Chapter 4
Ishuffle out of the way in the very busy Chinese restaurant. I put in a large takeout order, not sure if I should feel bad about picking up dinner tonight instead of cooking like I had planned. I’ve never been very domestic, and it’s not like I’m in a traditional relationship or anything.
I still don’t know how to classify the guys. Thomas and Gilbert don’t see the need to put a label on it, and the concept of girlfriends and boyfriends without a promise of marriage doesn’t make sense to Hasan. And Jacques…I don’t know what the hell is going on between me and him.
A large group comes in, crowding the already small restaurant even more. I have twenty minutes before my order is ready, and instead of leaning against the wall and hoping no one touches me, I check the time on my phone and go outside.
I’m in a part of the city I don’t frequent too much, so I lazily walk down the block, trying to kill time before the food is ready. I make it a street over and see a New Age bookstore.
I used to scoff at places like this. I used to question the sanity of anyone who went in there. And those who worked there? Total scam artists. But now…I bite my lip and cross the street.
A bell dings when I push open the door. The place doesn’t have air conditioning, and the large ceiling fan blows the scent of books and herbs all around me.
“Blessed be,” the clerk says to me, making me force a smile and roll my eyes the moment I look away. I might have magic powers and shack up with men cursed into gargoyles, but that doesn’t mean every pot-smoking hippy in Philly who believes in magic has powers too.
I browse through a selection of bagged herbs, wondering if everything is actually what it’s labeled to be, because it all looks like chopped-up grass to me.
The little shop has everything I’d expect: crystals, overpriced bohemian clothing, little fairy statues to put in your garden to “encourage real fairies to visit,” tarot cards, and various books.
A book about ghosts catches my eye, and feeling stupid, I reach out and pick it up. The image of that guy, gray and void of emotion, floating above his body, is seared into my mind. He had to be a ghost. What else could he be?
“Trying to contact the dead?” the clerk asks, striding over. Her long black skirt swirls around her ankles, and a dozen crystals hang around her neck. If she’s trying to enforce the New Age stereotype, she’s doing a good job.
“Not necessarily,” I reply, deciding to humor her, and look back at the book.
“Good. When you go knocking on the door of the dead, you never know who will answer.”
“So you have contacted a ghost?”
“I have,” she says, not trying to hide her pride over it. “But I’ve had many years of practice and know the proper protection spells.”
I need to force another smile and leave. But, shit, this is too entertaining. “What kind of spells?”
“It’s quite complicated. I fear if I went into it more it could lead you down a dangerous road. I do offer spirit communication services.”
And there it is. Some things never change.
She’s a total scam artist and should be ashamed of herself for preying on the weakness of others.
Because who’s desperate enough to come into this place and hire some quack-psychic to contact a lost loved one?
Someone deep in mourning, heart ripped in two, lost and confused.
“Right. Well, I’ll, uh, take this.” I hold up the book, too curious to pass it up now. She rings me up, going on and on about past clients who loved her services, and practically shoves a business card in my hand.
I roll down the top of the brown paper bag and turn to leave. A young woman with long, dark hair and pretty blue eyes hurries in through the door and bumps right into me, dropping the box full of crystals and stones she was carrying.
“Oh, shit!” she swears. “I’m so sorry.” She drops to her feet and starts picking up the crystals. “I’m such a klutz sometimes. Okay, most of the time.”
I set my book on the counter and drop down to my knees, helping her scoop up the crystals.
“It’s okay. You probably couldn’t see over the box anyway.”
“Thanks for being understanding, and no, it was hard to.”
“You have a lot of crystals,” I muse, dropping a handful of oval-cut rose quartz pieces back into the box.
“I went through a phase,” she says, and laughs at herself. “I’m selling them. Lyra will take them back at half price, but it’s better than nothing, right?”
“Right.” I reach forward and pull an amethyst out from under a display of herbs.
“You look really familiar,” the girl says, straightening up. Her eyes drill right into mine and then she slowly looks me over, almost as if she’s checking me out. “Have I seen you in here before or something?”
“Nope. It’s my first time in here.”
She bites her lip and smiles, a blush coming to her cheeks. “Well, perfect timing for me, then, right?” Dropping another few stones into the box, she extends her hand. “I’m Gemma.”
