Nothing but the Ghosts

Chapter 3-2

We emerge from the kitchen, a tray of cups and saucers jangling, the aroma of rich, sweet coffee paving the way for us. At least, that’s what I hope it’s doing.

Everyone is milling about in the living room. I peer into the dining room and see the dishes neatly stacked on the table and all the chairs pushed in.

Malcolm, I think, is responsible for these feats. Now, in the living room, he paces—or does when his father doesn’t toss him a glare and halt him in his tracks. He looks desperate for something to do, and his face lights up when he sees us enter. He rushes forward and takes the tray from my hands.

“How’s it going?” I whisper.

Malcolm’s gaze darts toward Nigel and Darien. “Tense. It’s tense, but civil. Probably because there are witnesses.” He nods toward Jack, standing at the mantelpiece, who’s managing to look both grim and grateful.

Belinda sets cream and sugar on the table and then crosses the room to him. Jack tucks her in the protective curve of his arm, and she snuggles next to him. Momentary worry pings at me, but this isn’t high school. Belinda might be a sensitive, but she’s nobody’s pushover.

Malcolm sets the tray on the coffee table, and I pour two cups—one extra sweet and one with half and half. I hold out the cups as I approach. The slightest tremor in my hands ripples the coffee’s surface, but I don’t spill a drop.

I haven’t spilled a drop since I was eight.

Darien inclines his head again, which makes me think that’s all the acknowledgment I’ll get from him. Nigel cradles his cup, his smile warm.

“Thank you, Katy,” he says, the words directed more at his father than at me. “Katy makes the best coffee,” he adds.

“The Lindstrom women always do.” Darien takes a sip. He likes the coffee; I can tell. Also? It’s killing him to admit it. “It makes one ponder nature versus nurture.”

“Wait,” I say. “Did you know my grandmother? My mother?”

“I grew up in the necromancer community,” Darien continues. “Even though the Armands like to hold ourselves apart.” His gaze scans his two sons before he returns his attention to me. “A community is still a community.”

“But—” I’m about to protest that my grandmother wasn’t a necromancer when a revelation pops into my head. “You knew my mother.”

It’s not really a question, but the silent answer plays across his features before he speaks.

“Everyone”—he clears his throat—“knew your mother.”

Again, it’s not so much what Darien Armand says, but how he says it. The words make my cheeks sting. I don’t even know what he means by those words or his tone, but when Nigel’s eyes go flinty, I do know this:

It was on purpose.

Nigel gives my arm a quick squeeze before he turns on his father. “Why are you here?”

“You sent a ghost, son. You invited me to your wedding.”

“Which was yesterday.”

Darien shrugs, the barest lift of one shoulder. “Blame the messenger.”

With his words, all three of us look at Malcolm. He’s the one who sent the ghosts since Nigel, with his addiction, can’t interact with them.

“This isn’t Malcolm’s fault,” Nigel says, “and you didn’t travel halfway around the world simply to insult someone you’ve never met.”

“Have I insulted anyone? I certainly didn’t mean to. I can’t be held accountable if they took offense.”

Malcolm’s hand comes to rest on the small of my back. His other hand wraps around my upper arm. I feel a tug, a precautionary sort of gesture, like he’s moving me out of the way of an oncoming train. I brace for what comes next. Certainly, something comes next, what with the way Nigel is glaring and Darien is studiously ignoring both his sons, his full concentration on the rotation of his teaspoon in his coffee cup.

Nigel opens his mouth. Malcolm’s grip tightens. The doorbell rings.

At the sound, Sadie lets out a little gasp. I feel a wave of relief. I don’t know who it might be, and at this point, don’t care.

“Excuse me,” I say.

In fact, I flee the room with so much relief that it’s probably obscene. It feels like escaping on the last day of school, or breaking out of jail, or something. Malcolm follows right behind me, although I’m perfectly capable of answering my own door.

The bell rings again.

“Why don’t you let me get it,” he says.

“It’s my door, Malcolm. No one is on the other side, trying to hurt me.”

“I know, I know.” He scrubs his face with his hands. “I’m just edgy, okay?”

