The light turned green and Callum eased on the gas. “Um. Clearly not.”
“Not us, asshole,” Trey cut in. “We don’t count.”
“Other spirits,” Bridgette clarified.
Callum gave it a thought. Yeah, he supposed he had been seeing fewer of them lately. Whatever that meant. “Yeah, I guess so.” It wasn’t like he kept a running count. And sometimes the frequency of chatty spirits was lower than others. Other times, he couldn’t walk ten feet without somebody asking him to relay a message or explain why they could see him, why he had a light and nobody else did. “I guess I hadn’t really noticed.” Other than the glaring absence of his own mother since her passing, obviously. “Why do you ask?”
“Cecily’s in the same boat,” Trey replied. “And you’re both sort of dark and crackly, like there’s static on the line.”
“You’re getting through fine,” Callum said.
“Because we’re tethered to you,” Bridgette said like it was obvious.
Tethered to him. Right. “So I’m stuck with you,” he surmised.
“Exactly,” said Trey—at the same time Bridgette said, “Not quite.”
It didn’t matter. Callum put on a show that they were a pain in his ass, but all things considered, he actually like the two of them. Trevor had been hanging around ever since Scott and Cecily had gotten together. Bridgette had begun making regular appearances right after Cecily had channeled her for Wren back in New Orleans. The two of them seemed to be friends—Bridgette and Trey. It was sort of adorable.
Something occurred to him. “Wait, wasn’t Cecily meeting with a client today?”
“Yeah...” The way Trevor drew out the word made it clear that hadn’t gone as planned.
Add that to the list of reasons Callum never wanted to be a medium-for-hire. Sitting there, staring at somebody who paid you to talk to their dead relative—and all you got was nothing? The only thing more awkward than that would be to sit there, staring at somebody waiting to talk to their dead relative while you get nothing—and you’re naked.
“Jeez,” Callum remarked. “Is she okay?”
“Oh yeah, she’ll be fine,” Trevor replied with one hundred percent certainty.
Wait a second. “Do you think the static is why Miriam can’t come through?”
There was a pause while both of them seemed to think for a second.
“Good question,” Bridgette finally said. “You should ask Wren about it—it would get her to stop dragging her feet, if nothing else.”
“Dragging her feet?”
“She’s supposed to be in Seattle,” Bridgette explained, all matter-of-fact. “But she’s taking her sweet time leaving Portland.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Wren was checking the water levels in her garden when her phone started buzzing from the front of the RV. It was late, which probably meant it was Zander calling, so she quickly made her way to the table and plucked her phone from the charger.
Sure enough, Zander’s name and photo were on the screen. They hadn’t talked since Callum’s mom passed away. Zander and Callum had gone back to NOLA last week and Wren had considered meeting them there—but hadn’t followed through on the thought. Going to Seattle was one thing—she wasn’t yet ready to see New Orleans again.
She brought the phone to her ear. “Hey. How was your trip?”
Zander’s response was lined with a smile. “Hey! It was mostly good. What is this about you coming to Seattle?”
Wait. What? “How did you—?” But as soon as she started to say it, she knew. “Who’d Bridge tell? Callum or Cecily?”
“Callum,” replied Zander with a chuckle.
Wren could only laugh. “God forbid I ever want to keep something a secret.”
“Was you coming to Seattle supposed to be a secret?”
“No, not at all,” Wren assured her. “I just made the decision today, or I’d have told you already.”
“Okay, ‘cause I was gonna be pissed if you thought you could come to Seattle and not see me.”
Wren laughed. “You’re the only person I’m coming there to see. Well, and Scott—my tattoos need his skills. So why was your trip to NOLA only mostly good?” Other than the obvious. They’d gone to pick up Callum’s mom’s ashes, after all.
Zander sighed like she was suddenly exhausted. “Death sucks.”
Wren had to laugh at that. “Yeah, it’s not my favorite either.” But, hey, it wouldn’t suck as much for a medium as it did for the rest of the world, at least. “How is Callum getting along with his mom now that she’s on the other side?”
“He’s not.”
That didn’t sound good. “What’s wrong with her?”
“It’s not that they aren’t getting along,” Zander explained. “She hasn’t come through to him.”
Oh shit. That made more sense than them not getting along—and was maybe even more shitty. “Like, at all?”
“Not at all,” came Zander’s matter-of-fact response.
“Has Bridgette seen her? Or Cecily’s ex-boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Do you think she’s staying away on purpose?” That would be cruel, but Wren supposed it was her prerogative. Still—Ouch.
“That’s what Callum thinks—that she’s staying away on purpose—but I don’t buy it,” Zander replied. “You should have heard the nurses talking about her when we went to pick up her ashes. They all said she talked about Callum constantly—even when she wasn’t fully lucid. That doesn’t sound like somebody who just doesn’t want to talk to their son after they pass.”
Wren had to agree. “It definitely doesn’t.”
“And now Trevor and Bridgette told him that he has static on the line—Cecily too. Whatever that means, exactly.”
Static on the line? “Like, they aren’t coming through as clearly?”
