“The séance or, as you call it, speaking to air particles.” A funny taste is in my mouth even repeating those words.
“So we’re not done playing pretend then?”
“It’s magic,” Lily pipes in. “Not pretend.”
“It’s not magic,” Connor says. “It’s science. You evenly distributed yourselves around Ryke, and it becomes easier to lift anyone like that.”
“What about the chanting?” she asks.
“It helps coordinate everyone, so your movements are in sync.”
I’m married to the biggest disbeliever, and strangely, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I sit down in the circle again with Connor by my side, sipping his wine. Maybe he prefers to be intoxicated for this.
“Ohhh,” Lily gapes in realization. She frowns a little and then turns to Loren. I hear her whisper, “So we’re not magic?”
“We’re definitely magic,” he whispers back with a nod.
“Then what are they?” Her eyes flicker to Connor and me, catching us watching them.
Lo purposefully raises his voice so we can hear. “An immortal god who married an immortal demon.” He flashes a dry smile. “Match made in purgatory.”
Oddly enough, I do feel in purgatory with Connor right now, our futures in flux with the press conference looming and Scott still nagging my husband for a season two.
“Speaking of purgatory…” I rise and collect some of the candles, placing them in the middle before I take my seat again.
“Oh wait, this is happening now?” Lily clutches a baby monitor and then tosses her quilt over head. Lo cocoons her in his arms.
He whispers, “Are you trying to blend in with all the other ghosts, love?”
“Uh-huh,” she whispers back, frightened.
Daisy waves her hand through the flame, too quickly to be burned, so no one says anything. “Can we call upon Old Aunt Margot and ask her what she thought of Dad’s first bottle of Fizz?”
“It must’ve tasted like shit,” Lo says. “Didn’t he make it in his basement?”
“Garage,” I correct. He was a teenager with lofty ambitions, kind of like me, I suppose. Only he started from nothing. I started from the high platform that he gave me—more privileged than most.
The more I relate Fizzle to his dream and his dream to fear of losing it all—I can understand his stance on the press conference. I just wish we were on the same side this time.
“I didn’t know you had aunts and uncles,” Ryke says, a little surprised and hurt by this fact…maybe because Loren isn’t shocked at all. He’s as close to our extended family as we are.
“All of them are in different parts of the United States,” Daisy tells him, “but Old Aunt Margot used to live with her sister, which is our dad’s mom.” Grandma Pearl is retired in Palm Beach, Florida, living in what she calls “paradise” thanks to her son’s generosity.
Connor rubs his lips, slightly irritated, I can tell. “So she’s Great Aunt Margot?”
“Old Aunt Margot,” all my sisters and I say in unison.
“When did ‘great’ and ‘old’ become synonymous?” He looks to me for an answer since clearly she is our great aunt by relation.
“No one ever called her great…” I trail off, realizing how upsetting this sounds. “She liked being called old.” Oh God, that’s worse, isn’t it? “It was her choice.” I end with that, which is as good as it gets.
“I wish I could’ve met her,” Connor says with a smile. “She seems interesting.”
I’m about tell him that he’s about to meet her, but Loren pipes in, “She smelled like rotten green olives, so consider yourself lucky.”
I glower. “You’re going to wish you didn’t insult her.”
“Did I offend her already? Where is she?” He looks over his shoulder mockingly.
“You just broke rule number two.”
“And I’m still alive.” He nods to Connor. “What do you call that, love?”
“Favoritism,” he says.
I gag. “He’s not my favorite anything.”
Coconut suddenly howls from the kitchen, paws pitter-pattering on the floorboards. Daisy stiffens, and scans the room quickly. We all go quiet, and Ryke pulls Daisy closer to him, his lips by her ear as he whispers, most likely comforting words.
“Aunt Margot it is,” I say, trying to draw attention off her. “Let’s all hold hands.” I clasp Connor’s and then Willow’s. Daisy takes a deep breath, especially as Coconut settles down.
“Close your eyes,” I instruct.
I wait for everyone, mostly Connor though, who stubbornly keeps both eyes open. He arches a brow. After you, he seems to say.
