by T. Strange
“You’re not really afraid of me, are you?” Charles asked. “That sounds like something someone scary would say, doesn’t it?”
That startled a laugh out of Harlan, and they shared a fleeting smile.
He needed to figure out to what extent this man was affecting his powers. The quickest, easiest, least awkward solution was to get a ride with him. Harlan shook his head. “Let’s go.” Not waiting for Charles, he strode off down the alley, head down, shoulders slightly hunched.
“The car is this way. And I need to know where you live.”
Chapter Seven
“Stay here. Please,” Harlan added, as an afterthought. He was so excited, so tense, that he could barely hold still long enough to undo his seatbelt. He hated being so obvious with his emotional state. It made him feel vulnerable, but he knew he was on the edge—or maybe the precipice—of a major discovery.
Still wearing the same bemused expression he’d had, more or less, since Harlan’s arrival in the alley, Charles nodded.
Niceties out of the way, Harlan let himself out of the car and hurried to the apartment building, moving as fast as he could without looking like he was hurrying. Fumbling the front door open, he frantically searched the lobby for Libby.
For a long, desperate moment he didn’t see her—maybe this had nothing to do with Charles after all. Maybe his powers were just fading on their own, and what would he do then? He was useless. Without them, he had no skills, nothing. The Centre wouldn’t take him back. He’d no longer be psychic. Maybe he could work there as a janitor or something.
Fuck.
She had to be there. She had—
There. Step, step, flicker. Right where she should be.
Okay.
Harlan ran outside, too exhilarated to care how stupid he looked. After hurrying around to the driver’s side, Harlan yanked the door handle. It was locked.
A moment of hesitation, then Charles turned the car on and rolled down the window.
Bent nearly double—Harlan was built like a scarecrow, all height and knobbly joints—he fought to keep his voice calm and steady. “Come inside with me. Please.” He could see the doubt in Charles’ eyes, see him considering simply rolling up the window and driving away, but then he nodded. Turning off the car and rolling the window back up without ever looking away from Harlan, Charles stepped out.
As relieved as Harlan was, he had no idea why. If their positions were reversed, he’d be at the end of the block by now.
He barely came up to Harlan’s nipples, a thought that Harlan immediately regretted. He felt himself blushing, and he hoped Charles wouldn’t notice. He walked away quickly and opened the front door, holding it for Charles. He almost turned around to make sure Charles was actually following him, and he was relieved when he heard footsteps behind him.
“What—?” Charles began, but Harlan silenced him with a gesture, too excited to explain now, emboldened by his excitement.
Harlan’s eyes darted around the lobby. No sign of Libby. So far, his theory was right. “Okay. Go back outside.”
Harlan could see a protest forming behind Charles’ lips, creasing the corners of his rich brown eyes, but there was no time for that. Harlan had to know. Now.
“Please. Just one more time, then I’ll explain everything. Promise.” Harlan clenched his hands into fists with the effort of not pushing Charles outside.
Charles turned around without a word, and Harlan watched him retreat to the sidewalk. He found himself pacing Libby’s usual route as he watched, wondering if Charles would keep walking, get back in his car, leave. Maybe that would be for the best, actually. Whatever effect Charles had on his powers, all Harlan had to do was stay away from him and he’d be fine. Hopefully. If the damage hadn’t already been done.
The effects on his libido were an entirely different matter, one Harlan didn’t want to consider, especially right now.
Charles stopped before he reached his car, watching Harlan as intently as Harlan was watching him through the lobby window.
No sparkle.
Harlan waved his hands, motioning for Charles to go farther.
One step back, three. He was on the boulevard, almost into the street, and how much farther could he reasonably ask the man to go, then…sparkle.
Harlan gave Charles a quick thumbs-up, beaming. He curled his toes inside his canvas sneakers, a silent, hidden display of his delight. After a quick visual confirmation—there was Libby, right where she belonged, again—he waved Charles back.
