Page 42 of Dead Vengeance

Yet I have no choice but to fight on.

I gather up what little strength I got from the few hours of sleep and brief whiff of coffee, thrust out an arm, and channel everything I have into the palm of my hand. “Out, foul beast!”

“Here we go,” Simon narrates with a grin. “I love when you get your necromancer talk on.”

If I weren’t concentrating so hard, I’d roll my eyes, but I am concentrating, and also I don’t want to look away from this creature for even a second. If this were a regular spirit encroachment from a few months back, the spirit would be gone by now with a click of my fingers. But since that thing upstairs moved into my house, entities don’t obey me the way they used to.

I’ve slowed it. I’m managing to keep it at bay, but I can feel the force of it pushing back against me. It’s brazen, and evil, and it should not be here.

I take a deep breath, trying to tune into some natural current of energy, or centre myself enough to use what little I have. I stretch my other hand out, visualising a tunnel between this world and the next.

It’s there, just on the other side of this being, more spirits, outside our realm, reaching, trying to get in. I push one hand forward, pressing them back, shift the other to open the gateway I’ve created.

“Leave,” I pant, “my,” I gasp, “world!” I shout. Thrusting both hands forward, I fling the thing backwards through the barrier with a pulse of energy, then slam the portal again, falling on the floor in a heap as the last bit of energy flies from my body with it.

The ghost is gone, and I’m wrecked.

I heave in deep breaths, my body fighting me just to breathe.

I wonder what life is like for normal people. People who don’t have to talk to the dead, who don’t have to guard this realm from evil entities, who don’t have to open and close portals and resurrect annoying ‘Spirit Extraction Specialists.’

Must be nice, I think.

“Egg, darling,” Simon calls.

“What?” The smell hits me—acrid, burning-egg smell.

I clamber up off the floor and stagger to the stove to discover my cute little cast iron pan spewing black smoke up into my kitchen. I snatch it with the hem of my apron and drop it into the sink, slamming the cold water on for it to hiss at me.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Shit!”

“Kraa!” Edgar helpfully adds.

Guilt churns in my stomach, and I don’t know why it should, but at least there’s something in someone’s stomach. “Sorry, Tony,” I sigh out. “Breakfast’s going to be a few more minutes.”

I look over when he doesn’t yell at me again, and there’s his seat, empty.

I guess he couldn’t wait.

I don’t know why that makes me feel like a failure. But it does.

I wander back to the bench, measuring out some milk as if none of this morning has ever happened. I’ve been awake for ten minutes, and this is already my day. Simon’s still there, waiting. Edgar’s still there, watching.

I pour and mix, then summon up what little I have left to explain, “I can’t handle this myself. Not anymore. Not now. I need help. I’m sorry they upset you yesterday. I know it’s not easy being a ghost, especially with everything you’ve been through. But I can’t keep doing this. I can’t hold back the tide alone. I hope you understand.”

“Have you considered running from this place before you get yourself killed too?” His words remain abrasive, but now they’re edged with sympathy, which makes a nice change.

I laugh, even if it’s sad. “If I don’t stay and do this, then who will?”

I must have finally gotten through to him, one way or another, because he falls quiet for a few moments before he says, “I’d like to help. If I could.”

“Thank you.” He can’t, but it makes me feel better to know he’d like to. “Please, just promise me you won’t hurt Liam today.”

“So long as you promise you won’t let the other one in.”

“Kraa!” shouts Edgar.

I throw him one last raspberry before emptying the others into the bowl. “Done. No Raul, only Liam. No guns, only disposal of that thing in the attic. Happy?”