Chapter 10
Ifeel guilty.
It’s been a few days since the restaurant and the onset of a strange, supernaturally charged storm that hasn’t let up for one moment, and I still haven’t responded to Tristan’s rambling voice note.
The rain hammers at the kitchen window as I pick up my mug and take a sip. With the storm howling while I’m cosy and warm inside, wrapped up in my pyjamas and cardigan, my mind drifts. Before I consciously register the path of my thoughts, I’m mulling over dark eyes and a sexy smile.
I huff angrily at myself. For god’s sake, I’m acting like a teenager with my first crush. Turning away from the window and the moody precipitation, I go into the living room to search for the TV remote. Background noise is what I need, something to distract me from thinking about the other night.
I’m mortified on so many levels. Losing control of my abilities in front of essentially a load of strangers makes my stomach clench, but what I did in the shower after while thinking of Sam makes the tips of my ears burn and my checks heat.
I still can’t believe I masturbated to the thought of a man I had only just met.
I blame all the supernatural energy I must have absorbed from the storm for my wayward erection.
As for thinking about Sam, well, that was a fluke.
There was obviously a lack of inspirational material, so he was the first thing I latched onto.
Maybe I should read a romance novel or watch a film or something—in case it happens again.
I should have options.
Spying the remote on the arm of the sofa, I scoop it up and switch the TV on. Flicking through the limited channels I pause on the weather report.
“Three days in and Storm Nigel is showing no signs of letting up its grip on the city. Limited services have been restored to the DLR, but flooding has been severe. The Met Office is keeping amber weather alerts in effect. Londoners are being warned not to travel unless necessary. We’ll keep you updated as the storm progresses, but experts says we may be in for more extreme weather ahead. ”
When Herne had told me a storm was coming, I’d thought he meant metaphorically, but this? Not only do I have no idea what could’ve caused this, but I am at a complete loss as to what its purpose is unless it’s to cause as much chaos as possible.
I wish I had someone to talk to about it. I know I’ve got my dads, but I don’t want them to worry and I certainly don’t want them drawn into this mess, at least not until I can figure out what’s going on.
Coming to London was supposed to be about meeting my mother and getting answers about who I am and who I come from, not…this. Supernatural storms, spiritual possessions, sexy dark-haired—
Nope.
Cutting that thought off with a huff of annoyance, I head back into the kitchenette and rinse out my now empty cup.
My mind drifts to Tristan’s invitation to stop by for coffee.
Did he actually mean it, or was he just being nice after my mini freakout at the restaurant?
After all, it’s been a few days now and he hasn’t followed up, so maybe it was just one of those things people say in passing that they don’t really mean, like oh, we must do lunch sometime or I’ll call you when I’m free or yes, of course I want to be your friend…
I sigh. Sometimes I hate being me.
Perhaps I should go get dressed. I don’t need to open the shop today.
The customer appointments I had have all been cancelled due to the weather, and I can’t imagine I’ll get many walk-ins, not with the rain hammering down and no sign of it letting up anytime soon.
But regardless, I don’t like being idle.
It just gives my brain more time to annoy me by stewing over every random thought of Tristan and his odd assortment of friends.
Intending to head to my bedroom, I turn around and let out an embarrassing eep when I find myself face-to-face with a statuesque, and rather incorporeal drag queen.
“Holy goddess,” I gasp, pressing my hand to my chest to calm my racing heart. I stare at the ghost who’d been previously trapped in Tristan’s body.
She smirks and flips her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Not the first time I’ve been called a goddess, and I must say it never gets old.”
“I didn’t mean–” I break off and exhale loudly. “Dusty, isn’t it?” She nods. “What are you doing in my flat? Why aren’t you off somewhere, surgically attached to Tristan?”
“We told you that was a fluke.” She sniffs.
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.” Her gaze drops slowly to my pyjamas, which are, admittedly, a loud, garish lime green and covered in cauldrons and broomsticks. Her brow lifts slowly as her gaze raises to meet mine. “What?” I say defensively. “They were a gift from my dads.”
“Nothing,” she says. “I do appreciate a neon colour palette, and I’m pretty sure you could see that shade from space.”
I lift my hand to pinch the bridge of my nose. A low-grade headache, simmering at the back of my head from lack of sleep thanks to the frequent dreams, is threatening to develop into a full-blown migraine.
“Dusty. What. Do. You. Want?”
“To talk…off the record.”
“What do you mean?” I ask curiously.