Charles glanced over his shoulder at his car, clearly considering whether it wouldn’t be better to simply get in and drive away. But he came back.
Harlan unlocked the door for him, held it open, still grinning. “Thank you,” he said, half whispering.
Charles nodded. He looked hesitant, but he stepped inside.
Just like that, Libby—and her sparkle—vanished.
Harlan let out a deep, deep breath. One he’d been holding since the car had picked him up at the Centre, it felt like. “I was right.”
“Right about…? You said you’d explain everything,” Charles prompted.
“Yes. Right. But not here.”
Charles’ expression soured.
“J-Just upstairs. Please. In my apartment. Just to talk,” he rushed to add, seeing Charles’ expression change again, the shift in his shoulders as he prepared to turn, to leave.
Charles laughed, shaking his head. “One of us is crazy, but damned if I know which. All right, let’s go.” He walked towards the elevator.
Of course. That was what normal people did.
Swallowing hard, hoping Charles wouldn’t notice how pale he was, how badly he was shaking, Harlan followed Charles to the claustrophobic box. He caught a glimpse of himself in the elevator’s shiny, brass doors before they slid open. His golden reflection looked terrified.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment. Opened them for a tentative peek around the elevator compartment. Empty, aside from Charles, who looked ready to step out again.
One big step, and Harlan was inside. He hadn’t been in an elevator since he was five, just before his parents dumped him at the Centre.
“Which floor?” Charles asked.
Jaw so tight with fear he couldn’t open his mouth to respond, Harlan reached past Charles and pressed the ‘four’ button. The elevator lurched into motion. Was that normal? Barely containing a squeak, Harlan grabbed the brass railing that ran around three sides of the elevator car. He clutched it like a lifeline, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, too afraid even to worry about what Charles thought of him. He shouldn’t have gotten in. He should’ve taken the stairs, made some excuse—he needed the exercise, he had claustrophobia… Fuck, he’d made a mistake.
He realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to breathe, but it was too loud. Charles had probably heard.
Harlan did cry out when something touched him, shrinking away from the presence.
“Are you all right?” Charles’ voice, and now Harlan realized it was Charles’ hand he’d felt on his own.
Stiff with fear and with every muscle tensed, Harlan managed a jerky nod.
“No, you’re not.” Charles sighed. “Claustrophobic?”
An easy out. Harlan nodded again. “S-Something like that.”
Strong, comforting—living—arms wrapped around his middle, drawing him close to a warm, solid body. Charles was shorter, but far sturdier and more muscular. “Hey. I’m sorry. We’ll take the stairs down, okay?”
Fuck. If Charles hadn’t thought he was completely fucking nuts before…
Charles moved his hand in slow, sure circles on Harlan’s back. Normally, Harlan didn’t like being touched, even by accident, but Charles was surprisingly comforting. Harlan relaxed, ever so slightly, just enough that his heart didn’t stop during the short elevator ride. Fuck. Good thing he didn’t live on the twenty-fifth floor, though the prospect of walking up and down all those stairs every day might have forced him to ove
rcome his fear.
He opened his eyes a crack, glancing around the elevator car. Still just the two of them. Maybe he could do this on his own eventually.
The elevator dinged, stopped, and the doors slid open.
Charles gave Harlan’s hand a quick, firm squeeze, then stepped into the hall.
The elevator door started closing and Harlan still hadn’t moved. Charles waved a hand in front of the doors’ sensor, and they parted to reveal him still huddled in a corner with his hands in a death grip on the railing. Finger by finger, he forced himself to let go. Then it was easy. He wanted out of there. Two quick steps and he was safe. He could see his door from here.
As quickly and forcefully as he could without being rude, Harlan brushed past Charles, fumbling the key out of his pocket. He forgot about the tricky lock in his hurry and shot Charles an apologetic grin when the key didn’t turn.
Charles looked more sympathetic—and perhaps pitying—than annoyed now, but Harlan wasn’t sure that was an improvement.