Zander sounded exhausted. “Maybe?”
“What in the hell does that mean?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Wren shook her head with a sigh and lowered herself into one of the bench seats at her little dining table—that would become a bed as soon as she finished this conversation. “Honestly, I’m no expert on the spirit world. You’re better off having Callum ask Bridgette—she always knew more about that stuff than I did.”
“Well Bridgette told Callum to ask you, so...” came Zander’s response.
“Of course she did.” Wren sighed again, thinking. She supposed there were likely things that might interfere with a spirit’s ability to make contact, even with a medium. A Shadow, for example—but they’d already solved that problem. Twice. She could remember Bridgette once saying she received less visitations when she was sick. Bridgette had been spirit-sensitive, and not a full-fledged medium, but the mechanics were similar, so maybe whatever was blocking Cecily and Callum was something as simple as a cold.
Or something more complicated than Wren was even aware of.
Ugh.
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do,” Wren said. “I’m going to try to get Scott to fit me into his schedule for a quick touch-up tomorrow afternoon. Then I’ll come to the house and we can talk about this. I have a friend on the east coast I can call—maybe she’ll be able to give us some insights.”
With any luck, her witchy-friend who ran the best magic shop on the eastern seaboard, Beth would know what was going on. She’d always been spot on knowledgeable, and Wren owed her a call anyway.
“That would be amazing,” Zander said. “Thanks Wren. And it’ll be nice to see you in any case.”
Wren smiled despite the uneasiness setting up shop in her gut. “I am going to ask to use your shower, just so you’re aware.”
“It’s yours,” Zander replied without pause. “You want a real bed, too?”
Oh damn, that was tempting. “Maybe. Let me see where I end up parking my RV.”
“Deal. I’ll have the guest room ready, just in case.”
Zander was a good friend. If Wren had to sl
eep on a bed of nails to make sure Zander and her family were safe and happy, she’d gladly do it.
⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸
When Abby walked into her apartment, she wanted to turn right back around. The place was so dank with pot smoke, the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Hey! Abs is home! You wanna hit?” A pipe and bag of chips appeared over the back of the sofa in front of her. “I’ve got chips and weed. Breakfast of fucking champions, amirite?”
“It’s nine o’clock at night,” Abby remarked. “And no, I’m good.” She enjoyed getting baked sometimes—when she didn’t have to work the next day creating permanent art on people’s skin. There was no room for being fuzzy headed or brain dead when one slip meant fucking up somebody’s tattoo—or worse, exposing them to hazardous conditions.
“No, come hang out! The boys are coming over!”
If she’d been tempted to hang out with her stoner roommate before, knowing “the boys” were on their way would have cured her of it. Her roommate, Sherri, was in a relationship with two men who were more like children. They were all into it, which was what mattered, so good for them, it just wasn’t Abby’s idea of a good time. She and Sherri had been roommates for a couple of years, ever since Abby moved up from Oregon. They’d met through a mutual friend and Sherri had seemed cool, so Abby had jumped at the chance to split the rent. And, the truth was, Sherri was a fine roommate. She wasn’t a complete slob, she respected Abby’s boundaries and belongings—she was just also a total stoner who liked to have loud sex with her two male partners. Nothing some air freshener and good headphones couldn’t cure.
“I’m slagged, but you all have fun,” Abby said as she angled for her room—then stopped. “Wait. If the three of you engage in...physical entertainment, can you please go to your room this time?”
Her roommate’s head appeared over the back of the sofa, hair a mess like she’d already been properly fucked. “Yes. You have my word, there will not be a repeat of the incident we agreed to not discuss.”
They could not-discuss it all they wanted—Abby was certain she’d never get the image of Sherri being spit roasted in the middle of the living room out of her head. No need for a repeat performance. She gave a nod. “Thank you. And on that note, I’ll be in my room.”
A black shadow of a cat slunk around her ankles as soon as Abby opened her bedroom door. She swung her bag off and sat it on the chair by the door, then stooped low to scoop the sleek, purring mound of fur up into her arms.
“Hey Nova. Have a good day?”
The black cat purred and nuzzled her hand as Abby scratched under her chin and between the ears while she carried her across the room. In her bathroom, Abby cleaned Nova’s litter box, refilled her bowl of water and poured food into her second bowl—all with the cat comfortably in her left arm. Then she sat her down and returned to her bedroom.
Five minutes later, Nova rejoined her, fed and happy, as Abby lit the final candle to finish the circle in the center of the floor of her bedroom. The rune for protection she kept chalked onto the hardwood floor was usually hidden beneath an area rug. She tossed a notebook and her favorite pen onto the floor near the center of the circle, then took a deep breath and stepped into the circle herself. Lowering herself to sit on the floor with her legs tucked beneath her, she closed her eyes and began to slow her breathing. Inhale-two-three-four, exhale-two-three-four. All the while she pictured Scott in her mind.
Something was going on with him. Something he wasn’t comfortable talking about. Earlier today, when he’d been tattooing Callum, energy had washed through the shop on a single pulse. It had pulled her to his station and made her knock—only to have to make something up when he responded, and she couldn’t tell him why she was really there.