“I mean, I don’t want you repeating this conversation to Tristan because he’ll just think I’m interfering.”
“Aren’t you?” This time it’s my brows lifting. “Aren’t you?”
“Marginally, and with the best intentions.” She waves a hand and her fingers, tipped with lethal-looking talons painted a murderous red, sparkle as they catch the light.
“Should I sit down for this conversation?”
“Pfft,” she huffs. “You can tap-dance a fandango if you want as long as I have your attention.”
“You are pretty hard to miss.”
She coos, “That’s very sweet, Red.”
“Not my name.”
“Anyway, Raspberry Ripple.” I roll my eyes but take a seat in the nearest chair. “So, the Upstairs Management told me–”
I raise my hand and she pauses. “The Upstairs Management?”
“You know, the higher powers, the powers that be, whatever you want to call them. They told me that I need to make sure you and Tristan get to know each other.”
“One sentence and yet so many questions,” I mutter, staring at her.
“Listen, Strawberry Shortcake.” She waves her hand again. “How much has Tristan told you?”
“About?”
“Everything. How he came to be able to see dead people, how he and I met.”
“Nothing.” I frown. “Why would he? I barely know him. Other than running into him in Whitechapel and then the pair of you falling into my shop like conjoined twins, I’ve barely spoken to him.”
“Rhubarb Tart, I thought you all went out for dinner?”
“Yes, but that was a huge mistake.” My back stiffens. “I barely got two words out before the storm hit and the power went out. After the vis–” I pause, abruptly realising what I was about to let slip.
“After what?” Dusty’s eyes narrow.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“You can tell me, you know. I do have clearance.”
“You don’t work for the government, do you?” I blink, but she just shrugs.
“You’d be surprised at just how much of the afterlife is bureaucratised.”
I think about it for a moment. “Actually, I probably wouldn’t.”
“I’m a spirit guide,” she announces. “Well…a spirit guide in training,” she amends. I stare at her blankly and she continues. “I was murdered last year at The Rainbow Room in Shoreditch where I performed as a drag queen.”
“I kind of figured that much out.”
“You ever been to The Rainbow Room, Cranberry Muffin?”
“No, I only moved here a month or so ago,” I say peevishly, “and will you stop naming me after red-coloured desserts? My name is Harrison.”
“I know,” she says simply. “Anyway, I was murdered.”
“So you said.”
“This happened to coincide with the moment Tris found out he could see ghosts, and–”
“Wait,” I hold up my hand. “This is a new ability for Tristan? He wasn’t born with the gift?”
“Oh well, actually, he was, apparently. According to his mum, who I met last Christmas because she’s also dead, he used to speak to spirits all the time as a kid, but after she died, he sort of closed that part of himself off and forgot that he could do it.”
“Huh.” I stare at her in interest. “What was the catalyst?”
“The what?”
“The event that triggered his dormant ability?” I ask in fascination.
“Oh, a cocktail.”
“A…cocktail?” I blink. “What the hell was in it?”
“Not the actual cocktail itself, but the ice cube. He accidentally choked and was only technically dead for a minute. Then he was revived by his now super-hot boyfriend Danny, who also happens to be a Scotland Yard detective. Actually, he was the one who was put in charge of my murder investigation. It’s how they met, on the floor of The Crown pub in Hackney.
So really, when you think about it, I’m the reason they fell in love. ”
“And this all really happened? It sounds like a soap.”
“All true, I swear.”
“I don’t even know how to start unpacking all that.”
“It’s easier if you don’t fight it,” she says sagely.
“Just accept it. Anyway.” She blows out a breath.
“Where was I? Oh yes, so my murder was solved. Turns out it was the daughter of a man I’d had a brief affair with.
He was a stage four clinger with a penchant for drag queens, and she was a stage infinity nut-bag serial killer with severe daddy issues…
like Game of Thrones-level daddy issues, if you’re picking up what I’m putting down. ”
“I’d rather not touch it at all,” I say dryly, but she continues her monologue as if I hadn’t spoken at all. I’m beginning to wonder if my participation in this conversation is actually even required.
“So murder solved, then Tris helped me resolve my unfinished business, and ta-dah! I crossed into the light.”
“You did?”
She nods. “At first, it was kinda cool. I partied pretty hard. I mean, I don’t want to name-drop or anything, but Freddie was a scream, George really is that good looking, and Hendrix, dude’s so chill. And that was just the tip of the celeb iceberg.”