Chapter 5
You put a spell on me
E
The darkness has yet to pull me back into oblivion. I can’t remember the last time I was able to focus on something for a meaningful amount of time.
Max pauses outside her bedroom and tugs on the elastic holding her French braid before stowing it around her wrist. “Give me a minute, I’m going to change. Then we can break into Mabel’s attic.”
Not waiting for an answer, she enters her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
She said we. She asked for my help and is making plans with me as though it makes perfect sense.
She’s the first person to treat me like I’m not some useless shadow.
Mabel and I would talk for a couple of minutes here and there, but she never asked me for anything. Never asked questions about my past.
Max does. She acts like I matter, like I’m more than a whisper caught between this world and the next.
Her attention is the lifeline I didn’t know I craved, and every word she throws my way pulls me a little further from the void.
I float through her bedroom door out of instinct to keep her close, afraid to disappear if she’s not near.
It’s intrusive, but ghosts don’t feel much remorse about stalking the living. It’s our only pleasure in death.
Max steps out of the plaid skirt, white shirt, and nylons she slept in, revealing two matching pieces of black lace.
Two things happen at once: first, a twinge of guilt pinches my chest. It’s wild because guilt isn’t an emotion I’m used to.
Second, my heart picks up. Her long, creamy thighs are exposed, and rays of sunlight from the window caress the side of her leg.
The network of freckles scattered across her chest is mesmerizing, the darker peaks of her breasts visible through the lace.
My mouth dries up, my body tingling with need. I want to lose myself in those bruised lips, to kiss them until she feels safe and whole again.
Oblivious of my treachery, she pulls on a pair of sweatpants and throws a loose-fitted button-down shirt over her bare shoulders.
With a wince, she pats her black-and-blue lip. Her fingers tremble along the edges of the swelling, tracing the tender skin as though testing its limits. Then, with a sudden, almost defiant motion, she uncaps her red lipstick and paints right over the mark.
My heart still bleeds that she should suffer at all.
I wish I could have done more to protect her last night.
I used to be able to move little things like the remote, the drapes, or a door handle if I concentrated hard enough.
And if I did it once, it means I could do it again.
When those monsters return, I’ll find a way to scare them off.
I’ll push the limits of death further than ever before.
It’s more than attraction. It’s instinct.
A primal, unshakable urge to protect her, even from the smallest discomfort.
If I had a body, I’d stand between her and every shadow, every draft of cold air, every monster.
That voice on the phone, her fiancé, as she calls him…
Where is he? She’s beaten and bleeding. If he truly deserved her, if he loved her the way she should be loved, he’d be here.
If he were her true mate, she wouldn’t have to lie to him.
I can’t stop watching her, cataloging every shift of her body, every breath she takes. She unravels her braid with her fingers and gathers her red mane on the top of her head in a messy bun. The movement comes easy and without thought, and I can tell she’s done the same exact thing countless times.
Whatever’s left of me is hers to command. And I’ll protect her from evil monsters and inconsiderate fiancés, whether she wants me to or not.
I drift back to the hallway before she comes out. Her cheeks are red, her eyes sparkling as she hikes the sleeves of her checkered shirt past her elbows. “Alright, let’s do this.”
“Aren’t you afraid of ghosts?” I ask as we climb the stairs to the third floor and into the narrow corridor leading to Mabel’s bedroom.
She titters on the balls of her bare toes. “Should I be afraid of you?”
“No, but you’re the first person I’ve ever met—besides Devi and Mabel—who didn’t run away screaming as soon as I made my presence known. It’s a nice change of pace.”
“I’m a witch. We know ghosts walk this earth. Any witch would have acted the same,” she says, as though anyone who believes in spirits would behave as she does, but that’s simply not true.
“No, you’re special.”
The blush of her cheeks deepens, but she grimaces in an overtly goofy way, obviously trying to make light of it. “Enough flirting. Go and tell me what’s up there.”
I’ve never ventured into the attic, though I’m not sure why.
Crimson symbols crawl across the walls, painted in wide scarlet strokes. Wooden crates are stacked to the rafters beside a heavy desk strewn with parchments. At the center rests a book embossed with an upside-down scarlet tree. Its roots and branches stretch to form a perfect circle.
