20
Tristan
At night, I sit outside her door.
Before I met Demi St. James, I considered myself a pretty normal guy.
A little shy, a little introverted, but normal.
When I was alive, I dated women and was perfectly relaxed about it.
I think I was even in love a few times back then.
Never once did I feel compelled to follow a woman like a dog, to hang my entire existence off the sound of her voice or the passing warmth of her attention.
But now, if Demi asked me to crawl across the floor, I’d be on my hands and knees for her without a second thought.
The truth is, I like it. I like being inspired to devotion, so full of want for this woman.
I haven’t felt this alive since I died, and maybe even long before that.
The loneliness that’s plagued me for decades feels…
less now. And it’s not just because I’m living with a woman, it’s because I’m living with this woman.
She makes everything better, so of course I want to be near her as often as I can.
Who in their right mind would deny themselves something as precious as peace in someone’s presence?
Still, if I were an outsider looking in on us, watching the way I follow her around, I might find it a little creepy.
Tonight, I’m sitting outside her bedroom as she sleeps.
Her door is open a crack, big enough for her cat to come and go.
Mittens rotates between sleeping in Demi’s bed and curling up near me every couple of hours.
The big cat is sitting in the hallway, watching me with her bright green eyes as I page through the spell book Demi brought home from the apothecary.
I’ve seen Demi curled up reading this book here and there, always with a pinch between her brows like she can’t quite find what she’s looking for.
It’s an old book, that much is for certain. I can tell just by the worn cover and the smell of the paper. Beyond that, I can feel how old it is, and I can feel that it’s more than just a book.
As I turn the pages, I feel a tingle in my fingertips that could either be a welcome or a warning. I’ve read enough books to know that most of them don’t feel like this. Demi’s spicy books feel like books, and this one feels like something I should perhaps not be touching.
One of the first things that happens to a person when they die is the sudden knowledge that comes with leaving the living.
The truth is, the world is so much bigger, so much more beautiful and terrible than mortals will ever know.
There is the world they see, but then there is the real ?world.
The worlds within their world, and without.
The layers of reality. Shades of gray in universal truths that the living can only see as black and white.
It is not fact versus fiction, but rather the two living as one. It is not science versus spirit; it’s both and then some.
So, it’s not surprising that this book has magic and power; what’s surprising is the weight of it. I’ve never felt anything like it before. I wonder if Demi can feel it, just how much magic is within these pages .
My fingers turn to a section of chapters toward the end of the book. The title page, in looping Old English font, reads: “Spirit Magic and Necromancy.”
A chill moves through me as the wind howls outside. Somewhere on the east side of the Manor, I can hear tree branches scraping against the windows. In her bed, Demi stirs.
After the title page, there’s an index of the spell types in this section, along with their page numbers.
Summoning
Divination
Manipulation
Reanimation
Resurrection
Binding
Sacrifice
Possession
Sending
The wind howls again, and the Manor groans in response, creaking and settling.
Mittens meows and folds herself down on her haunches into a loaf near my feet.
I lean forward and pet her. It’s not exactly a pet, though, because like with all living things, my hand sort of passes through her.
But she makes a little trilling noise and closes her eyes, so whatever she can feel must be nice enough.
I keep looking at the last spell type, the word printed there. Sending. It makes me feel strange, because even before I shuffle the thin paper to the corresponding page number, I know what I’m going to find there.
Another pretty title page, with Old English typeface and filigree along the borders.
Spells for Sending :
To the Afterlife, To the Underworld, To the In-Between, To Oblivion.
There may have been days throughout the years that were so dark and quiet that I wished for nothing more than oblivion.
I’ve spent a long time wondering why I was left behind, never invited to whatever place lies beyond the veil, but I made my peace with it long ago.
Still, the winters are long in New England, and the loneliness can become so deep it feels like drowning.
So in my weakest moments, yes, I’ve imagined release.
I’ve imagined being gone for good, for real.
But now, with a woman who feels like summer in my house, who can see me, words like Sending ?and Oblivion ?feel like heartbreak. No, I don’t want to be sent. I want to stay. With her.