I trust that he’ll shut his eyes too. So I close mine first. “Aunt Margot,” I start…and I have to take a peek at Connor, to see if he’s playing along. Even if it’s not real to him, it’s real to me.
His eyes are surprisingly shut.
I love him even more for it.
“We’re calling you, Aunt Margot,” I say. The rain thrashes more viciously than before, the wind whistling. “We miss your beautiful, lost soul. Please come to us.”
Lo snickers first, and I can feel Connor try not to laugh.
Ignore them, Rose. “Fight through the barrier of the afterlife so that we may speak with you.”
Craaaaaaccck!
Lily lets out a petrified squeal beneath her quilt.
“What the fuck was that?” Ryke asks. He looks only out the floor-length window, so I think he’s actually worried about the structural damage from the storm.
“It’s electrostatic discharge,” Connor tells him. “Also known as lightning.”
The lights flicker on and off until a bulb cracks and they all go out. The TV clock blinks with them, so we’ve lost power.
“Ohmygod,” Lily slurs in panic.
“Old Aunt Margot?” Daisy calls out, the only one with her eyes still closed. “Can you hear us?” Despite her playful voice, I can tell that she’s putting on a brave front, her collar protruded as she holds in a breath. She white-knuckles her knees, and I worry that the whole séance might’ve been a horrible idea.
Whhhaaaaap!
Lily shrieks at the new noise, the one emanating from upstairs. Coconut scampers into the living room with determination, actually checking the sliding door…the dog locks it back with the nudge of her nose.
I saw Ryke training the Siberian husky on the first day here, showing her the latches to the doors and all the exits, so I’m not surprised she has the talent to lock the door—I’m just alarmed that the door is unlocked to begin with.
“What was that noise?” Lily asks, unable to see Coconut’s vigilant routine. “Connor?”
He’s staring at the ceiling. “An object fell.”
“By a ghost?”
Thuuump! is followed by a long, sharp groan…maybe a human groan. No. There’s absolutely no way. We’re in the middle of nowhere. No one else is here. I made sure of it.
Animals.
There are live animals upstairs.
I will butcher whatever rodent has decided to lodge in our house. Mice, I think. It’s probably an infestation of them.
Ryke immediately rests a hand on Daisy’s head, her forehead coated in sweat, her breath shallow, struggling to swallow air.
Ryke whistles, and I see Coconut’s white fur round the corner. “Lie down, Dais.” He helps my sister on her back to combat the start of a panic attack, and the dog curls onto Daisy’s chest, the applied weight acts as deep pressure therapy—I’ve seen it help her once before.
Footsteps patter upstairs. I stand and grab my baby monitor, listening for Jane. I can hear her soft snores, which eases me a little, but I plan to check—
More footsteps. It’s not a person. It’s an animal.
Lily flings off the quilt. “Moffy,” she says, bolting towards the staircase, baby monitor still in her clutch.
“Lily, wait—” Lo runs after her, and then Willow sprints in the complete opposite direction, through a darkened hallway.
Without second thought, I race after Willow, feeling Connor hot on my heels. When she hurriedly ascends another staircase, Connor beats my pace and passes me, brushing my shoulder with his hand like it’s okay. He knows…something that I don’t.
The second-floor hallway is pitch-black. I try to flick on the lights, but nothing happens. Connor takes out his cellphone and turns on the flashlight portion, a blue glow illuminating Willow as she tries to turn the knob of a certain door.
She bangs on the wood. “Are you okay?”
I rush to her a little after Connor reaches and asks, “Is he in there?”
Willow says quickly, “He didn’t have anywhere else to go. I made sure to blindfold him here. I promise, he has no idea where this place is.”
I raise my chin, in battle mode with Connor. I pull Willow back closer to me so he can open the door. When he does, he points the flashlight at the room, illuminating the quilted bed. An eighteen-year-old boy sits on the edge, a lamp shattered on the floor. He holds his bare foot, as though trying to check the sole…blood trickles—a piece of glass lodged in the bottom.