“Everyone is either at class or getting supplies for tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“It’s Friday.”
“So?”
Malcolm gives one of the ghosts a sidelong glance. “I know. She doesn’t get it. Someone is out getting a keg as we speak.”
“For a party?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Friday. It’s a Friday party.”
As if to send the point home, two of the sprites go whipping around my head. I laugh and reach out a hand as if to capture them. “They’re almost tame,” I say. They’re almost like pets.
He holds out his hand as if he, too, might like to hold or pet one. “I used to catch the nasty ones,” he says, “and keep them in my samovar.”
“At least now you can catch and release.”
“At least now I can,” he echoes, his voice oddly nostalgic.
Again, I wonder if he misses his college days, his life here. I think he must. It’s in the set of his shoulders. They’re not slumped in defeat, nothing like that, but determined, as if now that he’s chosen a path, he won’t alter his course.
But then he turns a grin on me. “Let’s change and go out. Trust me, you don’t want to be here when they tap the keg.”
“Do ghost drink beer? Do they get drunk?”
I always thought they loved the coffee for both its heat and the flavor. But beer? Could you catch a ghost with that?
“They like the foam,” he says. “And yes, they do get drunk.”
The rowdiest ghost, the one that has been tugging strands of my hair, whips about in a frenzy of ghostly anticipation.
“Plus,” Malcolm says. He has both our bags and is urging me up the stairs. “I don’t want to introduce you to any of my fraternity brothers.”
I climb the first steps. “Aren’t they nice?”
“They’re fine.”
“Then—”
“I don’t want the competition.” With that, he dashes up the remaining stairs.
When I’m locked alone in the bathroom (yes, it really is just like the boys’ locker room), I try to sort out what he means by that. I try to sort out how I feel about that—and him. Before I can, there’s a thump against the door, jarring me from these thoughts.
“If you peek,” I say to the apparition on the other side, “I will return with a Tupperware container that has your name on it. Don’t think I can’t catch you.”
The door rattles a second time, but nothing more.
Before I can step into the hallway, my cell phone buzzes. The display reads Springside Long-term Care. My insides ice, and I’m so cold, I think there must be a ghost in here with me.
“Hello?” I keep my voice low, quiet. I glance around as if someone is listening in.
“Katy-Girl! Where are you?” Mr. Carlotta’s voice is equally low and muffled, as if he’s speaking from beneath a blanket or inside a closet.
“I’m getting your Purple Heart back,” I say. “And your ghost.” I hope both these statements are true.
“Jack was just here. He’s looking for you. Chief Ramsey is looking for you. He wants you to check in.”
“That’s going to be hard to do.”
“Come home now. I don’t need my Purple Heart. I don’t even need my ghost. I don’t want you in trouble. Jack says it could mean jail.”
“I was already there,” I say. “Besides, Chief Ramsey let me go. He said I shouldn’t leave town, not that I couldn’t. I’m not under arrest. If they come around, tell them I’m doing a big release out at the state park.”
“I have to warn you. Jack has your phone number.”
“And he got that how, exactly?”
“Not me, Katy-Girl. I pretended I couldn’t remember.”
Of course he did.
“Works every time,” Mr. Carlotta adds. “He asked the manager, and she gave it to him.” His voice is now thick with disgust, at himself, it sounds like, as if he could have somehow prevented it.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m at the state park, remember? I’m probably out of cell phone range as well.”
“Ah, that’s my girl. Be careful and come home soon, ghost or no. An old man and an old ghost aren’t worth it.”
Before I can contradict him, he hangs up. Immediately, the screen flashes with another number, one I don’t recognize. My guess? Jack is calling. My response?
I refuse the call and then turn off my phone.
* * *
For the entire ride, I clutch my ticket for the light rail. It’s an idiotic thing to do. It won’t get lost in my bag. But it feels like a talisman, and I feel like a gaping tourist again.
“It’s okay to have fun,” Malcolm says, as if he’s reading my thoughts.
