Linger

by Kodilynn Calhoun

  We’re on Main Street now, on the corner where the pack lingers. I set the Taker down on the sidewalk between them and the Voids are like cattle—they move to let me through, then as soon as I step back, they shuffle to encompass the dead body into their group. They are used to death, after all. If the police think that the Taker was a Void, there would be no investigation. Jaeger is smart.

  In the middle of the pack stands a young girl, her messy blonde hair dyed rainbow at the tips. She doesn’t look up, not even as I reach for her, take both of her hands in mine, and look into her blue eyes. Mercy laughs in my head and there’s a buzz of energy, a crackle of magick against our skin. Then, the girl is looking up at me, her gaze filled with liquid sunlight, and she laughs for real this time. She wraps me in a bear-hug.

  I smile. She’s safe. Jaeger’s safe. Takers can’t take them back out of their bodies now that they’ve been restored. And I know what I’m looking for now, if they ever come back for me. Besides, I don’t have an ounce of psychic power in me and the one Taker who could possibly want revenge is dead. I turn to Jaeger, a little surprised as he wraps his hand in mine.

  “Remember that kiss you gave me back in Maury’s?” He is solemn. “I really, really wish I could’ve felt more than just your lips. If I played my cards right, could there be a repeat performance?”

  My lips twist into a sly grin. “Are you asking me out on a date, Jaeger Lewitt?”

  “Is that a yes, Evelyn Carver?”

  Then Mercy groans, as if our display of almost-affection is sickening to her. She shoves her brother into me. “If you’re going to kiss, kiss already!”

  So we do, even if it’s just to spite her, but the look in Jaeger’s eyes tells me there’s more where that came from. A lot more. And I’m glad. Maybe I’ll come to like change after all.

  ###

  About the author: Kodilynn Calhoun is a 23-year-old gal from Indiana. She’s been writing seriously for over 10 years; her first real novel was a 300 page fantasy-monster with little plot and plenty of randomosity. Today, she’s mostly a writer of YA paranormals and is a sucker for a good love story and the fantastic: werewolves, shifters, incubi and gargoyles? You name it, she probably writes it (and hopes you like it)! You can follow her on Twitter, Facebook, or find her online at https://kodilynncalhoun.com

  Coming Holidays 2011 by Kodilynn Calhoun:

  Christmas Angel

  Ever since his girlfriend died in a car accident on Christmas Eve, 19-year-old Cheshire Morgan has been…well…a Grinch. With a dislike for Christmas and his rent two months late, his only option is to take a job playing Santa for a bunch of whiny kids. Then he meets Savannah. She tells him that his girlfriend’s spirit can’t move on to Heaven until Cheshire stops clinging to the past. He doesn’t believe her, but she’s annoyingly persistent. She makes him a deal–spend the holidays with her, let her try and teach him how to love Christmas again. If she fails, he’ll never have to deal with her again. But can the spunky girl crack the ice around Cheshire’s heart in time for Christmas?

  Chapter One

  Cheshire Morgan watched miserably as the first snow flurries of the season began to fall right outside his bedroom window. He lay sprawled on the twin-sized bed, sheets tangled around his legs, the sweat on his brow from his nightmare already beginning to dry. He dragged a heavy hand across his face, rubbed his eyes, then sat up. It couldn’t be winter already…could it? The chill to the floorboards was answer enough and Chesh groaned. Where had October gone? November? Had Thanksgiving come and went? He didn’t celebrate it; he wouldn’t know.

  He willed his tired body to move. He felt sixty, not seven months shy of twenty. He gathered up a fresh pair of jeans and a black Chevelle hoodie with too many holes and headed for the bathroom. He needed a hot shower. That would ward off this budding anxiety. He hated this time of year. He wished he was a bear that could hibernate the holidays away and wake up refreshed in the spring. On his way there, he stubbed his toe on the doorframe and cussed under his breath.

  There was a rapping on the door. He did his best to ignore it, but they were quick, insistent knocks that made his lip curl. He cranked the shower to hot, then in just a pair of black boxers, swung the door inwards to reveal a tiny lady with red hair and green eyes that hid behind a pair of glasses. “What?”

