Chapter 9
Sable
Apart from the obvious—that being dead sucks—I’ve learned several things about ghosts since I died five nights ago.
First, they can still sense temperature—namely, the perpetual cold that never leaves my bones.
Second, with practice and the progression of time, a ghost can develop physical strength. It’s an exhausting, conscious effort though—one that’s slowly getting easier to manage.
Third, the movies don’t know shit because apparently, I can conjure things out of my ghostly being.
For example, yesterday, I was sitting in the attic, angry and freezing, glaring at my sweater wishing I’d had the foresight to wear the matching beanie, then the aforesaid sweater morphed into the beanie I pictured.
I worked up a goddamn sweat trying to turn it back into a thicker version of my knitted red-and-black striped sweater. Then almost passed out from sacrificing my bra, turning it into a puffer jacket.
But woe is me, it didn’t do jack. I’m just as cold as I was without the coat.
Fourth, and most inconveniently, ghosts require sleep—which feels like the biggest scam.
I’ll sleep when I’m dead—yeah. I’ve been doing a fucking lot of that.
On the first night, I slept for at least fourteen hours, and I was literally and figuratively dead to the world that entire time.
Not even the sunlight shining in my eyes woke me.
At least it’s dreamless.
This time, when I’m pulled from the sweet lull of sleep, there’s an ominous presence pushing at the back of my mind, quickly confirmed by an odd, focused breeze and the clatter of a pebble. Still, it feels distant. That in-between that’s cold and dull, and there’s that sound.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It’s not something I ever felt or heard the times I was dragged into this shed by Ella, who was trying to force me to develop a green thumb so we had something in common.
It never happened, but I’d still follow her in here to play henchmen or carry all the supplies she needed out into the garden, then sit on my phone as she…
gardened, I guess. We’d stay until someone yelled at us to come inside.
They’re still some of my fondest memories. Being able to sit in silence, perfectly content, or listening to Ella chat away about her life, which always seemed so much larger than mine.
I wanted to be like her. But before then, I hated her. Hated that she was better, smarter, perfect in every way. Hated that my parents loved her more. But then I grew up and realized my sister wasn’t my enemy, and that teenage hormones are a bitch.
Another weird breeze flies through my stomach.
One after the other, I peel my eyes open. It takes far longer than it should for consciousness to creep through me. Finally, I’m able to make out the morning light streaming through the moldy windows and the man leaning against the front door of the shed.
Not a man, a demon—a fucking cunt.
I groan, throwing my arm over my eyes to block out his face. What the hell does he want? And does he really have to lean against the door like that? It’s criminal for a demon to be attractive, but if I’m going to be cursed to see one face for the rest of eternity, at least it’s not an ugly one.
I glower at the ceiling to avoid looking at him. This isn’t the first time the bastard has woken me up. I thought I’d found a good hiding spot. Guess not.
We’ve been doing the same song and dance since I died, and frankly, I’m over it.
He’ll yell—fix this and break our link. Then I’ll say, I don’t fucking know how to, then scream something about my sister that he conveniently ignores.
He’ll throw out some threats. I’ll parry with barely restrained aggression because you catch more flies with honey or whatever bullshit Ella used to say—but the only thing I’ve attracted is a roach. A life-sized one from Hell, at that.
And then we’ll repeat the whole thing again.
The dickhead throws another pebble at me, except this time it hits me square in the tit instead of flying through me.
“Fuck off,” I snarl, glaring at him. It’s too early in the morning to deal with his bullshit.
The demon’s hair is a little tousled, just like his slightly wrinkled top, and there’s the barest hint of puffiness to his face. What do you know? Satan needs his beauty sleep too.
Cold-blooded murderer aside, it’s painful how attractive the demon looks when he’s probably just rolled out of bed. It adds a ruggedness to him that suits his perpetually dour mood.
Worst yet, Grandma’s grimoire isn’t on him. I’ve been looking for it so I can finish what I started—or figure out a way to get out of here. Maybe trotting away into the afterlife would be a great alternative too.
I’ve seen enough, experienced too much, and I’m simply done.