“Ace,” I say, and shake her hand and then stand. Gemma grabs her box and gets to her feet.
“Are you going to summon a spirit?” Her eyes go to the book. Then she quickly shakes her head. “Sorry, my aunt says I’m too nosey. But ghosts fascinate me. I’ve seen a few before, you know.”
My first instinct is to call bullshit on her. After all, she just came into a New Age store to sell well over a hundred crystals that obviously didn’t work. Surprise, surprise, I know.
“You have?” I ask before I can stop myself. My curiosity is getting the better of me, and I know what I saw.
“Yeah. After my parents died, I kind of went looking for them. Ghosts, I mean. I really wanted to talk to my mom one more time.” She looks away, color coming back to her cheeks. “I was young then. I know how silly it sounds.”
“It’s not.” Gemma looks to be around my age. No matter how many years have passed since the death of my own parents, the wound still hurts. Not knowing who killed them has haunted me more than any ghost ever will.
“Have you ever tried it before?” she asks, looking over her shoulder as she walks to the counter. She sets the box of crystals on the counter. Lyra tells her she’ll go through them and will get her a price later in the day.
“Tried what?” I look at the door, wanting to just leave.
“Summoning a spirit.”
Lyra eyes me with fake concern. Bitch, we both know you just want my money.
“No.”
Gemma hikes her oversized purse up over her shoulder and walks over to me. “Be careful. The first time I tried contacting my mom, someone else answered.”
I just nod, remembering the saying “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I think she’s a crock of shit, but that’s her belief and I respect it.
“You don’t believe in this stuff, do you?” She grabs the door and pulls it open, standing aside to let me through first.
“Some of it,” I say, being honest. “But most…no.”
“Then why’d you get the ghost book? Sorry, being nosey again.”
I laugh. “It’s all right.” I start in the opposite direction of her, holding the book under my arm. I make it a few yards away when I hear Gemma yelling. I turn around and see a large man in a hooded sweatshirt grabbing onto her purse.
“Hey!” I yell, and take off after him. He sees me, shoves Gemma back, and starts running.
Gemma stumbles, the heel of one of her shoes catching on the other.
She did say she was clumsy, and heels are the devil.
She stumbles back and hits the exterior wall of the building, catching herself before she falls to the ground.
Letting the ghost book drop to the sidewalk beneath my feet, I run after the guy. He’s fast, but I’m faster. He’s a good fifty feet ahead of me, weaving around the busy sidewalk without caution.
He bumps right into a mom carrying a baby, who almost falls off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic.
Asshole.
I race around her, jumping over boxes and dodging around a food cart.
The guy ducks down an alley, and a car comes screeching out, slamming on the brakes at the last second to avoid hitting him.
I don’t stop as fast, and my hands slap against the hood as I slide across, sprinting down the alley, which dead ends against a chain link fence.
Realizing he’s cornered, the guy ditches Gemma’s purse and pulls a knife from his pocket, flicking out the blade. Heat tingles the tips of my fingers. I clench my fist to try and quell the flames, but the guy advances and I throw my arms out to block him from slashing me with the knife.
I take a quick step back, fire breaking out along my fingers, and raise my leg up, bending my knee and kicking him hard in the back.
He recovers quickly and spins around. His eyes widen when he sees the fire surrounding my hand, and for a split second, I think he’s going to tell me to stop, drop, and roll.
And then he realizes I’m the one controlling the fire.
“What the hell are you?” He raises the knife, stance going from predator to prey, needing to protect himself from me. I’d be lying if I said the power didn’t feel good. Deep down, I know that’s a bad, bad thing.
But right now, there’s a large man with a sharp knife feet from me.
“Freak!” he sneers, and slashes the knife through the air again. The fire burns brighter around my hand. I can feel the heat, but it doesn’t burn me or cause pain.
“Drop the knife,” I order, holding my hand out in front of me just like I would my own gun. “And put your hands on your head. You’re under arrest.”
I slide my feet forward, getting closer to him.
The flames rise higher, the heat too much on his face.
The knife clatters to the ground and he puts his hands up.
Using my foot, I slide the knife away and bring my right hand down, shaking it to get rid of the flames.
I need to call this in and have the guy arrested.