He pressed the doorframe this time, and the door swung open. As always, when he crossed the threshold into his ghost-warded apartment, Harlan felt an avalanche of tension pour off him. “Come in,” he invited, carelessly kicking off his shoes and leaving them where they landed. If Charles could deal with Harlan having a full-blown panic attack over an elevator, he could tolerate a little clutter.
There were obligations, things he was expected to do when entertaining guests, things he was supposed to say… “Would you…like some water?”
Charles grinned and kicked off his own shoes—just as haphazardly, Harlan was pleased to see.
“Yes, please. I hope I don’t sound like your dad or anything, but you could probably use some too, after…”
He didn’t sound anything like Harlan’s dad. Harlan’s father had been ashamed of him. Still was, as far as Harlan knew, though he’d grown tired of receiving letters he’d sent with ‘Return to sender’ written on them and he hadn’t contacted his family in years.
Rather than telling him to drink water after a fright like that, he’d probably have grabbed Harlan by the arm, shaken him a little and hissed at him to stop being such a baby.
“You don’t,” Harlan reassured him. He nodded vaguely, then headed for the kitchen. “Make yourself at home,” he called back, hoping that was the right thing to say. He’d never really understood the phrase.
He filled two glasses with tap water, offered one to Charles, then sat as far from the other man as possible, on one of the armchairs rather than on the couch beside the guy. He set his own glass, untouched, on the end table beside him.
The armchair looked nice, but it was stiff and unyielding when he sat on it, without the give or comfort of a properly broken-in piece of furniture, and he was glad Charles had chosen the couch instead. He knew it was marginally more comfortable.
Charles took a long swallow of his water—Harlan had to force himself to look away, not watch his throat working and think of—then set it on the coffee table.
“Well,” Charles began. He leaned forward, hands between his knees, palms together.
“Well,” Harlan repeated, his voice rising at the end, turning it into more of a question than the statement he’d intended it to be.
“I think you offered to explain…everything?” Charles prompted.
Harlan opened his mouth a few times, reconsidered, closed it, then it all tumbled out in a rush. “The other day when I first went to your dun—club—I didn’t see a ghost, but there was one. Obviously. You know that part. And when I went back, I could see it—but only if you weren’t in the room with me.” He paused, panting a little with the sheer volume of words, the joy of sharing this with someone else, of proving he wasn’t just a useless fucking failure. That something was happening to him.
None of his lessons at the Centre had even hinted at anything remotely like a…human ghost ward.
Unless… He frowned. How disappointing if it was that simple, after all.
“Do you have any tattoos?” Harlan asked.
Charles raised an eyebrow. “Yeah.”
Of course he did. He was the owner of a dungeon slash sex club, and he had several piercings in his ears alone. Harlan’s cheeks got hot.
Normally, Harlan couldn’t flirt to save his life—not that he’d had much practice. The group of people who were close to his age at the Centre had remained more or less the same, and the one boy he’d had a crush on for years hadn’t been interested in Harlan beyond a few furtive blow and hand jobs. Receiving them, of course.
With Charles, he felt like every word he said sounded like a come-on, even though he didn’t mean it that way. Not really. Yes, he found Charles attractive, but he wasn’t trying to flirt, just to explain…
Harlan shook his head. His mouth was dry, but even the motion of reaching out for his glass of water seemed like it would leave him too vulnerable. This was Harlan’s space—it hadn’t been for long, but it was his all the same—and Charles had taken it over just by being there, sitting still on the couch. Harlan was so fucked. So, so fucked, but he had to know. He cleared his throat.
“Could I see them?” His voice barely squeaked, and he was unreasonably proud of that.
Charles rolled up his left sleeve, showing a bird—a swallow, maybe—in plain black ink.
Frowning, Harlan decided to just ask, tempting as it was to have Charles undress for him piece by piece. “Are you ghost-warded?”