We’re sitting side by side. Even with the blast of air that comes with the doors opening and closing, I catch his scent—nutmeg and Ivory soap. His hair gleams. I can’t decide if he adds product or if it’s naturally shiny. Once upon a time, I might have reached out to test a strand in my fingers to see. That was before. Before what? This, I don’t know. All I know is I can’t bring myself to tease him about it the way I might have. I’m not sure I like this either.
It’s only a few stops and a few blocks to The Taste of Persia. Inside, the entire space smells like the tea Malcolm brews—warm and rich, the scent has a life of its own, almost like its own ghostly presence. I cast my gaze about, breathing in the air, tasting it.
The space is split in two. On one side is a market filled with exotic fruits, spices, and mountains of rice straining their burlap sacks. On the other is a cozy restaurant with deep red carpets lining the walls and floors, and tiny tables lit with candles.
“Malcolm!” A man emerges from behind the deli counter and embraces Malcolm. “It’s been too long!”
“I’ve moved out of the Cities,” Malcolm says.
“Then you must need a resupply.” His gaze darts to me. A graying eyebrow arches.
“Hamid.” Malcolm’s hand hovers over the small of my back. “This is my business partner, Katy Lindstrom. Katy, this is Hamid Kassem.”
Hamid shakes my hand, inclining slightly, almost in a regal bow.
“And I do need that resupply,” Malcolm adds. “Can I pick it up tomorrow? Tonight—” He nods at me and then the tiny tables to our right. “We’re hungry.”
“Of course!” He grips Malcolm by the shoulder, a gesture that’s both familiar and affectionate. “Mariam will seat you.”
I have never eaten in such a place. Springside has a pancake house and the Jade Dragon, and of course, all the fast food you could ever want. There’s the country club, but I’ve never been there, either. Here, it’s like I’ve stepped into the Arabian Nights. Fortunately, I don’t need to be Scheherazade, because I’m speechless for a good ten minutes into our meal.
“Do you like it?” Malcolm says at last.
“I love it,” I say. “I don’t even have words for how much.”
“I’m glad.”
He offers up a bit of his kebab, but I shake my head. I’m not so overcome that I forget I’m (mostly) a vegetarian. Besides, my baked eggplant is incredible. The tea, served in dainty glasses, is far more elegant than wine or champagne.
“Let’s split a dish of ice cream,” he says as the waitress clears our plates. “It’s amazing.”
The waitress returns with a scoop of rosewater pistachio in a silver bowl and two spoons.
“Try it,” Malcolm urges.
So I do. With my first bite, I nearly drop my spoon. “It’s soft!”
He laughs.
“It’s like eating lotion,” I say, “only lotion that’s sweet and tastes good.”
“It’s the rosewater. They use that to make a lot of beauty products, so you’re right. It’s like eating lotion.”
We scrape the bowl clean.
Outside, the street glows with yellow lamplight. My mouth is still cold from the ice cream, and I can feel the bite of October in the air. A shiver runs thr
ough me. Malcolm steps closer, eases an arm around my waist. The heat of his body sinks into mine. For a moment, we just stand there, although there isn’t much to see. The station for the Green Line. Cars zipping past. A few stars strong enough to penetrate the city lights.
“Do you like music?” he says.
“Sure. Everyone likes music.”
“Not everyone. But there’s this great little club. I don’t know who’s playing, and sometimes there’s dancing, but I think you might like it.”
“In the same way I liked your fraternity house?”
“Maybe.”
“Then how can I say no?”
What happens then—exactly—is hard to say. Malcolm turns one way. I turn the other. We’re face to face, my hand planted on his chest. I tip my head back. He leans down. And then my business partner, Malcolm Armand, kisses me.
It’s a soft, intimate thing because his lips are laced with rosewater. I clutch at his coat, wondering if this is a bad idea, while knowing at the same time that it is. I also know I won’t stop this kiss. Not yet. I want more of his warm, soapy smell. I want to taste the nutmeg that’s so elusive. I don’t want this to end because I’m afraid of what might happen when it does.
