Chapter 18
Aiden
Sylvie’s snoring quietly in my arms, and all I can do is hold onto her and doze.
I’m not quite sure how tonight happened.
Not that I regret it, not one bit. She’s fucking… unbelievable. Sexy and funny all at once, wide-eyed and hilarious in equal turns.
But this… sex with Sylvie—it wasn’t something I’d planned on, though I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want her.
Where do we go from here?
Where do I go?
I blink up at the lazily spinning fan and all I know for sure is right now, I don’t want to go anywhere.
I want to hold onto Sylvie, and her shining bright smiles, as long as she’ll let me.
Which is stupid.
It has to be stupid, right, to think that she and I could have more than… whatever this was? We live in the same small town, where everyone is in everyone else’s business all the time. Hell, I’m in her business, too, considering the event I have half-planned.
Still.
Sylvie’s soft, catlike snores make me smile, and so does the expanse of smooth, freckled skin under my hands. The mint and herb smell of her skin and hair, and the memory of the way she tasted on my tongue, the way she fell apart around me—
I don’t think I’m ready to give that up.
There will be consequences.
There always are, with women, especially in a place like New Hopewell.
I should slip out of bed like I usually do and sleep in my own house, where it’s uncomplicated and easy and… I’m alone.
Alone.
Sylvie sighs in her sleep, turning slightly, her little snores turning to deep, soothing breathing. Her lips and cheeks are smushed against my arm, her exhalations somehow both tickling my skin and comforting all at once.
I don’t want to wake her up, especially since she’s so comfortable.
I don’t get out of her bed.
And I don’t go home.
* * *
I wake to full dark, my heart slamming against my chest, not sure of where I am.
Next to me, Sylvie’s stiff and she lets out a shaky breath that has me on full alert.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice groggy with sleep.
“Nothing,” she says, and it’s extremely clear from the strained quality of that one word that something is very, very wrong.
The room’s ice-cold. My breath clouds in front of my face and I gather Sylvie closer reflexively.
“Did the air conditioner… break?” I sound as confused as I feel. Usually if the AC breaks, that means you’re waking up sweating your balls off, not to clouds of frost.
I squint at the icy bay window.
It shouldn’t be that cold outside.
“You need to get your ass out of bed and fix this, Sylvie,” a high-pitched woman’s voice hisses from outside the bedroom door.
“Who the hell is that? Do you have a roommate?”
“Ah, not really a roommate.” Sylvie sucks in a breath as she throws the sheets off herself, launching out of my arms with a surprising strength. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I can’t help ogling her. Even in the dark—and with my balls near shriveled from the cold—she’s stunning.
Carnal satisfaction at the night we spent together has me smiling—right up until something crashes in one of the rooms below us.
“Hurry the fuck up, witch,” the voice outside the door says. “I need as much firepower as you can pack.”
“Firepower?” I wipe at my eyes, like that’s going to help any of this make more sense. “Witch?”
“Uh, you’re dreaming.” Sylvie tosses on some clothes, her eyes huge in her face. “Go back to sleep.”
“Firepower?” I repeat. “Are you going to shoot an intruder?”
“Pshhh,” she says, laughing. “This is such a weird dream you’re having, huh?”
Surreptitiously, I pinch the inside of my arm, just in case. Yep. I’m awake.
“I’m not dreaming, Sylvie. What is going on?”
“You’re going to wish you were dreaming.” She tugs a shirt over the boobs I’m quickly becoming obsessed with, and when they vanish, it’s like a spell’s been broken.
Shaking myself mentally, I get out of bed, the floor like ice on my bare feet. “It’s freezing.”
“That’s what happens when you’ve got an evil ghost problem,” the voice outside the door says.
Sylvie’s throwing her hair up into a messy bun and I shove my legs back into my jeans, then fling the door wide open.
No one is there, save for Sylvie’s tiny black cat at the top of the stairs.
Movement catches my attention out of the corner of my eye, and I tilt my head at the small window on the landing. Ice streaks up the glass, frost cobwebbing out until the warm glow of streetlamps lining the sidewalk below is totally blotted out.
Hair stands up on the back of my neck, because that frost?
It’s not outside.
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers,” the same high-pitched voice says from near my feet.
Where the cat pads around, tail twitching back and forth.
I swallow hard.
How many beers did I drink? Two? Three?
I didn’t feel drunk. I still don’t feel drunk.
But that cat…
“The cat talks,” Sylvie says on a sigh, her nose crinkled as she blinks up at me owlishly. “I know you said you don’t believe in ghosts, but if you don’t want to stay up here, you’re about to have a rude awakening.”
I try to respond, but only manage to make a creaky noise in response.
Maybe I am still dreaming.
“Ha! Look at his face. I once ate a mouse that looked like that right when I caught him.” The cat sits on her haunches, still eyeing me speculatively.
“That’s really gross, Prudence.”
“What’s gross is that you two don’t have fur and still manage to get it on,” the cat says.
I try to inhale.
“You’re not losing your mind,” Sylvie tells me, her hand light on my wrist. “I had the same reaction—”
“And you fell on your ass about twenty times.”
“Twice, Prudence, Jesus,” Sylvie snaps. “If you want to get back in bed and just go to sleep, that’s probably for the best.” Her voice is softer, regretful as she addresses me.
I shake my head, my eyes wide. “If you think I’m going to be able to go back to sleep while you might be in danger, you are dead wrong.”
The idea of her facing down some… thing by herself makes my heart speed up. She’s not dealing with this… intruder or whatever alone. Not on my watch.
I don’t admit to myself that hearing and seeing a cat talk would probably be just as likely to keep me from sleep.
Ghosts notwithstanding.
Sylvie is grinning up at me, that sunshine smile warm despite the frigid air all around.
“Come on then, you two idiots. It’s the salt line that’s the problem, by the way,” the cat says, as if any of that makes any sense at all.
“Shit,” Sylvie says. “We must have messed it up when we came inside.”
I suppose it makes sense to her.
“Hold hands,” the cat instructs, and Sylvie and I obey, as if we’ve been taking orders from talking animals our whole lives. “And Aiden,” the cat fixes me with its green, otherworldly eyes. “Seeing is believing, but trust nothing you’re shown.”
With that, the cat bounds down the stairs and Sylvie gives my hand a squeeze.
“If it helps, I’m new to this, too.”
I grimace, and hand in hand, we follow the cat to the second story living area—which looks nothing like I remember it.