I wait. After a moment, he peeks through his fingers at me and cracks a smile. Then I take his hand, and together we answer the door.

On my porch stands a girl of maybe eleven. Her hair is a riot of braids, each secured with a plastic clip in the shape of a cat. I love them immediately and wonder if I’m too old for cat clips, then realize that yes, I probably am.

“You’re Tara,” I say. “Aren’t you?”

She nods and her braids bounce.

“You sell me cookies every year.”

She nods again.

I still have several boxes in the freezer. Malcolm is patting his trouser pockets. He glances around, almost in a panic.

“I left my wallet upstairs.”

My eyes meet his. I know the moment we both remember why his wallet is upstairs, in my bedroom. A blush burns my face—yet again—and a flash of pink streaks up Malcolm’s cheekbones.

But yes, he wants to retrieve his wallet because he’s the reason my freezer is so full of cookies. He can’t help himself. He will buy as many cookies as he can afford and I can stuff into my freezer. He’s been in town for barely a year, and already the neighborhood kids know he’s a soft touch.

“I’m not here selling cookies,” Tara says.

It’s only now I notice how somber she is, her dark eyes sad and serious. She clutches a little purse, one of blue and yellow and in the shape of a cat.

“I want to hire you,” she adds.

I send Malcolm a questioning glance. He gives his head a little shake and mouths, “Why not?”

“Okay.” I exhale and check the house behind me. It’s filled with tension and stranger danger. “It’s too nice to be inside. Can we talk out here?”

Tara nods and the three of us settle on the steps. The wood is warm beneath me, the breeze on the cusp of losing the morning chill. The scent of lilac fills the air. My nose twitches in response.

“I know it’s Sunday,” Tara says, “and you were closed for the wedding—”

“Wait,” Malcolm says. “Did you walk downtown?”

She bites her lip. A yes if I ever saw one.

“We’re not closed,” I say, “because most ghosts don’t take Sunday off. They really can’t tell time.”

That almost earns me a smile, but something is wrong. I can feel the weight, the burden this little girl is carrying around with her.

“They won’t stop fighting,” she says, all at once, blurting much like I do at times.

“Who won’t?” I lean forward, not certain where this is going.

“My parents, but they don’t make any sense, and it’s cold in there.”

“Where?” Malcolm asks, his voice gentle.

“The living room. It’s like a movie, like they’re actors saying lines. They don’t sound like themselves. I mean, their voices do, but not the words.”

My gaze meets Malcolm’s over the top of Tara’s head.

“Possession?” he mouths.

I don’t nod. I don’t shake my head. Despite the sun warming the porch step, my limbs are like ice. I’m cold, from my toes to the pit of my stomach. I’ve never dealt with a possession before. That’s a caliber of ghost way out of my league.

I swallow hard. My grandmother fought a possession once, all on her own. She never told me what happened or what she did to separate the ghost from the person it had inhabited. The entire family moved from Springside not long after. I remember how my grandmother came home haggard and worn, how she crawled into bed and slept for nearly twenty-four hours.

How she refused to speak of what happened when she woke.

“I can pay.” Tara opens the cat purse. Inside coins glint in the sunlight. A few dollar bills rustle. She holds the purse up to Malcolm. “See? I have enough ... I think.”

“More than enough.” He takes the purse and snaps it closed before handing it back to her. “But consultations are free. We won’t know what to charge you until we see what’s going on. Sound fair?”

She beams at him. So do I. For a moment, I think we both forget our troubles—possessions and entities and estranged fathers—and just admire how the sun makes Malcolm’s ebony hair gleam, how sweet that dark-roast smile is, and the way his lashes reach his cheekbones when he closes his eyes.

Yes, we both have a crush.

“Is there any coffee left?” Malcolm asks, effectively breaking the spell.

“Yes, but...” Mentally, I ransack my cupboards. What I need is my field kit—my lost field kit. “I’ll need to dig out some old thermoses.”

“You do that, and I’ll let everyone else know they’ll have to get along without us.” He grins at Tara. “We have a paying customer, after all.”