Nothing but the Ghosts

Chapter 1-3

Malcolm and I do end up hiding in the living room. A racket comes from the kitchen—the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of veggie bacon, and the aroma of biscuits baking. I cradle a cup of coffee, and if the steam doesn’t do much to cool my cheeks, at least it clears my head.

Malcolm paces. He’s set his cup on the mantelpiece and pauses after each lap around the living room for a sip.

“You know,” he says, after he’s logged at least a quarter mile. “This isn’t the way I pictured the next morning. I was hoping to cook you breakfast in bed.”

“I still had to get up to make the coffee,” I point out.

He makes terrible coffee. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why since he’s so good at everything else.

“I make okay coffee,” he says.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. Ask Nigel.”

“But—”

“I’ve been faking.”

“Why would you...?” I trail off, my mind whirling at this new bit of information. “But we’ve spent hours in the kitchen.”

A sheepish expression lights his eyes while that dark-roast grin spreads across his face. “Yeah, that was kind of the point. At first, you know, before ... everything.” He waves a hand toward the ceiling and the general direction of my bedroom. “I just wanted an excuse to spend time with you.”

I tilt my head and go for stern. “And then it got too complicated to explain.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I know, I know. Bad habit.”

I grumble a sigh, and he laughs.

“Forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

I’m expecting him to log another quarter mile around the living room while I do. Instead, he shakes his head as if he’s shaking away a thought—and the laughter that goes with it.

“What?” I ask, bracing for another confession.

“I was just thinking that we should text Gregory and Terese and invite them over for the most awkward morning-after brunch ever.”

Now, I do laugh and pat the spot on the sofa next to me. “Sit?”

He does, and not too much later, I’m snuggled in his lap. His chin rests on my head, and I’m flush against his chest. His heartbeat is a strong, steady thing against my back.

“Am I forgiven?” he whispers.

“Still thinking about it.”

His laughter rumbles beneath me. I’m a terrible liar, and he knows it.

I contemplate the front lawn, the spring morning. I let my gaze drift. At first, the shadow doesn’t register. At first, that’s all I see, a shadow stretching across my lawn. It takes a few moments before it attaches itself to the man who is so clearly casting it.

He stands on the sidewalk midpoint between my house and Sadie’s. In the past months, I’ve seen so many necromancers stand in that very spot that I’m pretty sure he’s one as well.

True, he isn’t pulled together as most others I’ve met. His canvas trousers are the color of damp sand, worn and patched. His hair is shaggy, dipping beneath his collar, and far more gray than black. He carries a backpack slung over his shoulders. But there’s something in the way he tilts his chin, tucks his hands so casually in his trouser pockets that pings sudden recognition.

I don’t know him. Certainly I’ve never seen him before, but he’s familiar in a way I can’t pinpoint.

“Malcolm?”

“Hm?” It’s barely an answer. His lips are too busy brushing against strands of my hair, and his fingers are intent on caressing my arms through the long sleeves of his shirt.

“I think there’s a necromancer on my sidewalk.”

The caressing comes to an abrupt halt. His fingers curl around my arms, and he holds me steady.

“Where?”

I part the shutters to give him a full view of my front lawn, the sidewalk, and the necromancer whose gaze is doing a slow and steady survey of my house.

Malcolm doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He is so still that dread curls in my stomach. Up until now, a necromancer on the front walk has been a harbinger of bad things. Still, this particular necromancer doesn’t look all that dangerous.

“Am I right?” I prompt.

“Yeah.” He exhales. “You’re right. That’s a necromancer.” With his grip still on my arms, he eases me from his lap. “That also happens to be my father.”