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Spirit, respectfully, what the fuck?
I’m struggling to come up with a reason for why the hell Sunday freaking Mourning would be in Salem, of all places—given that he didn’t believe me when I told him I could see dead people. Just after he graduated, he told me that he thought I needed to see a doctor, broke up with me, and then left me sobbing on the porch steps, driving off in his stupid hearse.
God, I hated that car. That black monstrosity had so much death steeped into the fabric of the seats. No matter how many times he cleaned it, I still felt it clinging to the upholstery. Even losing my virginity in the back didn’t make me feel any better about it.
I try not to look at him as I slowly chew my chickpea tacos in the staff lunchroom, but it’s difficult when his voice is like a lighthouse in the fog. Every time he speaks, the timbre jolts straight into my chest, dislodging feelings I thought were buried and gone.
“He’s gotten annoyingly handsome, you know. I never did understand the concept of poking oneself with needles for decoration, but it is very becoming, wouldn’t you say?” my irritating spirit guide whisper-shouts from beside me. I told her I would allow her to accompany me to my first day of work, and I’m massively regretting that decision. I can’t send her away, though; I’ll never hear the end of it.
Unfortunately, she’s right about Sunday. I sneak a look at him where he’s leaning on the counter, talking to Lara. In school, he always had that scrawny emo kid build. He got the skull tattoo on his left hand when he turned eighteen, and then by college, the death’s-head hawkmoth on his throat. Now, there are inky black tendrils sprawling up both his arms, wreathing his knuckles, climbing all the way to below his chin.
Combine that with the fact that he’s hacked off his shoulder-length hair into a perfectly messy cut and packed on a ton of muscle…
His gaze wanders over to me, his pierced brow quirking up in a silent question. My face heats, and I drop my gaze back to the food in my hands.
This is completely unfair. What exactly is the universe trying to tell me with this? Hey, just in case your ex-husband cheating on you wasn’t enough to remind you how unworthy of love you are, why don’t you try on the best-friend-turned-lover-who-shattered-your-teenage-heart for size?
My stomach twists, the food in my mouth turning to ash as those horrible feelings of unworthiness sink into the pit of my gut. I force myself to swallow, then shove my leftovers back in the container and toss them into the miniature backpack at my feet.
Opposite me, the brown-haired French guy—who I think is called Séverin—hasn’t eaten at all. I’m not one to judge someone’s eating habits, but there’s something about him that prickles the hair on the back of my neck. An otherness that feels familiar, one usually found once the sun has gone down and the moon comes out to play. I watch him carefully, looking for signs that I’m right about what he is. He slouches in his seat, playing on a handheld game console. His eyes are normal—a pretty, light brown shrouded by long eyelashes. His skin isn’t exactly pale either, smattered with freckles. The length of time between each breath, though…
Delphine, ever the opportunist, pokes him. He jolts, head whipping to the side, brows knitting together in confusion. He can’t see her yet, but he will.
His gaze slides to mine, his tongue prodding at his canines before going back to his game. Interesting. I file that nugget of information away for later, eager to continue with my orientation, even if it’s just a bunch of paperwork to fill out. I steel myself, taking a measured breath and letting it out slowly through my nose.
“Not a word,” I mutter under my breath to Delphine as I approach Lara and Sunday. Delph makes an exaggerated lip-zipping motion before settling her attention back on Séverin.
Nothing reminds me of what a short-ass I am quite like standing next to Sunday. It’s even worse when he pushes off the counter and stands up straight—the top of my head barely reaches his chin. He also has the audacity to smile at me, showing off those gleaming, perfect teeth.
Nope.
Not today, Satan.
“I’m ready when you are,” I tell Lara, hoping the strain in my voice isn’t too obvious.
She gulps down the rest of her drink and dumps the mug in the sink. “Actually, I have to teach a quick session for the kids now, but Sunny will finish showing you around. No one else likes going into the basement anyway.” Lara shudders, grimacing.
“I told you it’s not haunted, just freezing,” Sunday rumbles, his eyes rolling skyward before they land on mine, those stormy gray-blue eyes both foreign and familiar.
A wave of annoyance flares in my chest as I force myself to hold eye contact, biting down on my tongue.
“You ready?” Sunday asks, tilting his head slightly.
I lift my chin. “Lead the way.”
The chain clipped to his combat pants rattles as he walks away, his black boots thumping on the floor. I follow him out into the corridor and toward the bowels of the building. We pass through a hall decorated with animal skulls, everything from the tiniest mouse skull to the wide expanse of moose antlers.
“This is my favorite part of the museum,” Sunday says, pointing to an empty plaque on the wall. The pattern of his tattoos on his right hand ends in delicate rings. “I’ve got a ram’s skull almost ready to go up there.”
I don’t really know what to say, so I nod politely and continue following him. We turn off, coming to a nondescript door. Sunday pulls a key out of his pocket, unlocking the door before bracing his hip against it.
“This door sticks when it’s warm outside,” he offers in explanation, slamming the side of his hip into the door—a visual I certainly do not need. Thankfully, it gives after the first thrust, and he holds it open for me to go first.
The air turns cold instantly, and I know with absolute certainty that there are spirits down here. I can feel them, their attention turning to me as their whispers start. Nothing malicious—I’ve been lucky enough only to encounter something malevolent once in my life.
My foot has barely met with the concrete at the bottom when a spirit shoots out from the end of the dank corridor and slams into my body. I lock my muscles, stopping the yowl trying to work its way out of my throat, barely registering the second spirit that comes reeling out of an alcove to the left. I stagger forward, letting it pass through me.
Gritting my teeth, I slam my mental defenses back into place. I can feel their disgruntlement, but I can’t help them all at once. Especially not with Sunday around.