  The woman—Mrs. Scott—made a tsk’ing sound and shook her head. “Your manners are lacking, as always, Mr. Morgan,” she said. “Your rent’s a week late. Now, I understand you aren’t currently employed, but it’s nearly the holiday season and people will be hiring for Christmas.”

  The words made Cheshire’s stomach coil like a snake. “I—”

  “No excuses. I let you slide last month, but I just can’t afford it! I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan, but if you don’t get the money to me by Friday, I’ll have to evict you and I hate to do that so close to the holidays.”

  Cheshire snorted. Like she cared. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said briskly, then—before she could reply—he slammed the door in her face and stalked back to the bathroom. Not even the thick steam, or the supposedly-relaxing peppermint bath salt at the bottom of the tub, made his mood any better. Here he was, the holidays looming, with no job, no income, and—”Shit. Just shit.” His voice echoed in the tiny bathroom, making it boom when he felt tiny inside. All he wanted to do was curl back up in bed and try not to think about the past; try not to think about what he’d had only a little while ago.

  After he’d dried and dressed, he found his dead cell phone and plugged it into the wall charger. He dialed in Kerr’s number, but a robotic woman’s voice told him that he hadn’t paid his bill and that his service was cancelled. He chucked it across the room and it spun in a circle where it landed. He pulled on his shoes and headed out into the dreadful weather with a pocketful of change. He found a pay phone, one of the only ones in his small hometown, and called Kerr up. Kerr Hannigan wasn’t his friend exactly, but he’d been a friend of Rae’s and he figured the man might help him out.

  “Yo,” came Kerr’s jovial voice over the line.

  Cheshire barely suppressed a snort. “Hey. It’s Cheshire Morgan.” After a lapse of silence, he swallowed and continued. “I know I’m a couple years late, but I was hoping for that favor you promised me? I was thinking maybe you knew of a place that’d hire me? I’ve got rent due and…” He trailed off, feeling foolish.

  Kerr hmm’ed to himself and Cheshire heard rattling papers and the clicking of keyboard strokes. “I don’t have anything permanent…”

  “Temporary works.”

  “I do have one thing. But Chesh? You’re not gonna like it…”

  And after the man explained it to him, Cheshire decided he was right. He didn’t like it at all.

  ***

  He stood in front of the tiny, red and green trailer set up outside of the courthouse, strung up with Christmas lights. The sign on the door was festive enough to make Rudolph barf glitter. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Kerr met him in front of the trailer, a black garment-bag slung over one arm. His shoes crunched in the light dusting of snow as he unlocked the door and led the way inside. It was…homey, if you were a sucker for Christmas. There was a mock fireplace complete with mock fire, and the walls were decorated in gold and silver. The carpet was old and raggedy, but the camera wouldn’t capture that—it was facing a big chair with a red, faux-velvet lining.

  Santa’s chair.

  Please God… Cheshire thought as Kerr explained that he was to open in the morning and sit in the chair. The parents of little kids would pay Santa’s “elf” (who, miraculously, knew how to take money and work a high-tech camera) to let their child sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what they wanted for Christmas. They would get a picture with Santa and then prance away, happy little campers, believing that they would be on the “Nice” list this year. Cheshire snorted.

  “I hate kids,” he mumbled as Kerr gave him the key and offered him the garment-bag.
<
br />   The man merely chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll do just fine. And besides, perhaps some fine single mother will ask Santa out on a date.” He wiggled his too-bushy eyebrows, then left Chesh alone in the empty trailer.

  Cheshire took a cleansing breath, in then out, and stared Santa’s chair down. He should call it quits now. Give Kerr back his stupid job and find one in the next town over—surely someone would be hiring. Right? He gripped the key in his hand until it became hot in his grasp, and then shook his head. “Hope you’re up there laughing your ass off, Rae,” he growled, staring up at the ceiling. She would be, of course; Rae Ramone loved the holidays.

  He could remember a time when he did too.

