moe went inside ahead of him.

  Her cat had taken residence on the back of the couch while they’d been out and let out a screech, bolting down the hallway. Moe looked like he wanted to follow. When Roman grunted his name, he settled back down.

  “Oh dear,” Aubrey murmured with a frown before heading off into the kitchen.

  The plates and take out cartons were still on the table where they’d left them. “I’ll heat these up,” she said, opening the microwave door and popping four of the cartons inside.

  He watched her, looking for telltale signs that she was about to spiral back where she’d come from, but her movements were fluid, not jerky. She met his gaze square on.

  Moe jumped up on the table, poking at the remaining cartons.

  “Didn’t you eat already?” Roman asked him.

  “Yes. Long ago,” he replied, his voice mournful. “So long ago, Ro. Yes. Moe is very hungry now. So hungry. Yes.”

  Roman let out a sigh, and Aubrey’s lips twitched as she watched them. “Just take one,” Roman said to him, and the demon popped the whole carton in his mouth before he’d finished speaking. Moe didn’t even take the time to chew.

  Aubrey swallowed, then turned away from the scene.

  “Moe, how do you feel about more perimeter duty?” Roman suggested, thinking Aubrey might need some space away from the supernatural for a while.

  “Yes. Moe is very good at the sneaky stuff.” The demon disappeared, then the back door opened on its own. “Can Moe climb first? Yes?”

  “Sure,” Roman replied, still watching Aubrey’s face for signs of anxiety. “And remember, no furry lollipops.”

  Moe let out a wistful sound, then skittered away. Once the door closed behind him, the microwave dinged. Aubrey turned to retrieve the cartons from inside, setting the steaming boxes on the table a moment later.

  Chopsticks and forks came next. Aubrey sat at the table but kept her hands in her lap.

  “He won’t eat your cat,” he said when she didn’t dig in.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, her eyes lifting to his.

  “I’ll make sure.”

  “But he wouldn’t think twice about it, would he?”

  Roman was silent while he thought about how to respond. Whenever he’d been in contact with younger demons, there had always been smaller rodents around, attracted by their vibrations to keep close as a food source. But he wouldn’t allow Moe to jeopardize Aubrey’s pet.

  “I’ll make sure,” he repeated.

  She stared at him a moment, then returned her focus to the food in front of them. When she grabbed a carton and piled noodles onto her plate, it didn’t have the enthusiasm it should.

  They ate in silence, then he helped load the dishes into the dishwasher. “Moe can have these,” she said, putting the leftover cartons in the refrigerator.

  Her consideration created a tingling sensation that moved through his chest. Even though she was scared for her cat, she wanted to make sure Moe was fed and happy.

  “Um, so okay, where would you like to sleep?” she asked, moving out of the kitchen and down the hallway. “There’s the couch. Or you could use Stella’s room. I don’t think she’d mind as long as we change the sheets before and after.”

  He followed her down the hallway, past a closed door and a bathroom. At the last door on the left, she turned a light on and strode inside. He watched as she opened her closet and pulled blankets and sheets from the top shelf.

  “The couch is fine,” he said, stepping inside her room and giving it a scan: a queen-sized bed with a gray duvet, fluffy pillows, and bedside tables on either side. A matching tall dresser was positioned against one wall, a lower one against another. Her closet was packed full of clothes, a hamper next to that.

  His eyes fell on a photograph on her dresser, and he walked forward to get a closer look.

  A middle-aged couple stared back at him. A young version of Aubrey nestled between them, perhaps thirteen or so. They stood in front of a school, and she had the biggest smile on her face. It almost hurt to look at. He hadn’t seen that look of joy on her face since he’d met her.

  When he turned to look at her, she remained frozen by the closet, the blankets clutched tight in her hands.

  “Are these your parents?” he asked, knowing the question didn’t make sense with what he knew of her past.

  “Foster parents,” she said, her voice thin. “Lina and Charles.” Her posture slumped a little, and she walked closer. Setting the blankets on her bed, she took the photograph from him, her gaze gentle. “Everything happy in my childhood revolved around them. Then when I was eighteen they up and died on me.” She pressed one hand to her chest.