“Tristan?” Demi’s voice is soft and raspy with sleep.
She’s standing in the doorway, squinting at the hallway light.
Ever since that first night, I never turn off the lights she leaves on before bed.
I never want to see her afraid like that again.
Her legs are bare; she’s wearing yet another one of her oversized vintage band shirts.
Heart, this time. Those shirts drive me crazy.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” I ask gently, looking up at her from where I sit on the floor—fighting for my life to keep from looking up her shirt or fixating on the way the hem brushes against her soft thighs.
The way the threadbare fabric curves across her chest makes it obvious there’s no bra underneath.
“No, I don’t think it was you. It was… a feeling?” She looks down at me, at the open book in my hands, as she unbinds her hair from its ponytail .
“What kind of feeling?”
Demi shrugs and steps over my legs before pressing her back to the wall and sliding down to the floor next to me. Mittens meows and moves over to drape herself across Demi’s legs. I can feel the heat radiating from her sleep-warmed skin.
“Just a feeling. Like a storm, or like I forgot to do something important. Whatever it was, it was big enough to wake me up.”
“It’s late,” I say.
“The witching hour,” she replies, leaning toward me and tilting her head.
I realize that she’s trying to lay her head on my shoulder, but there’s nothing solid there for her to rest on.
God, that hurts. What I wouldn’t give for her head on my shoulder, to kiss the top of it while it’s there.
For a split second, I can tell she feels it, too.
Her mistake. The fact that she forgot what I am and mistook me for someone alive, someone real.
She hesitates; I can feel it, but instead of sitting back up, she stays where she is and pretends.
I don’t know if it’s for my sake or for hers, but she positions herself in a way that can’t be comfortable, just to pretend to lay her head on my shoulder.
So, I pretend with her and press a kiss into her hair.
I can’t really feel it, and neither can she, but she shivers anyway. I never want this moment to end.
“‘Spells for sending’? A little light reading tonight?” she asks.
“Needed a palate cleanser from all the romance you’ve been bringing home.”
Demi chuckles. “Too spicy? ”
“Never,” I say with a head shake and a smile I can’t contain.
“I knew it. You’re a smut slut just like me.”
“And proud of it.”
“So, what made you choose the witch book tonight?”
“Curiosity,” I say.
Demi reaches over and runs her fingers over the words on the page. I watch as the hairs on her arm rise and stand on end. That answers my question about whether she can feel the book's power, too.
“Why this chapter, Tristan?” she asks, the usual amusement in her voice replaced by something a little more serious.
“Curiosity,” I say again.
“Is this what you want? To be sent?”
“No, not at all. I like it here,” I say. Then I gather my courage and finish the thought, “With you.”
“With me?”
She sits up and looks at me, her crystal blue eyes searching mine.
I don’t know what she’s looking for. Maybe the truth, maybe a lie, maybe a reason why I said it.
She’s not just looking at me, she’s looking ?into ?me, and I sit there, powerless under her attention.
There’s nothing I can give her except my truth.
“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a very long time, Demi,” I say.
Her gaze flicks down to my mouth, then back up again. It’s a split second at most, but I clock it, and then I hold on to the memory of it with clenched fists.
“If we’d met when you were alive, would you have asked me out?
I would have asked you to marry me .
“Immediately, yes,” I reply instead.
The smile she gives my response beams as bright as summer. “What would a date with Tristan Beaumont in the seventies look like?”
“Hmm, well, that depends. Are we talking first date?” I ask with a smirk.
“Sure, let’s start there.”
“I’d probably be nervous, so—”
“Why would you be nervous?” she cuts me off.
“Have you looked in the mirror?” Demi rolls her eyes, but that familiar rosy hue lights up her cheekbones. “Can I finish?”
“By all means, keep going.”
“I’d be nervous because you're you , so for a first date, I’d probably take you to the drive-in to see a movie. That way, I could sit close to you but not worry too much about saying the wrong thing because we’d be watching the movie.”
“Okay, cute. What movie?”
“You’re a spooky girl, so a horror movie. Maybe Carrie ?or The Omen. ”
“Classics. What are we having for snacks?”
