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There’s a moment, a second frozen in time where we’re in a bubble, and I still believe she might be desperate enough to bargain with me. Esmeralda bursts the bubble with a black lacquered finger jammed in the center of my chest.
“Stay the fuck away from me. I never want to see you again.”
She retreats several steps without turning her back from me, as if taking her eyes off would put her in too much danger. If I could force her to play the game, I would, but the curse requires a willing participant — and I’ve screwed that up royally this time. When she must feel like she’s far enough for comfort, she flips on her heels and runs.
chapter 13
ghostly touch, fiery wounds
esmeralda
I can’t run to safety fast enough. I don’t slip on my shoes, neither when the sand turns to splintering wood, nipping at my soles, nor when that gives way to searing asphalt and pebbles.
I make it to the restaurant’s parking lot and dare a glance back. Teizel isn’t following me. I take my face in my hands. My breath is shallow and heavy.
Only I could end up in a mess like this. I just graduated from seeing ghosts to mingling with monsters. Most definitely a step in the wrong direction.
No time to dwell on that. The sun has nearly disappeared beneath the ocean, only a sliver of bruised purple left, and the ever-present redwood fog is descending, blanketing the peaks of the tall trees. I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t like driving in the dark — night knows how to make this creepy town spookier. There’s animals crawling in these woods, which could jump out at you any minute and you’d never see them coming because the fog is just so damn thick. A twisted game of Russian roulette.
I pull myself together, slide my sandals on, and bolt for my car. A figure hovers near it, pacing in circles. I freeze. It’s not Teizel. The person is far too short, too slight. Let alone the fact that they’re not a person at all.
Not that Teizel is either, considering the events that transpired tonight. My heartbeat picks up again, but I smother it. Panic won’t do me any good.
Puffing my chest, I speed up. Ghosts can’t hurt me, no matter how persistent they may be. I’ve been living with them long enough to know that. Except as I get closer, and I manage to pick up the details of the ghost’s features, I pause again.
Sharp black bob, obsidian eyes, patinated white by death. Whatever color is left of the sun, that deep shade of purple, tinges her porcelain skin a sickly color. Her movements lack the fluidity of ghosts, instead taking on a sharpness I’ve never experienced before, like she’s constantly freezing and buffering. It’s far eerier, less human, than the smoothness.
What’s worse is I’ve seen this ghost before. More than once, in fact. She’s following me. If I’ve learned one thing from Mama, and I mean that literally, because she was gone before I could learn anything else, is that you don’t want to attract the afterlife’s attention.
Though, to be fair, that ship sailed when I invited a literal monster into my panties.
I’m twenty paces from my car when the ghost notices me, her unfocused gaze snapping to mine. Gooseflesh erupts down my arms as I shiver. The lanterns lighting the restaurant’s outdoor patio flicker. A small mercy, the briny ocean scent masks the stench of rot.
The ghost opens her mouth, thin lips stretching even thinner, as if she’s looking to make a sound. I’m not surprised when nothing comes out; ghosts can’t communicate. I’ve known this all my life.
But it doesn’t seem to stop this one from trying. She keeps moving her lips, willing her mouth to make sounds and failing. Her desperation to communicate puts me on edge. As if I haven’t had enough for one day. I step around her, beelining for the driver’s side door. The ghost isn’t done with me though. She lounges. Her hand doesn’t make contact with my arm, not in any way skin would, but I feel it anyway, a cold so icy it burns. I hiss through my teeth, pulling my arm into my chest. Redness is spreading around the spot she touched.
I’m absolutely done with today. The last thing I want is to be sucked any deeper into this horrid world. Before she can scramble forward again, I unlock my car and slam the door behind me. The old junker comes to life with a groan, and I pull the shift gear in reverse, zooming out of the parking lot so fast if there’d been any other cars, I’d have hit them no questions.
I don’t have the bandwidth to do anything but focus on the road as I drive home, so I white-knuckle the steering wheel and do my best to keep my breathing even. Once I turn into my street, I’m on autopilot. I park into the driveway, lock the car, unlock the front door. There’s a bottle of homemade ratafia in the kitchen cabinet; I pry the dry cork off and spill a few drops outside the front door before locking it behind me. I watched Àvia do it at least a hundred times, whenever she’d make the liquor. An offering, enough to appease the world beyond to leave us alone. That’s what she’d explained. It was an old tradition she’d learned from her husband’s side of the family, and I don’t know how much of it is truth and how much Catalan superstition. I’m willing to try anything, at this point.
Taking the steps two at a time, I make my way to my bedroom and lock even that door behind me. Not that I think a pile of wood and un-greased metal would stop Teizel, if he’d been pursuing me. Which makes reality come crashing down on me — he’s not coming for me. I’m safe. For now.
The pent up stress of the evening erupts from behind the wall of high alert I’ve let down, and warm, thick teardrops streak my cheeks. I don’t, for one second, doubt everything Teizel’s told me is true. After all, I’ve been peeping through the window to the beyond for years, and it’d be naive of me to think I’d seen it all. The dude had claws, for fuck’s sake. I’d have to be idiotic to force a rational answer to it, although I don’t deny a part of me wants to pretend he’s just another freaky human with some questionable tastes.
I lift myself to a sitting position to catch my reflection in the mirror across my bed. There’s a cut on my cheek. It’s not deep enough that’ll scar — a paper cut, little more. But it’s there. When I trail my finger against it, it stings, and I jerk back with a hiss.
Next on the inspection list is my arm. Where the girl’s ghost touched me, my skin looks like a steak that’s been left in the freezer a few days too long. It’s a legit burn. I don’t try to touch that one because I can tell from looking at it that it’s tender as hell; even stretching my arm too far makes it pull painfully.
The tears turn more incessant, ugly sobs shaking my shoulders. How in the absolute hell did I get myself into this mess? Àvia would be disappointed. That thought alone hurts more than everything that happened today combined.
They’d be so disappointed, both of them, in how I’ve let the darkness into my life so easily, when I was meant to guard against it, hide from it, and it from everyone.
I blink at the ceiling, tears making the popcorn texture blurry.
If only Mama were here.
chapter 14
