Page 36 of Some Kind of Haunted

Do Jack and Nora and Cleo already know this? Is that why Harrison told me that terrible story about the dead baby? Or is this some piece of information only I know? The trouble with that, of course, is that I don’t know why I would be the repository of secret information in a town filled with people who should already know it.

Harbinger or not.

“It’s safe during the day. Or at least, it always has been. That’s the deal.”

I jerk at the sudden deep voice and glance over my shoulder. There’s not much space in this little corner of the hallway. But Jack is standing there.

Clock tower on one side. Hot guy who doesn’t seem to like me on the other, but who is in possession of extraordinary shoulders. This is an objective fact.

The fact that his green eyes lock to mine and hold is . . . something else.

My nervous system doesn’t know how to handle this.

I focus on what he said, not the height of him or all that green-eyed nonsense that makes his face . . . a whole thing. I realize belatedly that’s because he’s not scowling at me.

I don’t know that I know how to deal with a Jack who’s not scowling at me. It seems as overwhelming as demons being real.

Dramatic, yes. I’m still Lexi, after all. And perhaps Jack isn’t scowling at me, but that’s because he’s . . . including me. In whatever this meeting tonight is going to be about.

So I focus on what he said, not how attractive I find him.

The clock tower is safe during the day. Which implies it’s not safe at night. I already know this, don’t I? That clock is dangerous. I can remember exactly how it felt to drive into Midas in the dark and find it hulking there, catapulting me straight into a panic attack.

My relationship to the clock tower is the kind of information I would normally keep to myself, because the other way lies suggestions of sedation and other joys doled out to the so-called mentally fragile.

But I don’t have to mask that shit anymore if the people around me believe in it. I don’t have to attempt to convince this man I’m not crazy, that I really did dream that thing. Grumpy and mean or not, he already knows that this place is messed up.

Here stands a man who believes in demons and harbingers.

He already knows.

Whether he likes me or not pales in comparison to him believing me.

It’s hard to get the words out around the waves of relief that clog in my throat, but I do it. “I’ve been dreaming of this clock tower all my life.”

Jack doesn’t say anything to that right away. But he also doesn’t get one of those looks on his face that are far too recognizable to me. No pity. No reproach. No concern.

If anything, he looks thoughtful. “Just the fact that it exists or something worse?”

I shudder. I can’t help it. “Worse. Obviously.” And since he’s engaging with what I’m saying like this is nothing but a straightforward exchange of information, I explain. “They come out of it. Slurping.”

His eyebrows draw together. He’s studying the clock out the window now, too. “They come out of it,” he echoes. “The mine and the flood wall aren’t safe spaces at night. Hell, the mine is never all that safe, no matter what time of day it is. I’ve never heard of the clock tower being a demon zone, but . . .”

He trails off, clearly thinking it over. Clearly taking what I said seriously. This is obviously new information for him, and since he doesn’t refute it out of hand, I feel . . . I don’t know. Useful?

Maybe being the harbinger of doom isn’t all bad?

Yet, I wasn’t at that clock tower last night. I was at the flood wall. And he was there, too. He stopped me from . . . doing whatever I was out there doing. I’m pretty sure he saved me. I don’t know from what—this demon zone maybe? When I think about last night, thinking he rescued me from something worse than bloody feet feels right.

But how did he know to be there?

I frown up at him. “Nora dreamed about me. What about you?”

He looks uncomfortable now, and that’s fascinating. No hint of all that authority. Or even his usual scowl. And I’m pretty sure that I can see spots of color on his impossible cheekbones, but that might be the light in this hallway. “I don’t do the dream thing. I’m a Bellamy. It’s more of a . . . knowing.”

“Knowing what?”

“We’re all made up of parts of the people who made the deal, and people who’ve fought it. Foundlings dream. The rest of us know. If someone is in trouble. If I can . . . help.”