“Whatever you want, my treat.”
She looks gleeful as she thinks for a moment. I like playing this game.
“Popcorn, obviously. Some kind of chocolate. Maybe a hot dog, since it doesn’t sound like we went to dinner first. Cherry Coke…”
“I have bad news,” I say with faux concern.
“Oh, no.”
“We didn’t have canned Cherry Coke in the seventies.”
“What?!” she snaps. “That’s goddamn barbaric. ”
“But you could get cherry syrup in your Coke at restaurants.”
“Fine,” she drawls. “I’ll allow it. We’ll pretend the drive-in made me an old-school Cherry Coke.”
“Great. As long as you’re happy.”
“So far, so good. Are we in the front seat, or the back?”
“On a first date?”
Demi grins. “Am I making you nervous ?” She lowers her voice when she says it, so the words rumble in her throat and vibrate in the space between us.
The sound of her teasing does something to me.
Makes me forget my own name. Makes me want to wrap her pretty hair around my fist, pull her close, and teach her a thing or two about teasing.
I don’t trust my voice, so I clear my throat, then manage to say, “Always.”
“So, front or back seat?”
I lean toward her, closer and closer. “Back seat, hatchback up, a few blankets laid out in case you get cold.”
“Too nervous for conversation, but not for cuddling?”
“Exactly.”
“Would you make a move on me on the first date?” she asks.
God, you have no idea.
“If you let me.”
“And if I let you? What would your move be?” Demi licks her lips, drags her teeth across the bottom one.
There it is again, the charge between us. Hot, electric, heavy. If only I could put my hands on her, ease the weight of our tension, show her where all this want comes from.
“I’d wait until you were cold or uncomfortable, then tell you that you could curl up next to me, lay your head on my chest,” I say, and the way her long eyelashes flutter tells me that she’s imagining it right along with me.
“I’d rub my hand up and down your back, until your shirt rode up just enough that I could touch your skin. ”
Demi sighs, and I feel it in my chest. The blush on her cheeks blooms darker. She bites her lip again.
“I bet your skin is really soft,” I say quietly, just above a whisper, my voice deep and low.
She nods. “I bet your hands are just the right amount of rough.” ????????I nod, entranced. “Maybe you’d move a little closer.”
“Maybe your hand would sneak a little further up my shirt,” she murmurs, her eyes locked on mine.
“Maybe your breath would be on my neck,” I say.
“Maybe you’d kiss me.”
“Oh, I’d definitely fucking kiss you,” I reply in a tone that sounds like a growl.
Somehow, we’ve leaned even closer to each other, our mouths inches apart. Drawn together on a magnetic pull.
“I bet you’re a good kisser,” she whispers.
“I bet you are, too,” I say.
Jesus, if I could, I would kiss her right now.
Fuck it.
I lean closer still and brush my mouth across hers, and I pretend. I can’t feel it, and she can’t feel it, but there’s nothing else I could possibly do in this moment than try .
Demi gives me a shaky gasp, and then she’s pretending, too.
She closes her eyes as if maybe by doing so, it might feel a little more real.
So, I follow her lead and close my eyes too.
I can only feel the warmth of her breath, smell the perfume on her skin.
But when I close my eyes, I can imagine what her kiss might feel like.
I know my imagination pales in comparison to her real kiss, but I’m sure it’s soft and warm, with tongue and teeth, and enough passion that it could burn me alive. Again.
After a moment, Demi pulls away, and it’s like the spell is broken. When I open my eyes, she’s flushed, and her eyes are full of heat and some other emotion I can’t quite discern. Her chest rises and falls with uneven breath, and I can almost hear her heart racing.
“If only,” she whispers.
“If only.”
Demi swallows hard. Blinks a few times. Takes a deep breath. “It’s late.”
“You should get some sleep,” I reply.
She stands and steps over me, Mittens following close at her heels as she goes back to her room.
From the doorway, she turns and looks down at me where I sit. Offers me a smile when I want so much more.
“Good night, Tristan,” she says.
“Good night, Demi.”