Chapter Thirty-Two
Gabriel
I fold another sweater and toss it on top of a stack of books, glancing around the small living room for more of her things.
Darcy didn’t leave much behind. A black turtleneck.
A pair of socks. A collection of smooth stones she must have gathered from the water’s edge and a sweatshirt I’ve been missing for the past two weeks.
I gather up all her things while Tater Tot inspects every inch of the living room, trying to find traces of her scent.
He paws at a floor-board, probably hoping Darcy is hiding somewhere beneath.
He’s been inconsolable since she disappeared in the graveyard with Frank, and I haven’t been much better.
We make a fine pair.
He whines and noses at a scarf she left draped over the arm of the couch. I reach for it and place it in the box on top of everything else.
“I know, bud.”
I’m trying to maintain my faith that she’ll come back, but the silence is starting to wear thin. There’s been no word since Halloween. No Reapers. No Guardians. I expected a flurry of punishments to rain down upon me as soon as Darcy disappeared, but it’s been … quiet. Suspiciously so.
November has drifted by, silent and gray. Some days I wake up and wonder if she was ever here at all.
I close the top of the box and wedge it under my arm, whistling for Tater Tot to follow. He does so obediently, weaving around me and trotting toward the front door.
The front door, where a figure is standing, one arm braced against it, his face creased in confusion.
“Uh,” he says. “Hello?”
Tater Tot rumbles out a low growl in warning, his ears pinned back and his tail stick-straight. The stranger trips backward onto the porch.
“What the fuck?” he whispers, the faint hint of an Irish accent teasing the edge of his words.
I call my sword with my magic, the hilt pressing into my palm. “Who are you?”
“The guy who lives here,” he answers, bewildered. “Who the hell are you?”
Ah. I twist my wrist, and my sword sinks back into inked lines. Darcy did mention this place was on loan.
“You the Ghost of Christmas Past?”
“Aye, though I prefer to be called Nolan,” he answers slowly. His attention is still firmly fixed on the dog. “Who are you, and why are you in my home?”
“I’m Gabriel. This is Tater Tot. A—” I trip over my words. “A friend of mine was staying in your place while you were on sabbatical.”
“Sabbatical.” The ghost in the hallway snorts, dragging his hand through his hair.
“More like an elaborate series of errands with no end in sight.” He gives a pointed look to the box of odds and ends balanced in my hands.
“I’m starting to believe that was intentional.
Did the bed-and-breakfast offer my home as lodgings once again? ”
“This has happened before?”
He closes the door behind him and strips out of his jacket. He tosses it on the coatrack, then moves past me to the kitchen. “More often than I’d like,” he grumbles.
He’s a tall man, with light brown hair and a smattering of facial hair, thicker over his top lip. The Holiday Spirits tend to be harmless, though this one does seem to be missing a certain sense of wonder-ment.
“Tea?” he asks, searching through the cupboards for a suitable mug. The last one Darcy used is still in the sink, and I stare at it for a beat too long before I can answer.
“Ah. No. We’ll be on our way.”
He waves his hand, and the kettle starts to whistle. A box of peppermint tea appears next to the empty mug. “Should I expect more strangers roaming the halls?”
At my silence, Nolan turns and gives me an arch, unamused look. Maybe a Holiday Spirit should haunt him this December. He looks like he could use a little merry in his afterlife.
“Your friend,” he clarifies. “Will she be returning?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“Oh. Well.” Nolan plucks a tea bag from the box and drops it in the mug, then pours the water over top. “My condolences, then.”
Condolences feels like exactly the right word.
I’m grieving all the things we won’t get to have.
Darcy was barely here and now she’s barely gone, but she left a mark on me as sure as my tattoos.
As sure as the scars that are carved over my chest. Some mornings I wake up and swear she’s still in the space next to me, her long body curled against my side, her dark hair splayed over my chest.
Those are the easiest mornings, when I get lost in my own lie.
Then I open my eyes, and she’s not there.
Those are the hardest mornings, too.
But this Christmas ghost doesn’t need to bear witness to my heartache. I offer him a nod. “Right, so. We’ll leave you to it.”
I retreat down the hallway and try not to see Darcy in every shadow.
“Oh. Hey,” I call. Nolan glances up from his mug of tea. “Who are you here for?”
He arches an eyebrow.
“Who are you meant to haunt?” I ask. “For the holiday season.”