  Locking the door behind him, he left the Wish Station trailer behind and headed home for a dinner of stale shrimp ramen and green tea for the fourth day in a row. “Ho-ho-ho.” He tried out a jolly voice, but failed. Right. December was going to be ho-ho-horrible.

  ***

  “And what do you want for Christmas, little boy?” Cheshire lowered his voice to fit Santa the best he could, but he’d been at this for four hours and his throat was more than a little sore. The six-year-old boy sitting on his lap frowned, glanced at his parents—who were waiting with Kristine, the “elf”—and began to spout out a list of brand-name toys he’d probably seen on TV commercials. “Uh, yeah. I like the race car idea. Let’s go with that,” he mumbled.

  Kristine squeaked a little rubber duck, which let out a high-pitched shrill, making both Chesh and the boy glance up with deer-in-the-headlights looks on their faces. Then she snapped the camera and the boy hopped down and hurried to his parents’ sides. They thanked Kristine and, after paying and leaving their information to get the photos sent to them, left the Wish Station.

  The open door let in a blast of surprisingly frigid winter air—not that Cheshire could feel it through the thick Santa-suit. The hat probably had lice in it and the beard was suffocating him, but he didn’t dare pull it off. Who knew when the next family would come in? He sighed and sagged against the sleigh chair and prayed for the day to be over quickly.

  No such luck. An hour before closing time, he got in a carload of kids who took their time grinding their bony butts into his poor leg, chirping about the toys they wanted. Chesh gave up the voice act mid-sentence and the girl on his lap gave him the stink-eye. “Hey, Santa went through backwards puberty. Get off my ass,” he scowled at her, earning him a reproachful look from both Kristine-the-elf and the parents, who were out of there faster than a cheetah on speed. “Good riddance.”

  “You’re not going to survive December with that attitude,” Kristine snapped at him, rearranging her elf-ear headband with a sigh. “I’m going out for a smoke behind the trailer. If anyone comes in, stall them ‘til I get back.” She swung the door open and shut it behind her with enough force to rattle the only window in its pane.

  Chesh closed his eyes, thankful for the silence. Even between customers, Kristine just wanted to yap, and she wanted to yap about Christmastime. Screw that. He massaged his temples. Then the bells rang again and the door opened to reveal three teenagers—he didn’t recognize them, but they were probably seniors on a prank. Two jocks in maroon and gold letter jackets, and a girl. The girl caught his eye, a flash of remembrance floating through him.

  She was tall and willowy, with legs that went on forever and a delicate curve to her jawbone. Her hair was dark and swirled around her face in loose ringlets and her eyes were storm-warning grey. She was probably an A-cup, he noted to himself—not that that mattered: he was just surprised to see her looking like a woman. He knew her, he knew he knew her. She was from a time when he and Rae were together and happy. Wow, how she’d grown up…

  She caught his eye and held it, bold. He found himself smiling through the beard despite the fact that the boys were arguing about who was sitting on his lap and who was standing, to which the girl—Savannah, he recalled—laughed and bowed with a flourish. “I’ll sit on his lap. Otherwise you’ll look gay.” The boys gave Cro-Magnon chuckles, the taller one jabbing his friend in the stomach with an elbow and Cheshire rolled his eyes. Jocks. They never changed.

  But hell. That meant she was sitting on his lap. Lovely. “Aren’t you a little old to be sitting on Santa’s lap?” He lifted a brow.

  “Aren’t you a little young to be playing Santa Clause?” the tall boy shot back. “What are you, twenty? Is this the only job you could get?”

  “Bet it pays shit,” the other smirked. “Bet he needs drug money.”

  “Guys.” Savannah’s tone was warning.

  Cheshire stood, lifting his lip in a snarl and opening his mouth to snap something back when Kristine came back in, snow clinging to her hair. She looked surprised, glancing between Chesh and the teens, and then shook her head and sat down in her elf chair.

  “What is this, a bet? Someone bet you to embarrass yourselves?” Cheshire asked finally.

  “The only one who’s embarrassed is you, Santa.”

  Chesh took a warning step towards the boy; he was smaller than the tall one, but stockier than both of them. He could probably take him down, though the suit might hinder him a bit. “Wanna take this behind the trailer?” The words were quietly spoken, his temper simmering.