Candles crowd the desk and shelves, wax draped and hardened along their sides. A large map lies unrolled on the floor, its corners pinned by books and candle stubs, as though the old witch had been trying to chart not only the Fae Continent, but the hidden spaces between worlds.
This isn’t just an attic, it’s a war room.
Light leaks through a round stained-glass medallion window that looks out onto the cobbled street below.
A giant, gnarly family tree sprawls across the inside wall, painted in rich vermilion and gold, its limbs stretching from floor to ceiling, its canopy spanning the entire length of the gabled roof.
Against the window lies a smooth white mask laid with rubies of all shapes and sizes. Its eyeless, full-face blank expression is almost human, almost alive. It stares back at me with a directness that sends a shiver through my incorporeal form.
In the corner hangs a strange, black mirror.
Not made of glass, but framed by an oval-shaped slab of polished onyx.
Its surface ripples in the most alluring and ominous fashion, and I find myself inexplicably drawn to it.
Like I might stare into its inky abyss and see myself, but when I float over to it, the dark void doesn’t reflect anything back at me.
Max’s voice coaxes me back to reality. “Can you see the trapdoor?”
On the floor, a single square hatch is wedged shut with a raven-pommeled cane, preventing Max from opening it from below. I hover closer to the hatch. “Yes.”
“Can you open it?”
I try to dislodge the cane blocking the way, but my invisible fingers pass idly through it. The elation that had built in my chest evaporates.
“No.”
“Then describe what you see.”
I give a faithful representation of the attic before floating back down.
“Fuck, I really need to get up there,” Max growls.
Both frustration and excitement flush her face, and I drift closer, greedy for the spark she carries, the life burning in her green eyes.
Her gaze follows me without quite seeing, a telltale sign she can sense when I’m near.
I should be more careful going forward about curling up beside her again at night or spying on her while she changes.
Bummer.
“What kind of powers do you have? Can you make the wind blow or levitate things?” she asks.
“I used to be able to touch and pick up small objects,” I admit. “But it’s been years…”
Her voice softens. “How old are you?”
I can’t answer that. Not really. No more than I can answer any personal question.
Max tilts her head. “Let me guess. You don’t remember.” A laugh slips out, half grimace, half amusement. “Silly me. I should stop asking the same dumb questions, or you’ll hate me before dinner.”
“I don’t mind,” I say too quickly. “The first decade I remember is the eighties, and I was already a ghost by then.”
“So…” she trails off, “you’re at least seventy-ish.”
The figure throws me for a loop. Seventy. Not ideal, given that I appear to be developing a slightly obsessive—possibly unhealthy—crush on Max.
“How do you figure that?” I croak.
“Well, you don’t sound like a kid,” she says. “So you must’ve been at least twenty when you died.”
I turn it back on her. “And how old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
I’ve watched enough movies to know that’s not a good age gap, and it’s vain, but I can’t let her picture me as an old man.
“Do ghosts still age after they die?” I muse.
She winks in my general direction. “I don’t think so. For all we know, I might be older than you.”
“Death does wonders for the complexion. No wrinkles. No calories,” I joke.
“No student loans,” she adds with a goofy grin.
“Truly the dream,” I say. “Eternal youth and free rent in exchange for your corporeal form. You interested?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Hard pass. I like my body where it is.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “I miss having knees. And elbows. All excellent, cruelly underrated body parts.”
She snorts, then presses her lips together, rubbing her palms against her thighs. “Alright. Enough nonsense.” Her voice firms. “Let’s do a séance. Strengthen your presence on this plane, and we’ll see if that helps you get that pesky cane out of the way.”
My heart hammers. “A séance?”
“Didn’t Mabel ever try to commune with you?”
The word suggests some sort of intimate exchange, and my throat dries up. I can’t remember the last time I felt thirsty, or contemplated the need for water or food, but I do wish I had a glass of Nether cider at hand to drown out my frazzled heartbeat.
Max skips to the kitchen and comes back with two bulging bags under her arms. She empties them onto the floor with a focused gleam in her eyes, then stoops to pour a ring of coarse salt around herself.
Once the circle is complete, she kneels inside it, arranging candles with careful precision, humming quietly.
Settling in a lotus position, she rests a thick, leather-bound book on her knees and flips through brittle pages until she finds a section marked “Glimpses of Otherworldly Planes.”