  “They both died?”

  She nodded once.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Car accident,” she said quickly. “Same as my biological parents.”

  And the reasons for needing to drive herself everywhere became clear. She needed to be in control of her life, or death. It was a wonder she could get in a car at all.

  “After they died…I was a bit of a mess. Since I was of age, the system had no further claim to me. I went on a three-year bender. When I turned twenty-one, I found out they willed me some money. After that, I left Washington and didn’t look back.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, taking the photograph from her to return it where it belonged. “No one should have to go through that.” He took her hands in his and turned her toward him. “You’re strong and resilient.”

  Unable to resist the vulnerable expression in her eyes, he took off one of his gloves and cupped her jaw. As the light of her soul blinded him, he realized he’d been craving it. It had only been a day since he’d touched her skin to skin, and it had been too long. When the effects of the initial contact faded, he stared deep into her coffee-colored eyes, losing himself.

  She swallowed, her jaw rising and falling against his hand. “Why do you do that? Take them off to touch me?”

  Rubbing his thumb along her jaw, he said, “Because your soul is beautiful, bright, and it fills the darkness inside me.”

  Her lips parted, her cheeks flushing. “That was poetic.”

  “Can’t help it when I’m around you.”

  She swallowed again, her eyes darting to his lips, then back up to his eyes. “When you look at me like that, I feel achy and empty inside,” she whispered.

  Every part of him went taut with need. All the reasons why he should resist her faded in the light of her radiance.

  33

  The way Roman stared at her made every nerve in her body hum. She’d never felt this way just from a guy looking at her.

  “I want to be with you,” she said, then added, “I don’t want you to sleep on the couch.” She didn’t want him to doubt what she meant.

  The hand on her face twitched, creating shivers along her throat.

  “I’m not good enough for you.” His voice had gone rough. “I’ll never be good enough for you.”

  Her heart clenched in her chest. “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true.”

  The certainty of his voice made her realize he believed the words. She shook her head, covering the hand on her face with her own. “I don’t believe it.” Not from the way he made her feel. Not from how protective he’d become of her. Not from the way he cared for Moe, his natural enemy.

  She reached down and grabbed his other hand, t
he textured material of his glove rough against her skin. Keeping his gaze, she rolled the fabric off his wrist, exposing the scar underneath. Her fingertips skimmed the uneven texture of his skin, and his eyes darkened. Intent, she rolled the glove over his palm and thumb, then lower, until she exposed his fingers one at a time. With his hand unprotected, his lips parted. She entwined her fingers in his.

  “When we were in my stockroom,” she said, running her other hand up his chest, “I liked the way you touched me.” She settled his hand on her hip while hers moved to his shoulder under his jacket. She peeled the material away from his body. He shifted, allowing the garment to drop to the floor, revealing the knives underneath. She stepped close, no space between them, his pelvis to her stomach.

  Swallowing, she ran her fingers under the wide black straps of his holster, feeling the muscles beneath, then lifted it over his shoulders. Roman’s eyes stayed on her the entire time, never wavering. The knives dropped to the floor with a thud.

  She ran her hands down his chest. The feel of the hard ridges beneath his sweater made her mouth water. He was so hard everywhere, built solid and unyielding. His fingers flexed on her hips.

  “You made me feel good,” she said, her hands resting on the top button of his jeans. “And I want you to feel good too.”

  Unbuttoning his fly, she moved him toward the bed, and he followed easily. The back of his knees hit the mattress, and his legs bent until he sat on the edge. She worked on the fly of his jeans, and he allowed it, leaning back to help her, lifting his hips so she could tug them off. Thick thighs corded with muscle and dusted with hair flexed under her fingertips as she worked the jeans downward.

  A wide, white bandage on his thigh made her hesitate before she pulled his jeans the rest of the way off.

  “What’s this?” she asked, her fingers skimming the edge of the bandage. Blood dotted through, dried, but it couldn’t have been that old for him to still be wearing the bandage. She met his eyes. “How did this happen?”

  He shook his head.