Scott was a good dude. He was levelheaded and compassionate; he’d always been kind to her, treated her with professionalism, just like he did everybody at the shop, co-workers and clients alike. So if something was going on with him, or if Callum was bringing something negative into Scott’s world (which she really hoped wasn’t the case) Abby wanted to know about it. She wanted to protect Scott from it. Which was why she was thinking of him now, while sitting in the middle of a magic-focusing circle. She just needed to connect with the energy of anybody on the other side of the veil that might be watching over him. Then she could ask what they knew and determine if something was wrong.
Abby couldn’t talk to the spirits of the dead the way a medium could. They didn’t approach her when she was going about her normal business, she couldn’t see them in the waking world. But because she derived her magic from the spirit-side of the veil—just like her mother, and her grandmother, and all of the witches and warlocks in her family before them did— she could seek council from the spirits tethered to a living person if she channeled her energy in the right way.
She just needed to concentrate.
To quiet her mind.
She sighed in relief as the trance washed over her. It felt good to turn inward like this, to sink into her magic—to become the magic that ran in her veins and buzzed under her skin.
She pictured Scott in her mind and conjured his energy into her awareness. Then she sent her intention out into the universe, asking for the highest good of all concerned with his wellbeing to come forward to collaborate with her on his safe keeping.
She waited. And she waited some more.
But no one stepped forward.
Could it be that Scott had no one on the other side who watched out for him? No one he’d loved who was now gone from the living world?
“Hi.” A woman’s face flashed into her sight, so quickly and so close Abby gasped, her eyes flying open, the trance shattered.
She sat for a moment, just staring at the candles in front of her. The woman had been young, mid-twenties at most. She’d had fair skin and long, golden blond hair. Her blue eyes had been kind and her energy had been pure. She’d been connected to Scott in some way, but not directly, that much was easy to feel.
And she’d felt something else, too, in that split second before she fell from the trance.
Something was coming. Something that hovered now, on the edges of Scott’s life. And on the edges of hers.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Oh my god, it’s like the longest two minutes ever.”
Scott chuckled quietly. Cecily had said the very same thing the last time they’d done this, about four months ago. They’d only been together a couple of months at that point.
Damn, time had flown.
He watched her pace toward the door, then cross to where he was sitting on the side of the bathtub with his forearms braced across his knees. It was stupid early in the morning, but he’d barely slept. When Cecily had picked him up from work last night, she’d told him they needed to hit the drugstore on the way home. She hadn’t told him why until she was standing in the aisle deciding between digital display and the good old fashioned pink line models.
He sat up when she drew near, reaching for her so she could stand between his knees and he could wrap his arms around her hips. He propped his chin onto her stomach and peered up at her. In return, she ran her fingers over the top of his head, brushing his hair back over and over.
The last six months with her had been incredible. She was everything he wanted and more than he deserved. And if she was pregnant... well, then they knew what the next chapter of their relationship would be focused on.
When she let her gaze meet his, he was surprised to find real worry in her green eyes. “We’d be okay, right?”
He sat back so he could see her more clearly, so he was certain she could see the sincerity in his expression when he said, “Ceelee, whatever that test says, we’ll be more than fine.”
She drew a breath as she nodded, her eyes skirting away in that way they did when she had a lot of thoughts running through her head—or when a spirit was trying to get her attention. But the house was runed, so he knew that wasn’t it.
“
How late are you?” he asked, trying to tease out what had her so stressed about it. Was it that she was certain of the result? Or uncertain of what she wanted the result to be? If it was the latter, he could relate.
Six months together was a damn short relationship to be building a family, but then they hadn’t really been together for only six months. She’d been his everything for a year before that. And he’d be lying if he didn’t admit there was some quiet, giddy part of him that hoped the test was positive. Even while the louder, more logical part knew the smarter wish to make was for a negative result.
He didn’t know how to be dad. He’d never even had one.
She shrugged. “Pretty late.”
Last time had only been a couple of days, but still—she was on birth control. They had nothing to worry about.
“It’s probably fine,” she said.
“You’re probably right,” he replied with a smile he hoped showed his love for her and not his nerves.
Her phone chimed from where it was sitting on the counter beside the innocuous white stick and Scott’s heart flew into his throat.
Cecily spun around and tapped the screen of her phone. Then she snatched the pregnancy test from the counter—but stopped before turning it over in her hands.
“You do it.” She shoved the thing at him. “I can’t.”
He gave a quiet laugh—at her delivery, more than what she’d actually said—as he stood from where he’d been perched on the side of the tub and took the short plastic wand from her.
His heart rate stepped up a notch when it touched his fingers. It was heavier than he’d expected it to be. He flipped the thing over, ready to tell her it was negative. Ready to see that single line.
“Oh.” His heart tripped.
There were two lines.
He looked up to see Cecily’s wide eyes.
She covered her mouth with her hands. “Are we?”
Scott wasn’t sure if he was laughing or crying as he nodded, feeling a huge grin spread across his face. “We are. Holy shit, Cecily. You’re pregnant.”
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