  “Enough!” Savannah gave the tall boy a shove, sending him falling into the wall. The whole trailer shook from his weight. “Goddammit, Cam, why do you have to be such an asshole?”

  Cam shot eye-lasers at Chesh, who shot them right back, and then the boy cast his gaze to the carpet. “Sorry, Savvy.” He sounded like a beaten puppy, but Cheshire knew it was just an act to get on the girl’s good side.

  Cam’s friend eyed Cheshire, then punched Cam on the shoulder. “C’mon, man. Let’s wait outside. We’ll wait for you, Sav,” he said, then escorted the tall boy out of the trailer, his poise haughty. Once they were gone and the door was shut firmly behind them with a jingle of bells, Cheshire sank back down in his chair.

  “You want a picture or what?” he asked, all the fire he’d felt before suddenly leaking out of him, draining him of his energy.

  “I know you,” Savannah said softly, looking down at him. Their eyes met again—and for the first time since the accident, Cheshire felt a fluttering in his cold, black heart. “Cheshire, right? Rae’s boyfriend.” At that, his heart stopped with a heavy thud and he nodded. The girl offered a hand, which he took. Hers was warm and soft. “Savannah Grable. Rae was like my big sister, kinda-sorta. Man, it’s been awhile.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, feeling hollow inside and wishing he could just stand up and walk away.

  She squeezed his hand, her face softening into a solemn smile. “She doesn’t blame you, you know.”

  He stiffened, snapping his gaze into hers. What? Blame him for what? The accident? How the hell would she know? “Look, Savannah, it was nice to see you again, but maybe you should go.”

  “It’s been two years,” she murmured, gripping his hand tightly. “You look like hell. You feel depressed. You’re probably repressing anger and emotions that need to come out, not that it’s any of my business, but—”

  “Shut up,” he warned.

  “You’ve got to let her go, Chesh. She can’t pass over when you’re clinging to her so tightly! You’re suffocating her and—”

  “SHUT UP!” He lurched to his feet and tore off his beard, running both hands through his dark hair as he struggled to breathe. Images of that night tore through his mind, his nightly nightmare on repeat in all its grisly detail. He stood, his hands trembling, and then looked up at Savannah. She wasn’t startled—she was resolute. Firm. “Like you’d know. She’s dead.” And he’d killed her. “Get out.” His words shook.

  “Time to go,” Kristine announced, stepping between them. She grabbed Savannah’s arm. “Honey, we’re closing. Go home.” Her voice was hard. Savannah reached for Cheshire, but he jerked away at the same time Kristine pushed her towards the exit. “Go on. Closed is
closed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Savannah murmured before slipping out the door. The bells fell silent as it shut.

  Cheshire felt Kristine’s hand on his arm and he all but growled at her, feeling like a caged animal. She huffed. “Look. I don’t know you or anything, but it doesn’t take a genius to know you’re upset. Take off the suit and go home. I’ll close up.” When he didn’t reply, she gave him a shove towards the door, shooing him off. He haphazardly zipped the suit, beard, and hat into the garment bag, then hung it on the hook and left the Wish Station behind.

  Rae had been so beautiful; thick auburn hair and bright hazel eyes, eyes that could read your very soul as if it were an open book. He remembered her husky laugh, the way her eyes creased into crescent moon shapes, and the dimple on her cheek when she smiled. Goddammit. If he hadn’t drove that night, if he hadn’t had that last beer at the party… He swiped furiously at his burning eyes, though no tears came.

  He found his way home, feeling numb and very much not alive, more like a heartsick zombie. He fished out a Xanax from the bottle on the counter and took it with a cup of lukewarm water. He collapsed on his bed, not bothering to cover up. He buried his face in the pillow he’d sprinkled her perfume on, just for the scent of her when her real scent faded away months ago. Taking deep breaths, he attempted to relax, to think of better times, but each thought ended with the image of her death.

  And then there was Savannah’s face, telling him it wasn’t his fault. And it just looped over and over again.

  Thank you for reading!