Of course it ends. All kisses do. But he smiles at me, eyes bright in the dark.
“Has anyone mentioned you know how to kiss?” he says.
“Not recently.”
“I thought you said you’ve never been on a date.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ve never kissed before.”
With that, I break away and make a dash for the light rail station. I’m halfway there when he catches me by the waist and swings me around. We run the rest of the way hand in hand.
* * *
If the inside of the restaurant was heavy with spice, the air inside the club is weighted down with beer. I could get drunk just from inhaling. The sprites that swirl around my head already are. They make clumsy passes at my cheeks, as if trying for a ghostly kiss. I wonder, just briefly, if we should switch from coffee to beer. It might make them easier to catch.
Bass thrums in my ears, vibrates through the soles of my Mary Janes. Malcolm’s hand is snug in the small of my back, and we inch our way toward the bar.
“Something to drink?” His mouth brushes my ear, the only way I’ll hear him with the unrelenting thump, thump, thump from the stage.
“Just water.”
He goes fancy, getting me something bottled along with a beer for himself. It’s too loud to talk, the music too jarring to dance to, although some couples are attempting it. We settle against the bar, me in the crook of Malcolm’s arm, and it feels as though I’ve always meant to be here. With the thought, my heart races, its beat counterpoint to the one on stage.
I’m halfway through the water when something feels off kilter, beyond my erratic pulse, our earlier kiss, and the way his fingertips are playing with the fabric of my sleeve. The air is different, not lighter, but not as beer-drenched as before. I touch my cheek, then look for the telltale glimmer the sprites leave behind whenever they dance through someone’s drink.
Nothing. In fact, I don’t sense them at all.
“The sprites,” I say, not that Malcolm can hear me.
Something flutters in my peripheral vision, something that makes me think of bed sheets and bridal veils, something that grips my throat so tight I can’t swallow.
No. Not here. That ... thing can’t be here. But bit by bit, the club drains of sound, of scent, of life itself. No wonder the sprites have fled. If I had any common sense, I would too. A screech tears through the speakers. People cry out, slam hands over ears. Several knock over chairs on their way out of the club. The lights flicker.
Malcolm and I exchange a single glance. Our hands lock together. We turn to leave, but the main door slams shut. The club goes dark except for a single spotlight that shines on the center of the dance floor. A low, metallic laugh fills the space.
“Ah, ghost hunter, you look lovely this evening. May I have this dance?” The voice clicks and grates, but it’s stronger than I remember.
The last time I met this ... thing, whatever it is, I was outside. Perhaps the enclosed space makes it sound stronger than before. Perhaps this is my wishful thinking. I take a step toward the dance floor and the spotlight, but Malcolm’s grip on my hand keeps me in place.
“It can’t hurt me.” I tug on my hand. “It’s not strong enough.”
“Is that what you think, ghost hunter?”
“It’s what I know. You play tricks, just like any other ghost, but you’re not any different.”
The speakers erupt with a burst of static and smoke. Overhead, lights spark and pop. Behind us, bottle after bottle explodes, spraying shards of glass and streams of alcohol along the surface of the bar. We duck, but liquid soaks my jacket. The back of my neck breaks out in pinpricks. I swipe my free hand across the skin. It comes away red.
“Parlor tricks.” Admittedly, I say this once I’ve caught my breath and wiped the blood from my fingers. Still, random and petty destruction is standard for an angry ghost.
Malcolm’s grip on my other hand tightens. “Wrong thing to say,” he mutters.
But the entity is silent. A bit of hope sparks that it has worn itself out. The air is still too stale, too lifeless. That fluttering again. This time, I swear I see an actual bridal veil.
“Why don’t you step into the light, Katy dear,” the entity says, its voice metallic-y sweet. “She looks so pretty tonight. Don’t you agree, Necromancer?”
Necromancer? Next to me, Malcolm is statue-like. Despite the dim light, I can tell his skin has an ashen cast to it.
