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We chatted until Derek was second in line. Then laughter erupted at a table behind me. I turned to see two couples, a year or two older than me. The girls were sneering in disgust. One guy was red-faced with stifled laughter. The other wasn’t bothering to hold his in, laughing so hard he was doubled over.
All four were looking at me.
The entire restaurant was looking at me.
It was like a nightmare where kids are laughing at you, and you keep walking through the halls, not knowing why until you realize you aren’t wearing any pants. I knew I was wearing pants. The only thing I could think of was my black hair. It wasn’t that bad, was it?
“Oh, dear,” whispered the old woman.
“Wh-what’s wrong? Wh-what did I do?”
She leaned over, her eyes glistening. Tears? Why would she be—?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I only…” She gave a sad twist of a smile. “I only wanted to speak to you. You seemed like such a nice girl. ”
I caught a glimpse of Derek, out of line now, striding over, glowering at the snickering boys. The woman got to her feet and leaned across the table again.
“It was very nice talking to you, dear. ” She put her hand on mine…and it passed through.
I leaped to my feet.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
The look on her face was so sad that I wanted to say it was okay, it was my fault. But before I could get a word out, she faded away, and then all I could hear was the laughter around me, the mutters of “crazy” and “schizo,” and I stood there, rooted to the floor, until Derek took my arm, his grip so soft I could barely feel it.
“Come on,” he said.
“Yeah,” the laughing guy called. “I think your girlfriend’s day pass has expired. ”
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Derek slowly raised his head, lip curling in that too-familiar look. I grabbed his arm. He blinked and nodded. As we turned to go, the other guy at the table chimed in.
“Trolling for chicks at the psych ward?” He shook his head. “Now that’s desperate. ”
As we passed the front window, I swore every eye inside followed us. I caught a few looks: sympathy, pity, distaste, disgust. Derek moved between me and the window, blocking my view as we walked.
“They didn’t need to do that,” he said. “Those kids, sure. They’re idiots. But the grown-ups should know better. What if you were mentally ill?”
He led me around to the parking lot, then stopped at the back, under the shadow of the building overhang.
“You’ll never see them again,” he said. “And if they’d treat a real mentally ill person like that, then you shouldn’t care what they think. Bunch of morons. ”
I said nothing, just stared out at the parking lot, shivering. He shifted in front of me, trying to block the wind.
“W-we should go,” I said. “You need to eat. I’m sorry. ”
“For what? Talking to yourself? So what? People do it all the time. They should have ignored it. ”
“Would you?”
“Sure. None of my business. I—”
“—wouldn’t laugh or stare. I know. But you couldn’t ignore it. Maybe you’d pretend not to notice, but you’d still think about it, about the person doing it, what was wrong with her, whether she was going to freak out and pull a gun or…” I wrapped my arms around myself. “I’m babbling. But you know what I mean. I was sitting in a restaurant, carrying on a conversation with someone and I never even guessed she was a ghost. ”
“You’ll figure it out. ”
“How? They look like people. They sound like people. Unless they walk through the furniture, there’s no clue. Do I have to stop talking to strangers? Ignore every person who walks up to me? That’ll look normal. ” I gave my head a sharp shake. “Babbling again. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry you got caught up in that. ”
“You think I care?” He put one hand on the wall and leaned down to me. “You’ll work it out. Other necromancers do. You just need to figure out the tricks of the trade. ”
“Before I get locked up?”
“Much more of this on-the-run stuff, and you might be going into restaurants, talking to yourself on purpose, trying to get locked up someplace with a bed and a hot shower. ”
I managed a smile. “Right now, I’d settle for hot food. ”
“How about hot chocolate?”
“What?”
“On the way here I saw one of those fancy coffee places, some Starbucks knockoff. Big armchairs, a fireplace…Didn’t look too busy. This isn’t exactly a five-dollar-coffee town. ”
I pictured curling up in a chair, in front of a fire, sipping a huge, steaming hot chocolate. I smiled.
“It’s settled then,” he said. “We’ll get brownies or cookies to eat. A real nutritious dinner. Now I think it was this way…”
We set out.
The coffee shop had been on the street with the bus stop. We tried to get there—and out of the freezing cold—as quickly as possible. After cutting through a couple of parking lots, we saw our next potential shortcut: a playground. When I started to cross the street, Derek stopped me.
“That’s not always the kind of place you want to be at night. ”
He was right, of course. It looked innocent enough—a narrow strip of park with a line of swings and slides, a big plastic play center at the end—but between the equipment and the trees were a lot of shadows. After dark, when the kiddies had gone home, it made the perfect place for bigger, more dangerous kids to hang out.
Derek scanned the park as he sampled the breeze.
“Empty,” he said finally. “Let’s go. ”
We jogged across the road. Out in the open now, the wind got even worse, swirling around us, bitter cold. The swings twisted and creaked. As we passed, a sudden gust sent one slamming into my shoulder. I stumbled back with a yelp and caught a mouthful of sand, whirling up from the ground. As I sputtered, Derek’s head shot up. I spit out the sand and turned to him. He’d gone still, face lifted.
“What do you smell?” I asked.
“I’m not sure…I thought I—” The wind changed and his nostrils flared. His eyes went wide. “Run!”
He gave me a shove and I broke into a sprint. In the last few days, I’d done this “running from danger” stuff often enough that my brain kicked my legs into high gear automatically, my aching feet forgotten.
Derek stayed behind me, footsteps pounding.
“Chloe!” he yelled as a figure stepped into my path.
Derek grabbed me by my shoulders, my feet flying off the ground before I’d even stopped running. He backed us up against the plastic play set. A man was sauntering our way. Another walked from the other direction. Two escape routes, both blocked. Derek glanced up at the play set, but we were against a solid wall of plastic, a crow’s nest ten feet overhead. There was a fireman’s pole ten feet away, but that wouldn’t take us anywhere useful.
The men looked like they were in their twenties. One was tall and lean with blond hair to his collar. He wore a plaid jacket and boots, and looked like he hadn’t bothered with a razor in days. His companion was shorter and beefier, swarthy with dark hair. He wore a leather jacket and sneakers.
Neither looked like the kind of guy you’d expect to hang out in a park, hassling kids for cigarettes and pocket money. Hanging out at the monster truck races, maybe, hassling girls for their names and phone numbers.