“Am I what?” Charles rolled down his sleeve again and glanced at the door.
“I can see ghosts…”
Charles snorted. “So I’ve heard.”
“Except in places that’ve been specially warded against them…like this apartment.” Some mediums had the ability to create wards, and some non-gifted people were able to copy them precisely enough that they worked, but Harlan couldn’t do either. His designs never worked.
Ghost-wards were time-consuming to draw and had to be reapplied every few years—less, if a ghost had attacked them—so it wasn’t feasible to have them everywhere.
“I’ll be right back.” Harlan grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and, squinting at the glowing symbols he could only see in his peripheral vision, he drew a few of them, shoving the paper in Charles’ face in his excitement. “They’d look something like this. Maybe you didn’t know, or…”
Charles took a long, slow breath, leaning back on his armrest. “No, nothing like that.” He paused. “It’s me. You can’t see ghosts around me. That’s what you meant earlier.”
Harlan nodded. That had been much easier than he’d expected. He both wanted to stay as close to this man as possible for the rest of his life, so he’d never have to see another burned, mutilated, dismembered ghost—and to put thousands of miles between them. The man’s ability—or perhaps lack of ability—was dangerous to Harlan.
“Hmm.” Resting his left elbow on the couch’s armrest, Charles cradled his stubbly jaw in his hands. “I’m guessing, by your reaction, that this doesn’t happen all the time.”
Harlan shook his head. “Never.”
“Never.” Charles laughed. “If I were a scientist, I’d want to experiment, see if I could find out more about it. Hell, I’m not much more than a trumped-up bartender and I still do!” He slapped his thigh with his right hand, the sudden sound startling Harlan.
“Sorry,” they both said at the same time. Charles laughed again, while Harlan looked away, suddenly engrossed in picking out minute details of the rug.
Harlan’s brain finally caught up to his frenzied, erratic thoughts. “I have to make a phone call,” he said, leaving before Charles could respond. He knew it was rude, leaving a guest on his own like that. Even though Harlan had very few personal effects and most of them were in the bedroom, it felt strange to have a…stranger in his living space unattended. But this couldn’t wait.
Hamilton answered with only his last name, on the fifth ring, right before Harlan decided to hang up. He added a barked, “Hello?
” when Harlan didn’t answer immediately.
“It’s me,” Harlan murmured, cowed by the ferocity and volume of Hamilton’s voice.
“Who is this?” Hamilton asked, sounding peeved. Then again, he always sounded peeved.
“Harlan.”
“Oh.” Slightly lower volume, slightly less hostile, but not followed by anything else.
“I, um, I figured out what—”
“Speak up. I can’t hear you!”
Now that Hamilton had mentioned it, Harlan could hear a sort of background rumble, punctuated by high-pitched, intermittent beeping. “Are you at a construction site?”
“No shit, Sherlock. Now, will you hurry the fuck up? This body’s not getting any less squashed.”
Ugh. Trying to suppress the mental image—unfortunately, having seen so many ghosts, Harlan had an extensive mental library of almost every kind of death—Harlan was profoundly glad he wasn’t at the scene. And hoped he wouldn’t be delivered there tomorrow. “Was it a murder?”
“Why? You think you can crack the case with your ghost pals? No, it was a fucking accident, and unless you can summon a giant spatula, get off the phone.”
“I can see ghosts again! Well, I always could. It’s just…I figured out why. Why I couldn’t. Before. But it’s fixed now.”
“Nine a.m. tomorrow.” Click.
Setting his phone down on the bedside table—there were two identical tables, one on either side of the bed, even though it was just him—Harlan gave a sigh of relief. One problem solved. Now he just had to get rid of the man in his living room.
Or he could ask him to stay…
No. Bad idea.
Charles was already standing when Harlan returned to the living room. “Well. If you’re okay…”
“Yeah.”
“I should probably…”
“Yeah.”
“So…” After a moment, Charles offered his hand.