He digs around in the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a slip of white paper.
“Harriet York,” he says. “Owner of the Crow’s Nest.”
“Ah. The antiques shop girl.” I readjust the box in my arms so I can grab the door handle. “She’s a nice lady.”
He snorts. “Apparently not.”
All right, well. I’ve officially reached my limit on socializing with wayward ghosts for the day. It seems Nolan has, too, as he turns toward the window above the sink, dismissing me. I slip out the front without another word and let the door shut behind me. The click of it feels final.
I try not to read too much into it.
“C’mon,” I tell Tater Tot. “Let’s go home.”
There’s a saying, somewhere. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
Rafael is waiting for me on a barstool when I get back, drinking a glass of champagne and wearing another tiedye shirt. He gives me a two-fingered salute as soon as I’m through the door.
“Do you have a key I don’t know about?”
“No.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “You’re just an idiot and keep one under the mat.”
I suppose my luck had to run out at some point. I’ve been waiting for the consequences of my failure to appear for the past few weeks, and now they’re here. Sitting at my bar. Drinking my most expensive bottle of champagne.
“How’re you doing, Rafe?”
I drop the box of Darcy’s things at the base of the stairwell behind the bar and grab a bottle of scotch, pouring myself a hefty glass.
The last time I had punishment carved into my skin, I couldn’t lift my left arm for weeks.
If Rafe is here to collect what is due, then I intend to be pleasantly buzzed.
Rafe sets his elbows on the bar, dangling his flute of champagne between his fingers like some society wife. “You ignored your summons.”
A week ago, a rolled scroll appeared in the middle of my kitchen table. I didn’t bother reading it before I burned it to ash with one of my stove burners. I have no interest in catering to the whims of a department that took Darcy away from me.
I drain my glass and immediately pour another. “Figured you knew where to find me.”
“That I do.” He smiles with a tight press of his lips, no humor in his eyes. “I take no pleasure in this, you know. You’ve been one of my favorites. I’m going to miss having you around.”
I laugh. “You’re full of shit. You show up once every hundred or so years, drain my bar dry, then go on your way.”
This time the lines by his eyes crinkle. “I suppose I’ll miss the drinks, then.” He stands from his stool, setting his empty glass over the ledge. “It’s time, Gabriel. Hand me your sword.”
I could fight it. I could probably get in a strike or two before I’m overpowered.
But I’m tired, and the fight would hardly be worth it.
Rafe is older and stronger. It would be a brief struggle, and then we’d end exactly as we started.
With him wielding my own blade against me, a third scar carved against my heart.
So I call my blade from my forearm and toss it on the bar. It lands there with a clatter. Both of Rafe’s eyebrows inch up his forehead. He curls his fingers around the hilt and lifts. Studies the way the light plays along the sharp edges in the almost dark of the bar.
I finish my drink. This is the worst part.
The waiting. Holding myself still for the cut through flesh and bone.
I deserve it. I know I do. I let Darcy take Frank without hesitation.
I had no desire to stop her. I knew he was in safe hands, and I knew it was what he wanted.
But I broke the code of the Guardians. I let a mortal slip through my fingers.
I didn’t protect Frank. I handed him over.
For the entirety of my existence, I thought death was something to be battled against. It took one soft woman with eyes like honey to show me something different.
That death doesn’t have to be an end.
That sometimes it can be a beginning, too.
A folder smacks me in the chest, and I jolt. My sword is gone and Rafe is standing on the other side of the bar, his hands in his pockets.
“Sign pages two, four, and eight, then initial on page seven. There’s a photocopy in the back for your records, should you need it.”
I blink. “What?”
He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, mutters something under his breath, and grabs the folder from me. He opens it up on the bar and flips to the appropriate page. He points at the bottom.
“Sign here, and then here—”
“No. I mean—why do you have paperwork? Why aren’t you cutting my chest open?”
Rafe looks exasperated. “Would you like me to cut your chest open?”
I rub the heel of my hand over my heart. “Not particularly, no—”
“Great, then sign here, and then—”
“Rafe.” I press my hand over the goddamned paperwork. “Why am I signing”—I glance down at the words in bold at the top of the page—“a release of liability?”
Rafe reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a purple pen. It’s one that clicks at the top, the name of a local bank scribbled on the side. “Standard offloading procedures for exiting immortals at the Department of Hauntings and Spirits.”
I blink. “What?”