Fingers crossed I don’t end up in Hell, forced to endure more of these fuckers.
Actually, who knows? The grimoire might tell me how to send his ass back to Hell and far away from me. None of it is in English, but there might be a word or two that’ll look familiar.
“Morning, dead girl.”
The Devil has a deep, raspy, sex-worthy morning voice too, because of course Lucifer is so cruel that those three irritating words could rain goosebumps over my flesh.
This is all… unfamiliar. Not just the whole ghost thing but feeling something other than emptiness or sadness about myself.
The irritation is nice. As is being able to recognize beauty in something dark and feel that foreign sensation of desire unfurl low in my stomach when all I want to do is stab him with something sharp.
He has the face of someone you know is no good. Someone you’d bring home because you know your parents wouldn’t approve, but you do it anyway because you’ve become addicted to the dark side.
Bright baby-blue eyes, a tall, lean frame, and a voice that could be used to lead a boardroom or to command an army of misfits to war. It’s alluring, maddening, and confusing all in one.
Huffing, I pull myself onto my feet. “My name’s Sable.”
If we’re stuck together for the foreseeable future, we might as well get to know each other on a first name basis. That way I can more accurately cuss him out because my nerves can only be worn so thin, and he can stop calling me dead something.
The only silver lining I’ve been able to find in this entire situation is that at least the asshole hasn’t tried killing me again.
“Sable.” The demon tests it out, and I watch his lips as they form each letter.
The sound of my name on his tongue makes something flip in my chest. For a second, I think my corporeal heart has started beating again. Warmth spreads through my veins, heating me from the inside out, and I almost stagger back from the sound.
I think the last time I heard anyone say my name was the week before Ella died. That was almost a year ago. That the person to break the spell is the man who murdered me is a depressing realization.
I’m torn between wanting him to say it again or keep my name from his mouth because hearing it has made me feel human for the first time in years.
But, of course, the demon ruins the moment.
“I prefer dead thing.” He throws another pebble at me.
“Stop it,” I snap, batting it away even though it goes right through me.
He shrugs.
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my rapidly rising irritation. How is it possible for one person to be so beautiful yet piss me off so thoroughly?
“What’s your name?”
He scowls at my question. Fuck it. The gloves can come off.
I can’t get any deader, and his little attempt at tying me up didn’t exactly work. If he had his way, I’m sure I’d be locked up in the basement. All my practice won’t be for nothing either. If he tries to touch me, he’ll fly right through me.
We narrow our eyes at each other as if he’s seen the switch flick in my head.
“Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t care. Asshole has a nice ring to it. I’ll stick with that.”
The cunt’s eyes darken, and he tips his head to the side tauntingly. Fear zips down my spine, but I sink my nails into the anger coursing through my system and turn it into a weapon; into armor.
“You know the difference between us?” His voice sounds too loud in the enclosed space. It echoes against the stone floors and disturbs the mothballs floating between us. “You speak even when I don’t care to listen.”
In a single sentence, he’s transported me back to the manor, to being a child again, listening to my parents tell me they have no interest in hearing the words that come out of my mouth.
I grit my teeth. “And yet here you stand. Unwanted.”
“Yet invited.”
“It doesn’t count if you’ve taken someone else’s invitation. You’re free to go back to burning in the flaming pits and killing puppies.”
“Close. I tortured people like you instead,” he states plainly.
That’s only moderately mortifying. My skin crawls with the urge to run. The only thing keeping me in my spot is the reminder that I can’t escape.
“Offering information I never asked for. That’s rather hypocritical of you.” My lips twitch into a sneer. I neither see the point nor the benefit of this conversation—unless, of course, his plan is simply to harass me, which would be on brand for him.
He scowls in response. It’s disturbing how good he looks when doing such a foul thing. “Do you keep speaking because you like the sound of your own voice?”
Of all the things he’s said, that takes me most by surprise. This is the most I’ve spoken outside of work since Ella died. In fact, it might be the longest conversation I’ve had in the past year.
When Megan came round to “check in,” the entire interaction would involve her talking at me. She’d usually throw something on the TV to fill the silence. Not for lack of trying—I simply had nothing to say.