“Don’t do this.” Malcolm’s voice cracks. In it I hear doubt and fear, and something that goes beyond both, something desperate.
“Do what?” The thing is gleeful in response. “You mean to say you haven’t told her what you really are? And here I thought things were getting so cozy between you two. My mistake.”
“Necromancer?” I try out the word. “What ... I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain,” Malcolm says, “but not here.”
I’m not certain I want an explanation at all, but he’s right about one thing: here is a poor choice. I ease my hand from Malcolm’s grip. He’s in shock, I think. His normally warm skin feels chilled. I press my fingers against my throat and then my forehead. My skin is burning. Maybe I’m abnormally hot. Or the club is. It’s hard to distinguish where the air stops and my skin starts.
“No, my dear, it’s not hot in here, it’s simply you.”
This is one obnoxious entity. I step onto the dance floor. The soles of my Mary Janes are soft, so I don’t make a sound on my way to the spotlight. I enter it. This, of course, is exactly what this entity wants me to do. With this thing, there is no around or away or under. I must barrel through, do what it wants me to do—for now—and look for a way out on the other side.
A dark, inky mass descends from the club’s ceiling. How easily it hid itself in all the exposed pipes and vents. It’s larger now, larger than when we encountered it outside the mausoleum, but then, my grandmother had just defeated it then.
The entity expands and contracts, contracts and expands, and each time an outline shimmers before collapsing. The thought strikes me that it’s trying to take on the form of a man.
“I’m afraid we won’t be able to dance tonight, my dear,” the thing says. “I’m currently in no shape for it.” It cackles, the laughter booming through the space. “But I can do this.”
Before I can even think to move, one inky tendril surges forward and touches my cheek. I cry out, jump back, and Malcolm sprints forward, intent not on me, but that thing.
His hands reach for it, but despite its sluggish appearance, the entity shoots up toward the lights.
“Oh, no, you don’t, Necromancer. I won’t be captured so easily. Besides, I’ve marked my choice. See for yourself.”
Malcolm turns slowly, almost reluctantly. “No,
no. You can’t do this to her. She has no idea—”
“All the more fun for me, then. Thank you, Necromancer. You’ve played your part brilliantly in all this. And, Katy?”
I crane my neck. One vent appears darker than the rest, more sinister. Once again, something flutters. Bed sheets. Bridal veils. The taste of metal against my tongue.
“I’ll be seeing you soon.”
With the entity’s final words, the speakers burst back to life, music blaring. Colored lights flash. The disco ball above our heads throws out a million fake stars. The club doors open and people rush the stage, footsteps and bass thumping the floor. I can feel the crunch of broken glass in my jaw. Only now do fumes from the alcohol fill the air, mixed with the odor of a hundred bodies.
I don’t search for Malcolm. I don’t know what I’d say to him. I don’t know what to think about him. Or this. Or anything. I push against people forcing their way onto the dance floor, grabbing elbows and shoulders to leverage myself out of this space. If I can leave this space, I can figure things out. If I can leave this space, it will all start to make sense.
When the cold air of outside strikes my face, I’m no closer to understanding anything but this: I must get away.
I run. Footfalls sound behind me. I think I hear my name. I don’t look back. I don’t slacken my pace. There’s a train at the light rail station. I don’t care what line or where it’s going. I slip through the doors just as they’re closing.
I’m without a ticket, without my partner, without a plan. I press a hand against the glass of the door and peer out in time to see Malcolm stumble to a halt, brace his hands against his knees. He looks up, mouths my name.
And then he’s gone.
* * *
Eventually, I stagger to a seat. I dig through my bag and pull out my ticket. I clutch my talisman, although I doubt it’s much of one. My ride time has expired. I scan the aisle, hoping there’s no conductor on this train. A few people occupy seats in front of mine. A group of college-age kids lounge behind me, in the very back of the train.
I don’t relax so much as pull in a full breath—at last. I’m on the Green Line, headed toward St. Paul. St. Paul. Where the State Fairgrounds are. I pull out my phone.
Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season Page 13